The pitcher wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned in. There were two on and two outs. The game had started at seven o’clock and it was a sweltering early June night in Georgia. The catcher set the target for the inside corner of the plate. Perfect for his favorite pitch, the curve. He stretched and threw. The pitch caught the inside of the plate as the batter swung and missed. Strike one. The pitcher leaned in again. The catcher set the target for the inside corner. Another curve, thought the pitcher. He stretched and threw. The batter was ready this time and ripped a hard line drive toward third. “Foul ball,” yelled the umpire. The pitcher took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow again. He leaned in and this time the catcher set the target on the outside corner. Fastball, thought the pitcher. He stretched and threw. The ball slipped a little in his sweaty hand and the batter hit a rocket shot up the middle right toward the pitcher. He ducked, threw his hand and glove up to cover his head and heard a pop behind his left ear. The pitcher pulled down his glove, opened it and there in the webbing was the ball. The umpire pointed at him and pumped his right fist. The ball had somehow hit his glove behind his head for the third out. The game was over. The batter stood halfway between home and first with his hands on his hips staring at the pitcher in disbelief. His teammates mobbed him on the mound, yelling, high-fiving and slapping him on the shoulders.
In the dugout the manager congratulated the team on a great win and said that he had never seen a catch like the pitcher had made. The ball was still in his glove. He put them both in his bag along with his bat and wiped his face with his towel. You could cut the humidity with a knife. He took a long drink of Gatorade, zipped up the bag and climbed out of the dugout.
The pitcher walked out of the gate, saw his grandfather standing behind the bleachers and ran to him. “Did you see my catch, Grandpa?” he asked him. His Grandpa chuckled. “Yeah, I saw it,” he said. “It was a great catch, but it looked more like self-defense to me.” “Will you show me how to throw a real curve, Grandpa?’ asked the pitcher. “I’ve told you, not until you’re ten,” said his Grandpa.
“But I’m nine and a half now. I won’t be ten until September.”
“Well, we’ll start working on it before fall ball. For right now, you just keep throwing that imaginary curve of yours.”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Good boy. Hey, wanna go to Scoops for an ice cream?”
“Yes sir!” exclaimed the pitcher and they started across the parking lot toward his Grandpa’s truck. The pitcher loved his Grandpa very much.