Last Pitch

Smoking Sammy Clarke stood on the mound and focused on the task at hand; pushing all awareness of his aching joints out of his mind. His fingers shifted the ball around in his palm, instinctively looking for the right grip, the one that would make the ball spin down and away.

At thirty-eight, there was no doubt that Sammy was past his prime. His mediocre season had brought out the predictable fan scorn when he was on the road. He heard them at the games: “Trade the bum!” or “Send him to the old folk’s home!” Someone had even run an obituary that morning in the local paper. It referred to the death of his career.

Maybe they were right, he thought. The guys in the locker room saw things differently. They looked up to him. Not every team had a legend on it.

Three hours later, he was still on the mound after eight and two-thirds innings worth of work. Just one more out and they were in the playoffs.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and stared down the pipe at the behemoth behind the plate. Jumbo Jackson was the National League batting champion last year and would probably repeat this year. The last pitch was a ball, high and inside bringing the count to full. He had used that last one to set up this final pitch.

The crowd was on its feet, the roar deafening. Sammy heard nothing. His fingers settled on their grip. The old man went to the well one last time and fired at his target. Jumbo stepped into the ball, his bat a blur. He had taken the bait.

Down and away … a swing … and a miss.

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