Andre Marenik was six feet six inches tall and weighed in at two hundred and fifteen pounds, with broad shoulders, lean hips, and big hands. He had blond hair underneath his cap, and a freckled face that burned easily in direct sun. While waiting on the signal from Parsons he kept staring at his opponent while grinding the baseball into his mitt.
“Sullivan is not the only hot dog around here. I can handle Chavez just fine,” he said softly to himself. All he needed was to increase his endurance just a little more to be able to take over as one of the starting pitchers.
During the eighth inning the batters were four up and three down. The second batter made first base and that was it. The Cubs had come out swinging, trying desperately to win or tie, but didn’t get it done. The score was still two to one in favor of the Dodgers.
Now, in the bottom of the ninth it was all or nothing.
The first batter, Gary Ewing, was a power hitter and the call was to walk him. Fuming the entire time, Marenik threw the first ball.
The crowd, realizing the plan was to walk the Cubs batter, erupted. They did not pay for top dollar tickets to watch highly paid athletes engage in a croquet match.
He happened to agree with them but did as directed, and threw three more balls, despite the heckling crowd.
Watching the batter stroll to first base with a smirk on his face did not help Marenik’s disposition. The next batter, Jerry Quinn, was a lightweight, with a batting average of .211. If he wasn’t such an exceptional short-stop, he wouldn’t even be on a MLB team. Marenik knew that when the pitch speed exceeded ninety-seven miles an hour Quinn’s average dropped to .089.
Marenik unloaded with a fast ball.
“Strike one!”
He threw another fastball, clocked at ninety-nine MPH.
“Strike Two!”
Marenik smiled, he would pitch only two innings today and did not need to worry about endurance or pitching again in a few days, so he was throwing hard. He would have plenty of time to be ready and rested for the World Series. He went into his wind up and threw another blazing fastball.
“Strike three!”
Chavez, smiling, stepped up to home plate.
Marenik, now a bit smug, threw a high and inside fastball. He had noted earlier it was one of the only pitches that Chavez had consistent trouble with.
“Strike one!”
Determined not to let the rookie get a hit, Marenik threw another pitch just like it, as hard as he could.
Chavez concentrated on the ball. The average visual acuity for a MLB player was 20/13. His happened to be 20/9, about as good as ever recorded. He could see the reddish-brown blur of the ball and knew he had a fastball coming his way. When he had settled in at the plate he had hunched over slightly, and his knees were bent an extra couple inches. As he started his swing Julio straightened his posture, having suckered Marenik.
He was smiling as he watched his home run climb and pass to the right of the huge Dodger Vision screen.
Cubs 3. Dodgers 2.