Ray Kingston knew nothing about pockets of silence. He was short, and he had a disproportionately large head, like some giant garden gnome. And he had the nerve to step onto my front lawn and introduce himself. I was digging a hole to bury the class hamster, and I didn’t appreciate the interruption. I sized him up and realized that he was the frailest little creature I’d ever seen. It would have been easy to bury him alive. But without a trace of fear, the gnome introduced himself and stuck out his right hand. It was almost as if he believed we were equals.

I ignored the gnome’s hand and scoffed, “Ray? What kind of a name is that?”

Beaming, it gushed: “Ray Charles is my father’s favorite musician. He’s blind and plays the piano really well. And when she was pregnant with me, my mother put barbecue sauce on everything she ate. Sweet Baby Ray’s.”

“That’s a stupid name. What kind of parents name their son after barbecue sauce?”

“Well, what’s your name?”

“KC, for King Cole.”

Ignoring me, the gnome murmured. “Cole? Like Nat King Cole?”

“No, like the pitcher. Cole Hamels. He was the best pitcher in the world.”

“Was he really?”

I ignored it.

“Do you want to come over for lunch?”

“No, I’m not your friend. And I don’t eat with weirdos.”

“What would I have to do to get you to come over?”

“Beat me in a race.”

“OK.”

With my foot, I drew an imaginary line on the front lawn. “We start here, run to the mailbox, and then come back.”

The gnome looked incredibly confident as he got into his starting position. I hoped it wouldn’t beat me, but it definitely looked fast.

“I was the fastest kid at my school back in Ohio,” it bragged. “Are you sure you still want to race?”

“Yes.”

I took off before it realized what was going on. I heard heavy breathing behind me, so I knew it must be right on my tail. Sprinting forward, I slammed my hand against the mailbox and turned around to see how far Ray was, and how fast it was running.

It ran like a retarded turtle.

I mean seriously.

Ray was moving across the sidewalk slowly, thrashing about with its eyes closed. It looked like it was slowly being crushed in a giant squid’s embrace. It took an age to meet me back at the starting line, but it was all smiles when it came back.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come over for lunch? We’re having burgers.”

“Fine, I’ll come over. But only because you’re having burgers.”

We walked together for six blocks, the longest six blocks of my life. The whole time, Ray sang jazz tunes in a tinny little weasel voice. After five minutes, I realized that I fucking hated Miles Davis. To this day, I still get heartburn whenever somebody brings up Ray Charles.

When Ray stopped in front of his house, I thought he had made a mistake. My house was two stories high, with a huge front lawn and a two-car garage. Ray’s house wasn’t even a house. It was a shitty little matchbox with a shitty little patch of brown grass that was no bigger than a bathroom rug. My front lawn was twice as big as his gnome-hole, and they didn’t even have a garage.

“It’s not too big,” said Ray, “but it’s big enough for me.”

Of course it is, I thought. It’s the perfect house for someone like you.

When we walked inside, a short, white-haired man was chopping wilted vegetables. As soon as he saw Ray walk in, he put his knife down and walked over to hug Ray.

“I’m Joseph,” the white-haired man said. “You must be--”

“Cole. But everyone calls me King.”

“Your grandfather lives with you?” I asked Ray.

The white-haired man laughed. “No, I’m his father. Ray’s grandmother lives with us though.”

I turned to Ray. “Your grandmother, your parents, and you? This place isn’t big enough for four people.”

“It’s only three,” said Ray. “My mom doesn’t live with us anymore.”

As the white-haired man continued chopping vegetables, Ray said, “Come on, let’s go play games in my room.” We took two steps from the kitchen to get to his bedroom, and Ray started rummaging through a box underneath his bed.

“Where are the games?” I demanded. “If you have Halo or CoD, I want to play that.”

“We don’t have a TV,” said Ray.

“Are you serious?” I scoffed. “What do you do for fun?”

“I play piano. And I play board games. Let’s play this one. It’s one of my favorites.” He took out a game called ‘Battleship’ and explained how to play. I moved my ships around six times and won both of the games we played before Ray’s father called us to come eat. My stomach growled, and I salivated at the thought of sinking my teeth into a thick, juicy burger.

What I sunk my teeth into was definitely not a burger. It was chewy and gritty, and tasted like chalk. Clutching my throat, I walked away from the kitchen table and spat into the trashcan. Ray’s father gave me a weird look, so I said, “That wasn’t a burger. What was that?”

“Veggie burger. I guess Ray forgot to tell you he was a vegetarian.”

“So he doesn’t eat meat?”

“No.”

“Chicken?”

“No.”

“Steak?”

“No.”

“Fish?”

“No.”

“Ham?”

“We’re Muslim.”

“Do you eat anything that tastes good?”

“Yes. This salad is delicious. You should give it a shot.”

“I don’t want salad. Salad sucks.”

“Why do you feel that way?”

“Because I don’t hate myself.”

“If you say so.”

“But yeah, I...really don’t want to eat this,” I said, gesturing toward the ‘burger’. Sighing, Ray’s father grabbed my plate and scraped it into the garbage can.

“Ray made some sugar cookies. They’re in the jar on top of the fridge. If you like, you can eat those.”

“OK.”

As I reached for the cookie jar, Ray’s father sighed and took a huge swig from a brown bottle. I reached for it, and he gently swatted my hand away.

“So, Cole--”
“--King”

“...Cole. What are some of your hobbies?”

“I like video games. And I love baseball.”

“Baseball? Ray plays baseball too. He’s quite good at it too.”

I snorted into the jar of cookies.

“I’m sorry. Was I being funny?”

“No. I just can’t take you seriously. Your son? Your son plays baseball?”

“Yes. He was the starting second baseman on his Little League team in Ohio. What position do you play?”

“Pitcher. I was the best pitcher on our team last year. I’m only ten, but I already know how to throw a curveball and slider.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be throwing curveballs?”

“I guess I’m just ahead of the curve.”

“Well, I’d love for you to pitch to my son sometime.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d strike him out.”

“You shouldn’t be so sure of yourself.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s when you’re at your most vulnerable.”

