A First Date & What Could Have Been

Author's Foreword: This is my first published work and was self-edited when first submitted. Since then, both Kynhalis and I have gone back through it and fixed the handful of errors and tightened it up a bit to address the feedback. Enjoy!

Originally published: 02 Jun 2021. Last updated: 30 Jun 2022.

----------

Our first date should have been our last. In fact, had it not been for a weird event, I doubt we would have ever talked to each other again. It's funny how fate can lend a hand...

-----

Annika and I met up at the fair for what should have been a light-hearted adventure to knock over bottles, drop ping pong balls in jars, and generally just reinforce how much we wanted to end up in bed together without saying it out loud.

Instead, our competitive natures kicked in and we trashed talked each other, tried to one-up each other, and gloated upon each victory.

The good was that we were an even match for each other. We also didn't try to kill each other, but this just made it more awkward with one or the other taking turns backing off to avoid coming across like a ruthlessly competitive asshole. All this trying to win but then trying not to look like it meant we were spending a lot more energy maintaining our distance and the protective barriers we had built up with our previous relationships. In the end, neither one of us could tell who was the better of the two of us but it was clear that we weren't getting to know each other at all.

A few hours of this and I think we were both about to call it a night. We had made it to the end of the runway and one of the last areas was an ESPN booth. There were several different stations inside with a cameraman and a few C-lister broadcasters: low-cost, late-night entertainment a la American Idol type auditions. Annika looked at me and smiled.

"What's your sport, stud? Let me guess. Baseball."

I was too exhausted mentally to try to get into it with her, so I just put on a brave face and said, "I've been known to throw a ball or two."

She howled. "That's all you've got? I bet you haven't thrown a ball in your life." She had to know that wasn't true. I had beat her pretty handily on the milk bottles earlier, though I had short-armed my throws.

She grabbed my arm and pulled us into the pitching line which only had a few people in it. They had a mound, a catcher, and a radar gun. Throw 90 miles an hour and get on TV. My mouth went dry. We watched the person on the mound take their five tries. None over 65. We signed release forms. Something about being on TV. I didn't read them before signing and immediately regretted it.

"OK, Nancy. I bet I can throw harder than you can." She was trash-talking me.

Again, was it the truth or false bravado? All my creativity, insinuation, and innuendo had been used on her earlier and now I was just battered and reverting to being boring and straightforward. She was just too alive and I didn't have the mental energy to keep up.

"Why in the world do you think that? I'm taller, stronger, and have longer arms?"

She frowned. "Is that it? I played intramural in college. It's not about how big you are -- it's about how you throw a ball." We watched the next guy. He was wild. Only one of his five ended up in the catcher's mitt. He was probably drunk. "And you've got to get it over the plate, too."

She was intent on the effort, I'll give her that. I should have found her focus appealing. I like baseball girls. Instead, I was dreading what was almost on us. I didn't want to do this. It had been so long. And I had walked away, not ever intending to do anything similar again.

It was our turn and Annika stepped up to go first. The broadcaster turned his attention to us and after starting to ask her name, stopped mid-sentence when he looked me in the face. Of course, I had to run into a guy that knew me. From that summer day so very long ago. I shook my head at him. Don't. Please. Annika turned back to look at me and then back to the company man.

"I'll be damned. Will Abernathy. Never expected to see you here. Long way from Omaha, isn't it? My name is Victor."

He held his hand out to me. I shook it. Annika had an expression of bewilderment on her face.

He yelled to someone across the area. "Jasper, get over here!" Then, he turned back to me and spoke in a normal tone of voice, "Sorry, Will. You going to throw for us tonight?" He turned toward the newly arrived cameraman. "Over here, Jasper. Let me know when you're ready." The cameraman started setting up a tripod.

"Will, I was actually at that game, you know. Damn. Three straight pitches. Thought for sure I'd be seeing you in The Show." He paused and stared at the ground for a moment. I wanted to leave. I didn't want to do whatever horseshit he was about to think up. I didn't want to answer whatever horseshit question Annika was going to ask about all this.

Victor's voice snapped me out of my head, "Will, let's recreate the end of that game. What do you say? Eight warmups. Three pitches for the money. All fire. How hard do you think you can throw these days?"

I shook my head, "I haven't thrown a ball in 20 years, Victor. Not in a way that's mattered. I'm just going to embarrass myself." Annika was standing beside me now. Her expression was soft. She wasn't talking shit anymore. I wanted to leave.

"Nonsense, Will. Just throw. I'll give the color. I'll make the story. If it doesn't work, it'll never air." He paused for effect. "But if you do still have it? What a story it'll make. You take all the throws you need to get loose. When you're ready, I'll set you up to do the warmups and money balls. I think you can hit 90." He grinned. Annika no longer looked confused, but other than that, I couldn't guess what she was thinking.

The cameraman gave the thumbs up. The catcher was standing with his mask up and his hands on his hips, probably wondering what the hell was going on.

"All right, goddamnit. If we're going to do it, we're doing it the right way. Get me a glove and a cap." I thought about trying to throw a 90 mile hour fastball at over 40 years old. "And have some ice packs ready for me," I added under my breath.

