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Del knelt in the on-deck circle, caressing the handle of his bat as he watched the visiting pitcher loosen. His breathing quickened, to the point he had to consciously recalibrate the in-out exchange. It wasn’t quite racing like the night of his first big league at-bat, but it was closer than he’d anticipated when he dressed that afternoon.
He tugged at his jersey, suddenly tight against his chest. The letters bunched in his fingers spelled D-U-C-K-S. The Long Island variety. This wasn’t the vision that had spurred him through his workouts all winter. But no one else had called. He’d felt physically ill some mornings checking his phone only to confirm there had been no missed messages overnight. But with Dana’s encouragement, he’d kept lifting, kept running, kept waiting. Big league training camp had opened in Florida without him. And closed. And finally, a week into April, he’d accepted the Ducks’ offer.
The Long Island roster was dotted with several other big league refugees, like himself sentenced to purgatory while awaiting their ticket back. There were worse places to serve one’s time. The park was relatively new with facilities on par with most of the nicer minor league stadiums he’d played in. And it was packed tonight for the season opener. Though it seated just over 6,000, the constant quacking of the plastic duck whistles made it louder than some of the major league yards he’d played in. Tampa Bay for sure. Maybe even Kansas City and Oakland.
Bridgeport’s catcher jogged out to the mound to confer with his battery mate. Del blew clear a heavy breath as he rose from his crouch. The between-innings music blaring through the stadium’s sound system ceased, interrupted by the announcer’s bass voice. “Leading off the bottom of the second for your Long Island Ducks, first baseman, Del Tanner.”
Del looked up into the crowd behind the home dugout. Hands cupped around her mouth, Dana stood, her swollen belly swaying as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, shouting encouragement he couldn’t make out over the kids blowing into their quackers. He self-consciously touched his batting glove to his lips and blew her a kiss so subtle he could’ve denied it had anyone asked. Then a second one for the baby.
Bat shouldered, he stepped off the distance to the plate, digging in with his back foot, his front toes safely outside the box as he sized up the man on the hill. He looked familiar enough Del was sure he’d seen him somewhere before. It was three pitches before he remembered where. Jordan Tate, the kid Wicker had sworn a fatwa out on after he’d jumped agencies just before the Royals called him up. He’d lost several miles off his fastball since then. Damaged goods. Like Del. Like everyone else here.
Tate grinned and whirled into his motion, showing his numbers for the briefest of moments as he kicked his front leg. The ball had barely left his fingers before Del picked up the cement-mixer rotation of the slider. Time seemed to slow as it approached, its axis defined by a dazzling white dot as it spun toward the heart of the plate with little discernible break. Del caught the pitch on the fat part of the barrel, the transfer of force so efficient he hardly felt it in his hands as he completed his followthrough. By the time he dropped his bat the ball was thirty feet off the ground and rising.