“No,” I snorted. “When you’re confident and aggressive in committing to a plan, everything falls into place. My dad taught me that.”

“I’m not so sure I agree with your dad.”

“Well, you’re not my dad.”

“We all have reasons to be grateful.”

“Dad,” said Ray, “Let’s talk about something else.”

“No,” I interjected. “Let’s finish talking about baseball.”

“I’m beginning to see why they call you ‘King’,” Ray’s father said dryly.

The rest of the conversation was stupid, but the sugar cookies were fantastic. I cleaned out the cookie jar and went home. I hadn’t eaten a real lunch, so I made myself a couple of hot dogs. I couldn’t finish the second one, so I wrapped it in a napkin and walked six blocks down to Ray’s house. I crept up to the front door, took the napkin-wrapped hot dog, and slipped it into Ray’s mail slot. And then I ran away, laughing to myself. After that day, I figured I’d never see the little wiener again.

I worked tirelessly with my father in an attempt to get ready for the baseball season, and I gradually forgot about Ray. At the end of July, our team was lined up to play in a regional qualifier to determine which team would make it to Williamsport for the Little League World Series. The regional qualifier was right in my backyard, at Fairmont Park, so I was definitely in my element.

Nothing fazed me as I took the mound in the first inning. My fastball was better than ever, and I struck out the side to open the game. My father was coaching, and he cheered louder than anyone else in the stands. As I walked back to the dugout after the final out of the first, I couldn’t suppress a smile.

In the bottom of the first, I doubled to right to drive in Ryan Maxwell, and Brandon Nunez lined a single to left to drive me in. As I scored, I couldn’t resist stomping on home plate and pointing to the sky, like I’d seen major leaguers do hundreds of times. The crowd was loving it, and after the first inning, we were up 3-0.

I was still confident when I took the mound in the second, until I saw who was hitting cleanup. Giant Gnome looked supremely confident as he dug into the batter’s box and waited for me to make my pitch.

Reaching back for something extra, I started him off with a hard fastball in on the hands. He swung right through it for strike one, and I smirked. Power pitching is part physical, part psychological. It’s about throwing the batter a pitch they physically can’t hit, while also instilling them with the fear of God.

On my next pitch, I took something off and dangled a change-up on the outside black. He was so out in front that he fell over swinging and whirled around like a dreidel. I smirked again.

Pumped up to strike him out, I dug even deeper and put absolutely everything I had on a fastball. This time, his swing was pure. It was a line drive to deep right-center, but I thought Maxwell might have a play. He jogged back to the fence and tried to spear it with one hand. But the ball was hit so hard that it literally ripped his glove off and continued to soar until it went over the fence. Ray jogged slowly around the bases with his head down, and I just fumed.

After a commanding first inning, our offense sputtered. I struck out looking with the bases loaded and two out, and slammed my bat to the ground. My father came from the dugout and somehow managed to convince the ump not to eject me.

But as the game wilted for me, the game blossomed for Ray. Off the field, he sucked at everything. Inside the diamond, he was an absolute god. Unbelievably fast. Inhuman reflexes.

When he played at shortstop, he was supernaturally smooth. On one play, he came charging in on a high chopper. The ball struck a loose pebble, and it bounced up hard to meet him in the eye. But Ray’s reactions were so fast that he seamlessly intercepted the ball with his hand, and threw a perfect strike to first to throw the runner out by ten feet.

I got him to hit a weak ground ball to third in his next at-bat, but he was so fast that our third baseman had to rush the play. He threw wide, and our first baseman had to come off the base to field the throw. Instead of settling for the infield single, Ray broke for second without a moment’s hesitation.

Flustered, our first baseman threw wildly to the second baseman, slinging it over his head into center field. The center fielder scooped the ball up and tried to fire it to third. But by the time the third baseman got it, Ray was already rounding third and making a beeline for home.

Our catcher securely fielded the throw, and Ray was caught in a rundown. The catcher and third baseman threw back and forth, but Ray seamlessly went back and forth, as if he had an on/off button. On the sixth throw, the catcher and third baseman were bumping heads. I had the presence of mind to stay close to the play, and I rushed to cover home plate. Ray slid hard into home plate, kicking up an enormous cloud of dust. As I stood there, coughing and sputtering and waiting for the dust to settle, I realized that there was absolutely nothing Ray couldn’t do on a baseball field.

Going into the final inning, our team was only winning by a run, and Ray was due up second. The first batter, number 14, hit a weak ground ball to second base, and Brandon Nunez charged in to scoop it up. But he overran it, and by the time he went back to retrieve it, number 14 had easily made it to first.

Sheepishly, Brandon walked over to the mound and handed the ball to me. “Sorry,” he said.

I glared at him. “They teach you how to field grounders back in Mexico? Or do they only teach you how to pick up beans?”

Nunez was a small guy, and he knew better than to pick a fight with the coach’s son. Staring at the ground, he slowly walked back to his position. Meanwhile, my father was walking to the mound for a conference. “That short kid’s coming up,” he mumbled. “What are you going to do about him?”

“I’m going to strike him out,” I said, without a hint of conviction.

My father raised an eyebrow. “No, you’re not. This kid’s been kicking your ass the whole game, and he’s just better than you. If you try to challenge him, he’s taking your ass out of the yard, and that’ll be the game.” Leaning in closer, he whispered, “Number 14 has wheels. This is the first time he’s reached base all game, but I’ll bet you anything he steals second. When he steals second, that’ll open up first base, and you can put the kid on intentionally.”

“You want me to walk him?” I scoffed. “That’s backing down.”

“No, that’d be good strategy,” my father said. “But I have an even better one. I want you to hit him as hard as you can. Take him out of the game, and I guarantee we’ll win.”

“Dad, I can’t just hit him.”

“Of course you can. There’s the right method to it, so it doesn’t look obvious. You miss with a pitch outside, so he’ll think you’re trying to lock up the outside corner. He’ll dig in closer to the plate, and then you knock him down.”

