Charlie makes his second-to-last start of the season against Houston, in their din of a stadium, its clamshell roof closed to the late-September humidity. The ballpark is packed, his parents two green dots in a sea of fans in screaming fluorescent orange. The Elephants haven’t secured their postseason berth: their magic number stands at one. One more win and they clinch. One more win, and they can play for the pennant, the Commissioner’s Trophy.
Of course, it’s Houston standing in their way. Houston, who are one loss from being eliminated from playoff contention.
It’s a chippy game, amplified by Charlie’s family being here, his aunts and cousins and a handful of high school friends, most who’ve come on his dime to cheer for him to fail and to give him a good-natured hard time about it after.
He jogs out to the mound at the bottom of the first inning, then throws his warm-up pitches to Glasser. The first Houston batter comes to the box. Glasser flashes a series of signs, all of which arrive at the same conclusion: curveball.
Charlie throws one. It ends up arcing just far down enough that it misses the strike zone. Another pitch, only slightly too low, but the umpire is stingy and doesn’t grant him a strike. Like that, Charlie’s behind in the count, his heart accelerating against his ribs.
He goes to the rosin bag, dusting his hands, then to the smudge of sunscreen sitting on the back of his neck, the kind that helps him get a grip on the ball. The kind that’s technically against the rules, but it’s what most pitchers do, including Houston’s starter, who kept touching the brim of his cap during the top of the inning, dipping his fingers into a glob of something there.
Then a few things happen at once: Houston’s manager comes out of the dugout, yelling at the umpire. Glasser rises from his crouch. He’s not usually a hothead, but he’s yelling something right back that Charlie can’t make out from sixty feet away. The Elephants manager is out too, also screaming, and Glasser removes himself from the fray long enough to jog out to the mound.
“They’re saying you’re using a foreign substance on the ball,” Glasser says.
“I have sunscreen on my neck.”
Glasser looks up at the roof sealing them away from the Houston night. “I don’t think that’s gonna work as an argument.”
“I’ll just wipe it off. We can use a new ball. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“They want you ejected.”
“Oh for—” Charlie throws up his hands, saying a few things that he’s happy the stadium noise conceals from his parents. He jostles his shoulders trying to see if he can dissolve some of the sunscreen into the neck of his jersey. “Everyone does it.”
“I know,” Glasser says, “but it was pretty noticeable when you did. Even the ump said something.”
The managers are still arguing, the umpires attempting to intercede. And the Elephants manager is in his seventies, a former player who always seems fragile to Charlie, like his bones are held together by habit and temper. He’s yelling something at Houston’s manager—who’s about thirty years younger, with dark hair and a trim waist that Charlie should absolutely not be looking at right now, especially when the guy is calling for him to be tossed from the game for what his own pitcher is doing too.
The Elephants manager makes glancing contact with an ump. It’s enough to get him run, the umpire shouting his ejection with the wave of his arm. That could be the end of it, except the umpire crew chief jogs out to the mound, demanding the ball from Charlie that’s still sticky with the sunscreen he dabbed it with.
“My parents are here,” Charlie says, like that makes any kind of difference.
“The rules are the rules.” He at least has the sense to look apologetic about it as he indicates that Charlie’s out of the game.
The dugout is fired up when he gets there, Gordon going between throwing things and yelling at Houston’s lineup, a few other bench players hanging over the railing, adding to the chorus of boos. Their bench coach, who’s now the acting manager, tells him to hit the showers.
So Charlie walks slowly from the thunderous stadium to the silent clubhouse, leaving their postseason chances in the hands of their bullpen.