“Dad, I’m not going to do it.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re going to do it, and that’s all there is to it. You’re not good enough to win this game right now. But if you take the bat out of this kid’s hands, I promise that we will make it to the Little League World Series.”

“I don’t want to do it, Dad.”

“Why not? You want to win, right?”

“Not like that.”

At that point, the home plate ump intervened. “We’re going to have to resume play,” he said, nodding to my father. My father handed me the ball, and gave me a look.

Make the right decision.

For the first time in my life, I decided to directly disobey my father. I tried to throw a strike on the inside corner, but I missed outside. As my father predicted, Number 14 took off and stole second without a throw. I looked toward the dugout, and he nodded approvingly. But then I snuck a second strike past Ray, and my father’s expression turned sour. As I stood on the mound, he crept up to the chain-link fence and throttled it menacingly. I gulped and shook my head. Determined not to give in to Ray or my father, I wasted a curveball in the dirt, in the hope that Ray would go fishing for strike three. I snapped off a great curveball, and it dive-bombed perfectly at the last possible instant. It was one of the best curveballs I’d ever thrown: filthy, nasty, completely untouchable.

By anyone except Ray, that is.

Ray swung fluidly and somehow managed to dig the ball out of the dirt, spraying a drive to deep left field.

It seemed to take an age for the ball to come down, but I knew that it was gone. My father kept his fingers wrapped around the chain-link fence and just glared at me. Once Ray crossed the plate, the home-plate umpire threw me a new ball. My father stomped to the mound and ripped the ball out of my fingers. “You’re done,” he seethed, signaling for Ryan Maxwell to come in from center field to pitch.

Half an hour later, we were in the parking lot, and my father pressed a button on his car keys to unlock the door. Desperately, I reached for the back seat, but he twisted the fingers of my left hand away from the handle.

“Front,” he grunted.

Gulping, I raised trembling fingers and forced them to curl around the black handle. I took as much time as I could without pissing my father off. Plopping down on the leather seat, I motioned to slam the door shut, but my father twisted my fingers once again.

“Put on your seat belt,” he growled. “Accidents can happen to anyone in a moving vehicle.”

With almost no sensation left in my hand, I grabbed the seat belt and pulled it across my body. Reaching slowly with my other hand, I pulled the door closed. The moment the door clicked shut, he started tearing in.

“What the f*** was that?” he snarled, not bothering to even look at me.

I squirmed in my seat. Nothing made me feel as small as the sound of his voice. Even after eleven years, it was something I still wasn’t used to. It was something I’d never get used to.

When I didn’t answer, he repeated, “I said: What the F*** was that? Out there, on the field, in the last inning?”

Sheepishly, I replied, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he scoffed. “You don’t know? You know damn well that when I tell you to do something, you f*ing do it. If I tell you to jump, you say: Off which bridge? If I tell you to run, you go until you collapse. If I tell you to throw at some chicken-s*** kid, you f*ing do it. Do you understand me?”

All I could do was look down. My shoe was untied. It seemed like a good time to tie it. Loop, swoop, and--

My father hit the brakes, and the car skidded to a stop in the middle of the intersection. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” he roared.

Fighting back tears, I nodded. I needed a father, but all I had was a pitching coach.

“Good,” he said. “Part of growing up and getting better is learning to make the hard decisions, do the things that nobody else has the nerve to do. You think anyone who ever mattered became great because they played it safe? You think anyone ever evolved into a champion by taking the easy way out?”

“No, sir,” I whispered.

“Well, I’m glad you understand.”

As we made our way back home, I saw Ray walking around the block with his white-haired father. He was chatting animatedly, and his father laughed and broke into a smile. His father seemed unusually happy as he took a drink from a large brown bottle. My father abruptly turned the car around and said, “Change of plans. We’re going to a practice field.”

“Why?”

“We need to get some things squared away.”
“OK.”

“Look, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I was angry, and I got carried away, and I said some things I shouldn’t have. You f*ed up, and I forgive you. You pitched a great game. It’s not your fault that that kid just overmatched you. But then again, it is. Because you let him push you around and make you look stupid on your field. You cannot let that happen.”

I wished the roles were reversed. I’d be sitting in the driver’s seat, and my son would be sitting next to me, feeling small as he stared out the window of a Ferrari, wishing he were anywhere but here.

“You like steak, right?” my father demanded, jolting me from my reverie.

“Uh, y-yeah,” I stammered. “I love steak.”

“Good. Because I’m going to teach you an important lesson about being a man. Afterward, you can have all the steak you can eat. How does that sound?”

“Pretty good.”

“All right then.”

We pulled into a parking lot adjacent to an empty field. My father sat there in silence for about half a minute. Finally, he snapped, “Go to the mound. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I ran to the mound and started loosening up my arm again. I enjoyed myself for a few minutes, mimicking different major league pitchers’ motions and visualizing different situations. I was Clayton Kershaw, pitching against the Yankees in Game 7 of the World Series. I was Justin Verlander, throwing 102 mph in the 9th inning. I was Matt Cain, striking out 20 against the Cincinnati Reds. I was Cole Hamels, completing the perfect game he never had. As I pretended to fall to the ground in celebration, my father appeared with a bat.

“Stop f*ing around and get ready. I’ve set up a pitching target right behind me, and you’re going to throw a few to me, all right?”

I nodded. We’d done this sort of thing a hundred times before.

“All right. Curveball, down and in.”

I spun a breaking ball, and it split the inside corner, darting down to around knee level.

“Good. Throw the next one as hard as you can.”

I fumbled with the red seams of the ball and grunted as I overthrew a pitch which sailed above my father’s head.

“Okay. Now focus on hitting the outside black with your next one.”

I found the four-seam grip on the baseball and missed the outside corner by a few inches.

“Throw this one at my head, and throw it as hard as you can.”

“No,” I heard myself say, before I realized it.

“No?” he demanded, in barely more than a whisper. “Were you listening in the car? At all? Or was I just talking out of my ass for no reason?”

“You’re always talking out of your ass for no reason,” I said, before I could cover my mouth. “I’m not going to hit you, because I know you’ll make me pay.”

“I’ll make you pay if you don’t hit me.”

“Why?”

“It’s the only way you’re ever going to learn how to be a real pitcher. Real pitchers knock hitters down and tell them to get the f*** off the plate. Real pitchers own the inside corner and anyone who’s dumb enough to think they can crowd it.”

“Real pitchers change speeds and know how to work in and out of the strike zone,” I countered. “They play the game the right way, and don’t have to kill the hitter to get them out.”

“You really think you can lecture me about how to play the game?”

“I’m not going to hit you.”

“It’s something everyone has to do.”

“Not in Little League.”

“In every league!”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“All right, then. Forget it.” He stepped out of the batter’s box. “You looked a little off-balance in a couple of your at-bats today. Let’s work on recognizing pitches you can take to the opposite field.”

We switched places, and he threw me a few batting practice fastballs on the outside corner. “When you want to take a pitch to the opposite field, you have to keep your hands back and swing just a little bit later. Pitches away are easier to hit to opposite; pitches inside are more ideal for pulling. We’ll mix it up a little. Adjust your timing and your approach as I adjust the location of my pitches.”

After a few minutes, I started getting into a rhythm. “Bombs away!” I yelled excitedly, as I crushed a shot to right. On the next pitch, my father unleashed a high, hard fastball that almost clipped the side of my skull.

“What the hell?” I cried, dodging the pitch at the last instant.

Smirking, he simply replied, “That’s what you’ll get if you show a pitcher up. Get back in the batter’s box.” I hesitated. I was a Little League pitching star, but my father had been a college superstar. He didn’t throw 97 anymore, but even with a surgically repaired right arm, he still threw hard enough to scare the s*** out of me. A pronounced scowl colored his features, and my limbs began to shake with fear. It took every ounce of courage I had to dig in at the plate again.

My father wound and fired a fastball ticketed straight for my face. I would’ve jumped out of the way, but I couldn’t move my legs. All I could do was turn my head to the side, so that the ball caught me square in the jaw. I fell to the ground and writhed around in the dirt.

I woke up with a broken jaw the next day. When I tried to talk, the jaw came completely unhinged. Somehow, they popped it back into place, and then they wired it shut. I was on a liquid diet for the next eight weeks.

As I recovered from my broken jaw, I realized that my father had been right. Intimidation was part of the game. I had let myself become the intimidated and not the intimidator, and it had cost us a regional championship. In the end, everything had happened because of Ray. I would turn 12 during the next Little League season, so it’d be the last chance I had to make it to the Little League World Series. Fate pulled the same strings, and a year later, I was on the mound again, facing Ray’s team in a single-elimination regional qualifier.

This time, Ray was leading off, and I knew that the other team was trying to get in my head from the start. My father gave me a look from the dugout, and I knew that he wanted me to knock down Ray. I nodded and went into my windup. It was a high, hard fastball, and Ray leapt out of the way. It still hit him, but it only clipped the bill of his helmet. He jogged to first base, completely unfazed, but it could have been so much worse.

On the next pitch, Ray took off and stole second easily. He stole third too, and I knew he was going to try to take home to send a message.

I delivered my next pitch, and it sailed to the backstop. My catcher went to retrieve it, and I rushed to cover the plate, desperate to beat Ray in a foot-race to home. My catcher flipped the ball to me, and I knew it was going to be close. Ray slid hard into the dirt, and I put my glove down to tag him. A cloud of dust rose up, and when the dust settled, the umpire signaled “Safe!” Ray was incredibly relieved, and I was incredibly pissed. As I removed my glove from his chest, I walked away and stepped down on his right hand as hard as I could.

To his credit, Ray didn’t scream. He just sat there and sort of gave me a look. The umpire called time, and Ray’s coach came out to examine his hand. He shook his head and said, “I’m taking you out.”

“I can still play,” Ray insisted.

The coach handed him a baseball. “Wrap your fingers around it.” Ray tried to, but the ball just fell awkwardly out of his right palm.

I walked up to them, doing my best to pretend I cared. “Is he going to be all right?” I said.

“No,” the coach snapped. He bent down and whispered, “When you come up to hit again, you’re going to get what’s coming to you.”

Ray walked back to the dugout and took a seat next to the bleachers. His white-haired father came down and said something about a piano recital. Ray just shook his head. I could feel eyes on me as I slowly strode back to the pitcher’s mound. Forgetting about Ray, I regained focus and retired the next three hitters to finish the first inning.

As I walked off the field, my father signaled for me to come talk to him. “You’re not going to hit for the rest of the game,” he said. I initially protested, but he explained and I realized what he was trying to do. Little League teams can use a designated hitter (somebody who only comes to bat and doesn’t play a defensive position), and he wanted to insert a designated hitter for me. He was worried that Ray’s team was going to exact retribution, and he didn’t want to give them a chance to hit me. He was doing it all to keep me safe, and that’s what I loved about him.

Three innings later, I saw the coach bark angrily as he realized that I wasn’t coming up to hit. When I took the mound for the bottom of the inning, my first pitch tailed inside and number 14 had to jump out of the way. He dropped his bat and rushed the mound, his fists flailing wildly. My catcher tackled him from behind, and pinned him to the ground. Smirking, I stepped on number 14’s hand too. Ray’s team tried to storm the field, but their coach blocked their path and yelled at them to sit back down. I was thrown out of the game, but by that point, we were already winning by six runs. We won easily, and Ray’s team muttered darkly and cast nasty glances at me after the game.

Our team caught fire after that game and steamrolled the competition the rest of the way. When I hoisted the championship trophy in Williamsport, it was the greatest moment of my life. My father absolutely glowed after that game. He drove us to Franklin Fountain to get milkshakes. We laughed and joked and talked baseball for hours. It was one of the greatest moments of my life.

As I continued to dominate through the end of my freshman year, I realized that my dreams might actually come true. I’d made the varsity team as a freshman, playing with guys who were three or four years older than me. Even at that level, there was no one who could really challenge me.

With the exception of Ray, that is. He played for our school’s rival team, and he was the only player in the league who consistently made me look bad. I hated him, but in a weird way, I almost looked forward to our matchups. Every time we played against his team, it was a chance to see greatness on display. For a while, it looked as if Ray and I would be joined at the hip, two prodigies from the same city, on the fast track to going pro.

And then during my sophomore year, we played Eastern High for the final game of the regular season. We’d already clinched a playoff spot, so it was a meaningless game. Then again, no game against Ray’s team was ever truly meaningless.Eastern was a pushover, and I dominated everyone except Ray.

In his first at-bat, I challenged him with a fastball on the inside corner. Strength against strength. Pure heat against pure coordination. Pure coordination won, as he caught my fastball perfectly with the barrel of his bat, lofting a towering moon shot over the left-field fence.

The second time around, he fouled off eight straight pitches before drawing a walk.

His next time up, he laid a perfect drag bunt up the first-base line, and I was too slow coming up with it.

When he came to bat for the fourth time, I was determined to get him out. But I knew that I wasn’t going to win the physical battle. I had to control the psychological one.

A knock-down pitch is intimidating no matter how fast it comes at you. It takes the batter out of their comfort zone and makes them afraid to stand in. It opens up the outside corner for the pitcher, and shifts the scales in his favor. Nine times out of ten, a pitcher can follow up a knock-down pitch with a hittable strike, and the batter will be too intimidated to swing. Some people will tell you that knock-down pitches are dirty, but it’s just part of the game. It’s perfectly defensible as long as you’re accurate with it.

I wasn’t.

I honestly didn’t mean to do it, but I let go of the pitch too early, and it sailed wide. It was a hard fastball, one of the hardest I’d thrown all day. I gasped in horror as the ball left my hand.

Ray never had a chance. He just stood there, a deer caught in the headlights, and the ball shattered his helmet with a sickening crunch. He writhed in agony as he hit the ground, and then he went completely still. I tried to approach him to see if he was okay, but a few of his teammates glared and shoved me aside. Realizing what it looked like to them, I kept my distance, bowing my head in shame.

Ten minutes later, an ambulance from Philadelphia Memorial Hospital arrived, and Ray was carried off the field on a stretcher. The game wasn’t over, but no one’s mind was on baseball.

I’d meant to visit Ray, but I was never able to work up the nerve. Instead, I checked the box scores for all of Eastern’s remaining games. Ray’s name never showed up in any of them, and with every game that he was out of the lineup, the knot in my stomach tightened further.

At the beginning of the summer, Eastern had a scrimmage against Piedmont. I took a seat behind home plate, and was heartened to see Ray back at his usual position of shortstop. He looked smooth as ever in the top of the first inning, as he ranged to his right, gliding over to backhand a rocket and making an amazing throw from deep in the hole. He took away another hit on the next play, gliding over to snare a shot up the middle, making the impossible look routine. “Looking good,” I murmured to myself. A dark-haired girl who had been sitting next to me beamed and smiled. I ignored her.

The knot in my stomach had lessened, and I knew it would be gone if I could just see Ray hit again. But Eastern went down 1-2-3 in their half of the inning, and I figured Ray was hitting fourth, in his usual cleanup slot. But Eastern’s number four hitter was really tall, and he swung at a bad pitch, which Ray almost never does. Three of the next four hitters reached base, and then Ray finally stepped up to the plate. As he settled into the batter’s box, it finally dawned on me. Ray was hitting ninth. Ninth.

The knot in my stomach came back, and I scrambled to find an explanation. It was probably his first game back, I thought. He’s a fast guy, and some teams put fast guys last in the order, so there’s speed at the top and bottom of the order.

The first pitch to Ray was a sloppy curveball, high and outside. It was an easy take, but Ray chopped at it, missing badly. He chased another awful pitch, missing it by at least two feet. The third pitch was in the strike zone, a mediocre fastball on the inside corner, right in Ray’s wheelhouse. But he flinched and jumped backwards, scowling as the umpire yelled, “STRIKE THREE!”

His second at-bat was no better. This time, the pitcher didn’t even bother to change things up. He threw three straight fastballs right down the inside corner, and Ray flinched every single time. He shook his head sadly as he walked back to the dugout, and the knot in my stomach felt like steel wool.

In his third at-bat, he finally managed to hit the ball, but it was a weak ground ball right to the first baseman. The first baseman scooped up the ball and ran halfway up the base-line to tag Ray out. Ray’s shoulders slumped, and the home fans clapped their hands encouragingly. It had come to this. Ray Kingston, a king dethroned, transformed by one pitch from a future major league superstar into a charity case for the worst team in the league.

A few days later, I went to the park by myself to throw against the backstop. I’d been throwing for about twenty minutes, when a short, stocky figure shuffled onto the field.

“Hey,” said Ray.

“What do you want?” I demanded.

“I want you to pitch to me,” he said.

“What?”

“Pitch to me.”

I shrugged. For another fifteen minutes, I threw him batting-practice fastballs, and he handled them easily.

“Throw it harder,” he said, and I nodded. That’s when he started to miss and flail wildly. Every time I threw it inside, he flinched. I threw a weak fastball on the inside corner, and he managed to avoid bailing out. His swing was clean, but not pristine, and he managed to hit a weak ground ball back to me.

“Quit on that one,” I said, and he nodded. As I packed my stuff and got ready to leave, he pleaded, “You’ll come back tomorrow, right?”

“I’m busy tomorrow.”

“Thursday, then?”

“Fine.”

I pitched to him again, and it was more of the same. He hit the ball just like he used to when I threw it slowly. But every time, I cranked up the velocity, he hacked wildly, like a blind woodsman. And it didn’t matter how fast any pitch on the inside corner was. Almost every time, he’d flinch backwards and close his eyes.

We practiced three times a week for over a month. He took his lumps, but it never seemed to get any better for him. At the end of one practice, he slammed his bat to the ground in disgust. I walked up to the batter’s box, picked up the bat, and gave it back to him.

“Look,” he said, “I really appreciate what you’ve tried to do for me. But it’s just not working.”

“Yeah, it is,” I lied. “You’re getting a little better at staying in the box on those inside pitches. It just takes time.”

“You and I both know that that’s horseshit. Every time a pitch comes that close to me, it’s like my life’s flashing before my eyes again. I will myself to stay in and fight the pitch off, but my body just rejects it. You have no idea what I’m going through.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve still got everything. But I’ve got nothing. I’ve got no money, no talent, and nothing left to dream on. Baseball was my ticket out, but no scout wants a shortstop who can’t hit for s***, no matter how good he fields. Do you have any idea what it’s like, to watch your dream slip through your fingers?”

“No, I don’t. But I know that everything depends on baseball for me too. The only time I ever feel special is when I’m standing on the mound and I’ve got the ball in my left hand. I never stand taller than when I stand on the mound. I never feel more in control, more powerful, more alive than when it’s my turn to pitch, and the ball belongs to me.”

“Yeah, well you’ve still got that. There’s nothing stopping you from going out there and throwing a perfect game tomorrow. You’ve still got that magic left arm, the bite on your slider, the hop on your fastball.”

“Well, you’ve still got everything too. It’s just buried deep down, under like fifty feet of crap.”

“No. It’s not,” he said testily.

He glared directly at me.

“I know it’s not really fair to you, but I hate you so much for what you did to me that day. When I go to sleep, I see you, standing on the mound like a big asshole, throwing that same pitch that crushed my helmet and ruined my life. Every time I bail out on an inside pitch, I burn up thinking of how much I hate you. I’ll think about how I would’ve crushed that same pitch three months ago, and how now it crushes me. Every single time. But I’ll always come back for the next at-bat, like a beaten dog returning to its master. Because I know that’s the only way I’ll ever have a chance of getting back to where I used to be.”

“I think I know what you need.”

“What?”

“You need to stand in against fastballs that aren’t going to hit you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You need to hit against a machine before you hit against live pitching. You never have to worry about a machine missing its release point. Once you consistently hit good fastballs, you’ll have the confidence to stand in against a real pitcher.”

“That actually makes sense.”

I went home, and asked my dad if he had access to a pitching machine.

“Yeah,” he said skeptically. “What do you need it for?”

“I’m helping Ray get his swing back.”

His expression turned sour. “Forget that kid. Worry about yourself.”

I shook my head. “I have to do this.”

He sighed. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Maybe.”

It took Ray a few minutes to adjust, but after a few dozen cuts, his swing began to look a little closer to what it used to be. But even then, I could tell that he was still terrified of the inside fastball. To the average person, it would’ve looked like he was lighting it up in batting practice. But I could tell that he was pulling off when he turned on the inside pitch. His drives were topping out at around 300 feet instead of 350-400+. It was the edge between a great hitter and an average one.

Ray wanted me to start pitching to him again, but I didn’t want to pitch to him. Over the next few weeks, he progressively improved, and I was too afraid of hitting him again and stripping him of everything he’d worked for.

I didn’t see Ray again until my junior year on the varsity baseball team. Ray’s first game was on one of our off-days. I went to that game, in the hopes of seeing greatness on display once more. When I sat down behind home plate, Ray’s father sat down next to me. He didn’t seem to recognize me, and I wasn’t eager to jog his memory.

Ray looked terrific in batting practice, and he was smooth as always in the fielding drills. I anxiously awaited his first at-bat, and my heart soared as he came up to bat in the first inning, as the number three hitter. He fouled the first two pitches right back to the screen. That was a good sign. It meant his timing was back. The pitcher threw a hard fastball that came close to hitting Ray.

He jumped backwards, and my stomach began to churn. I prayed that Ray would have the courage to stand in on the next pitch. But at that moment, Ray’s father stood up and yelled, “Come on, son. You can do it!”

There was nothing wrong with what he said. There was everything wrong with the way he said it. He was too loud and his words ran together too much. I knew and everyone else in the stands knew that he was drunk out of his mind.

Ray seemed to know it too, as he turned bright red and shifted his gaze downward. After a few moments, he reluctantly stepped back in the box, and struck out swinging on a pitch a foot above his head. Ray’s father snarled, and he chucked a glass bottle against the chain-link fence behind home plate. The game was halted, and a burly security officer dragged Ray’s father out of the bleachers.

A few hostile fans started taunting Ray about his father, and it was visibly getting to him. He bobbled an easy grounder hit right to him, and threw the ball way over the first baseman’s head. His hands were shaking as the coach took him out of the game, and I went home. I’d already seen enough.

Ray’s second game was an away game, and he played badly once again. There was a huge commotion in the middle of the fourth inning, when Ray’s father drunkenly plowed his car into the side of the visiting dugout. An officer was quickly on the scene to apprehend him, and he snarled as he was led away in handcuffs.

Play resumed, and the batter hit a soft line drive a few inches to Ray’s right. It was the sort of play I’d seen him make a hundred times before, but this time, he didn’t do it. The ball smacked Ray right in the eye, and fell harmlessly to the ground.

As he woozily massaged his right eye, the fans booed lustily. “Go home, shortstop!” someone yelled. “You’re drunk!”

As fate would have it, the ball was hit to Ray on the next play as well. He glided over to make the play, and just flat-out missed it. A few fans laughed, and the crowd broke into a taunting chorus. “5-0-2! 5-0-2!” they jeered.
It was the police code for “driving while intoxicated”. It was a mockery of Ray’s father that pierced Ray’s heart. Everyone seemed to forget that Ray was scared and sixteen and still in love with a game that didn’t seem to love him back anymore.

As Ray’s dreams were wilting, mine were blossoming. Scouts from major colleges and major league teams had started coming to my games, and I always heard my dad talking me up to them.

“See him?” Number 35?” I’d hear him say. “That’s my boy, Cole. He throws 95 left-handed, great curveball, sharp slider, beautiful change-up. He can throw the ball anywhere he wants anytime. He could take the ball in the pros tomorrow and give you six or seven strong innings against any lineup. He’s the one who can turn your franchise around.”

By my senior year, Baseball America was talking me up as one of the top ten amateur pitchers in the nation. Ray was mentioned briefly in the Prospect Report, but the report simply said “Shows flashes of talent, but struggles with consistency. Flustered by inside fastballs. Marginal prospect. Comes with a lot of baggage. Likely to go undrafted.”

But as my senior year progressed, the reports on Ray grew a little more glowing. “Shows power to all fields. More focused defensively than he was earlier in the season. Prospect on the upswing.”

By the end of my senior season, Ray was back to being Ray. He was projected to be a consensus first-round draft pick, and the dream had been revitalized. The only question now was whether Ray or I would go earlier in the first round.

It was a question that was going to be answered in the state championship. Both our teams had made it to the final round, in a converging tale of two stories. Everyone had expected our team to be a powerhouse in the preseason and we delivered. Nobody expected Eastern to be a serious contender, but they charged through the playoffs on the strength of Ray’s re-emergence.

Fans were abuzz with excitement over the prospect of a face-off between two of the best high school players in the nation. Some of them still remembered the monstrous home runs Ray had hit against me in Little League, but none of that bothered me. I had come incredibly far from where I once was.

As I tore through Eastern’s starting lineup, I gradually realized that I was pitching the game of my life. In the first inning, I struck out the side on just nine pitches, absolutely jelly-legging Ray on a curveball that fell off the table.

The second time I faced Ray, I got him to two strikes and challenged him with an inside fastball. Ray wasn’t the least bit afraid, and neither was I. It was strength against strength, power pitching versus power hitting. Ray swung through it, and I couldn’t resist pumping my fist as I stormed off the mound. I later found out that my fastball had been clocked at 98 miles an hour, the fastest pitch I had ever thrown in my life.

Our team only scored one run through the first five innings, but I wouldn’t need any more with the way I was pitching. By the end of the fifth inning, I realized that I was close to throwing a perfect game. I realized that droves of scouts were probably in the stands, calculating my every move.

The gravity of the situation got to me, and I was wild when I took the mound in the sixth inning. As I threw three straight balls to the first batter, my catcher called time and did his best to calm me down. I regained my composure and easily dispatched the hitters to move to three outs from perfection.

When I took the mound in the final inning, I was completely calm. I struck the first batter out on three pitches. Sharp curveball, tight slider, hard fastball on the outside black. Absolutely no chance.

I set the next batter up with two electric fastballs, and absolutely humiliated him with a stop-motion changeup. As he lunged forward to hack at the ball, his timing was so off that he lost grip of his bat and sent it spiraling toward the seats behind the third-base dugout. I looked up into the stands and saw my father, grinning broadly for the first time in his life. I grinned too, and took a moment to let the feeling soak in.

Ray was all that separated me from a perfect game in the state championship. Fate couldn’t have set things up any more perfectly. Both of us at our absolute best. State championship. Everything on the line. My dreams against his. It would never get any better than this.

I threw a fastball on the inside corner, for strike one. It was a perfect pitch, and Ray knew it. But I knew that he would hit it over the fence if I tried to throw the same pitch by him again.

My next pitch was another fastball, right on the outside corner. Another perfect pitch, and Ray just stood there, waiting for his pitch.

I was one strike away from winning the state championship, yet Ray seemed completely calm. It scared me shitless when he got like that. It was as if he knew it was his time to shine.

I pushed thoughts of failure out of my mind and delivered another perfect fastball on the outside corner. My catcher framed it perfectly, and I waited for the umpire to punch Ray out and set the stadium on fire with volume.

But the call never came. I swore softly, as my catcher slowly threw the ball back to me. I overthrew the next pitch, sending it sailing up and in toward Ray’s head. It was the same pitch that had almost ruined his career two years ago, but he had the presence of mind to get out of the way this time. He got up slowly and glared at me. I shrugged my shoulders. I hadn’t thrown at him on purpose, but he probably didn’t believe that.

I delivered a sharp slider on the next pitch, and Ray surprised everyone in the stadium by dropping a perfect bunt up the first-base line. As the first baseman charged to field the ball, I ran to cover first. Ray flew up the line and I knew it was going to be close. The first baseman bobbled the ball and threw wide of first. I stretched desperately in an attempt to snare the ball, leaving my left shoulder completely exposed. At that moment, I heard three things.

1. Ray’s foot as he crossed first base

2. The sound of the ball hitting my glove, a fraction of a second too late.

3. The sound of pain beyond pain, as I was sent sprawling to the floor, clutching my left shoulder in agony.

When Ray charged up the first-base line, he had barreled into me and sent me toppling to the ground. I felt something pop as he fell directly on my left shoulder.

The umpire signaled safe, and I struggled to get up slowly. As the first baseman handed the ball back to me, I realized that I couldn’t feel anything in my left hand. I tried to curl my fingers around the baseball, but my fingers remained resolutely, hopelessly still. “Oh, s***,” was all I could say.

I listened to the rest of the game on the radio as my dad drove me to the hospital. After Ray reached first safely, their cleanup hitter had homered, and we had lost, just like that.

I felt terrible as I sat there silently, and I felt terrible as my father checked me in with the receptionist. I felt terrible as I was moved to a hospital bed, and I felt terrible as I was transported to the surgeon’s table. Then they applied the anesthesia, and I felt absolutely nothing, which for me, was the best feeling in the world.

When I woke up, there was a gigantic scar on my left shoulder. The room was completely sterile, and I saw my father looming over my bed. I wondered how long he had been waiting for me to wake up.

“I hope you’re feeling all right,” he said.

“I’ve been better,” I winced.

He nodded. And then he did something unimaginable.

He cried.

Like a little b****.

“What are you doing?” I said. Of all the things that could’ve happened, this was the scariest one of all. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

He shook his head.

“What happened?” I demanded.

He shook his head.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“TELL ME.”

He told me everything, and the world changed forever.

Two things had happened to me during the collision at first base. I had torn my rotator cuff, and when Ray had landed on me, I’d fractured my humerus. The fracture had caused jagged shards of bone to completely sever the radial nerve of my left arm, the nerve that made it possible for me to extend my arm and use my fingers. The surgeons had been able to reattach the nerve, but there was no doubt that I would never again pitch the way I once had.

When I finally processed everything he had said, I couldn’t help myself. I cried too.

Like an even bigger b****.

It was absolutely surreal, as I cried into my dad’s arms and he cried into mine. “What am I gonna do now?” I sobbed. “I can’t do anything without my arm. I can’t do anything.”

All he could do was pat me uselessly on the back, with his left arm.

I continued sobbing.

“I wanted to buy you a car. I wanted to buy you a house. I wanted to be great for you. I wanted you to be proud of me.”

“You were terrific,” he said. “You were terrific, and I was so proud of you. And nobody can ever take that away from you.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I have to get away.”

“From what?”

“From you. From this. From everything.”

“You can’t leave. You can’t.”

He shook his head.

“It hurt me so much when I found out I couldn’t pitch anymore. It meant that I’d always have to make a living and never have a chance at making a life. Whenever I used to come see you pitch, it was like seeing my dreams brought back to life. When I saw you on that mound, tall and confident and completely in control, it was impossible to look down from the stands and not see my reflection. But now it’s impossible to look down and see anything but shards.”

“So that’s all I ever was to you? An extension of yourself?”

He shrugged.

“You were a little more than that. You’re still my son, and I’ll take care of you. I’m just not going to do it in person.”

“You’re leaving? How can you just leave?”

“Dealing with the worst news of my life was hard enough the first time. I don’t think I have the strength to deal with it again.”

“I get it. Instead of cleaning up your mess, you’ll throw money at it to cover it up the stain. You’ve always been a lawyer.”

He shrugged again. I wanted to punch him. But my arm could only lie there helplessly: a limp, useless rag still saturated with the residue of my dreams.

“Believe me, I know how hard it is. For your entire life, you give absolutely everything to the game, and it chews you up and spits you out. If it’s any consolation, the doctor says that you’ll regain some use of your left arm. You’ll be able to do all the things you used to do.”

“Not all the things.”

He smiled sadly. Then he shrugged for the final time, leaving me with nothing but bitterness and the gravity of a world turned upside down.

As my father had promised, I regained some use of my left arm. Most of the scarring cleared up, but the recovery has only been superficial.

Tonight, five years later, I’m wide awake in my bed, wondering about what never was. What if the umpire had just called Ray out? It had been a perfect pitch, even better than the first two. If the umpire had seen things my way, it would’ve changed everything.

Or what if the first baseman had made the play cleanly? I would’ve made the out at first, and I still would’ve been a hero. Or what if Ray hadn’t charged into me at first? What if he had understood that both of us were going to make it to The Show, no matter which of us won that game?

Realizing that there’s absolutely no hope of falling asleep, I grab my glove and head to Fairmont Park. Sighing, I walk up to the pitcher’s mound and toe the rubber with an old, mangled cleat. For a few minutes, I throw warm-up pitches against the backstop in absolute darkness. Then the lights come on, but the electricity doesn’t come back. Every pitch I throw is completely and utterly lifeless.

My left arm begins to throb and I stop throwing for a few minutes. Massaging my shoulder, I wince and kick at the raised dirt of the pitcher’s mound. My shoulder’s hurting badly, and I can’t help but think about how my dreams were always as fragile as the flesh of my left arm. I’m about to pack it up and go home, when a teenager wearing a catcher’s mask steps onto the field and crouches down behind home plate.

Eagerly, he pounds his catcher’s mitt. He puts down one finger, the universal signal for a hard fastball, right down the pipe. I wind and fire, and it’s the best pitch I’ve thrown in five years. It’s got velocity and movement and almost seems to rise as it rushes to home plate. He catches the ball on the outside corner, with a clear, sharp snap that reverberates through the night sky.

He takes his hand out of his mitt and gingerly shakes it, like he’s just touched a hot stove. I can’t help but smile slightly at sad thoughts of what could have been.

We throw like this in silence for another fifteen minutes. My shoulder throbs harder, but I just push past it. There’s nothing left in it worth preserving.

When I throw my last pitch, the catcher walks out to shake my left hand. I take it, painfully aware that it registers absolutely nothing. With a wide-eyed expression, he tells me: “You throw really hard!”

I smile. He’s just a kid. Thirteen, fourteen at most. To him, everything is still fast and furious and magical and possible. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’ve got absolutely nothing on my fastball anymore. Because for a moment, it’s nice to feel like I’m a star again.

The next day, I go to Eastern High, to take in their playoff game against Independence. Troy Corcoran, their stud lefthanded starter, takes the mound and strikes out the side in order. As I study him through the first inning, I realize that he’s exactly like me: same build, same style, same cocky smirk. He’s just not as good as I was.

Even so, I can see dozens of scouts in the stands, holding up radar guns and nodding approvingly at the “92” and “93” readings that come up regularly.

As the game progresses, I get restless and pull out my phone, so I can check on my fantasy baseball team. I smile as I find out that Ray Kingston, the Yankees’ star shortstop, hit three home runs for my team, while also supplying five runs scored and a stolen base.

I hear the volume of the crowd start to rise, and I put away my phone. It’s the fourth inning and Corcoran is in trouble on the mound. Bases loaded, two out, desperately clinging to a one-run lead.

Corcoran looks in for the sign. It’s a hittable fastball, but the batter takes it for a called strike. He throws the same pitch in the same location, which is asking for trouble on the mound.

But he’s just cocky enough and just talented enough to get away with it, and the batter swings through it for strike two.

Corcoran looks in again, and he delivers his best pitch of the night. A hard slider, which drops perfectly and abruptly across the outside corner. The umpire signals strike three, and the stadium absolutely explodes with volume.

It’s the worst place for me to be right now. A stabbing pain shoots through my left shoulder, and I gasp softly as I clutch it with my right arm. Corcoran stomps off the mound like a big d*bag, prompting another roar of approval. The stabbing pain intensifies, and all I can do is groan and moan and wait for it to disappear, while doing my best to ignore the sound of the cheers that had once been for me.