An all-too-young production assistant came out of nowhere to get me a glove and a cap and get me up to the mound. Then she pulled Annika off to the side to watch as Victor began to weave a tale for the crowd who was starting to gather.

I stepped up and my battery mate threw me the ball. As soon as it hit my glove, I was back in Rosenblatt Stadium in 1997...

It was the final game of the College World Series and I was coming in from the bullpen for what we hoped was the final out. I threw hard and it was my job to be unhittable. We had a solid lead in the ninth so I wasn't supposed to be necessary, but a few runs on two outs and a starter that couldn't get the ball over the plate and I was in the game. Two outs, bottom of the ninth, 3 men on, and a 3-0 count. Three fastballs later -- two 98 miles per hour and one 99 -- and the game was over.

And so was my baseball career.

Why am I doing this? I looked at the ball in my hand. What had once seemed so familiar -- so natural -- now felt foreign. I looked at my target. He was set. I set up, too. Outside of the right foot against the front of the rubber. I raised my glove hand and throwing hand in front of me, brought them together, and dropped them to my waist slowly. Deliberately. Then, I raised my left knee in front of my body, shifted my weight toward my left, extended my left leg, pushed off with my right, and exploded toward home plate. Both my elbows were out from my body now. I opened my hips and then my shoulders as I continued my throw.

I still remembered how to hurl. I just didn't remember how to balance.

The ball left my hand and I knew it was on target. I knew it was a hard throw. Nothing hurt. Nothing broke. I continued my follow-through. The ball popped into the mitt. But my follow-through never stopped and I almost ended up on my ass. The catcher laughed at me.

60.

I wasn't going for heat. I was going for feel. It didn't hurt. My motion wasn't completely shot, but I was 42 years old and my best throws were long since behind me. The ball came back at my head. I stopped it from hitting me in the face with my glove.

I threw again. And again. And again. And again. I didn't fall over. I started getting faster. I felt the motion snapping back into place. I tried not to look behind me. I was sure Annika was still smirking at me making a complete idiot of myself almost falling over and not being anywhere near as fast as the hype machine known as Victor had talked up.

Now there were more people. A lot of people. Victor was whipping them into a frenzy over a human interest piece about a nobody who hurled three ropes of fire so a team no one remembered could claim to be the champions of the world from a time that no longer mattered.

I had lost count of what I had thrown. Sweat was pouring off me in buckets now. I was warm. My motion was popping. The gun was hitting 80. Every ball was hitting the target dead center. My battery mate wasn't laughing anymore. He was with me. We were going to do this together or die trying. I'd get a, "Land a half step to the left so your hips get more room," or, "Don't drop that elbow this time." I didn't know if I'd hit 90, but I'd get close.

I called to my catcher, "I'm warm. How many was that?"

"Thirty-nine."

Less than 10 minutes of throwing. It seemed like a year. My arm felt like rubber. Only needed 11 more. I left the mound and walked toward Victor and the camera. We met for a few minutes of words. I mumbled a few of the old cliches, but I wasn't really thinking about what either of us was saying to the camera and the crowd. My mind was on other things. I caught Annika's eye. She had her hands together and in front of her mouth in that universal expression of nervousness. I felt Victor pat me on the back.

"Good luck, Will."

And that was it. Back to the mound. My big lug of a catcher lumbered up to within two feet of me, his glove over his mouth as if we were in a game. Why would he care if someone read his lips? "He said you had the bases jammed. What signs did you use that day?"

"Just kept it simple. They knew they were going to get the heat."

He dropped his glove, grinned at me, pulled his mask back into place, and jogged the 60 feet back to home plate.

I came set, went into the windup, and put one right down Broadway. I ignored the display and remembered that day. One. The sun had been blindingly bright. I threw again. Two. The crowd had been insane. Three. I couldn't hear my teammates or the umpires over the noise. Four. I looked for my family, but there wasn't enough time to find them and the situation made it hard to think about anything but the game. Five. This guy likes the heat. Six. I'm going to give it to him hard and away. Seven. If he catches up to it, he sure as hell won't do more than squib it to first and I'll be there waiting for the throw. Eight.

I walked off the mound, took off my glove, and started rubbing the ball. That was my set of warmup pitches and I was ready for that fucker now (though no one was in the batter's box). I could see my teammates again (though none of them were here). I could smell the freshly cut grass (though it was the middle of St Louis in October). I could hear the roar of the crowd (though the booth had gotten as quiet as a tomb).

I put on my glove and walked back to the mound. I dug into the front of the rubber with the outside of my right foot. I bent forward at the waist and stared between my catcher's legs. He dropped 1 finger. I nodded, straightened up, and came set. After a long pause, I went into the windup and then exploded toward the plate with everything I had in me. It felt good coming out of my hand. A sound like a gunshot echoed from the catcher's mitt. The crowd roared. I looked at the display.

90.

Goddamn right. Nobody's getting around on me today. I caught the looping toss from home plate and peered in again. Again, 1 finger. Yup, here comes the heat. I put even more into this one. It came off my fingertips feeling righteous. Right down Center Street.

91.

I caught the ball again as it was returned to me, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. I leaned in one more time. I saw 1 finger held straight down. Fastball. I saw a fist. Put some pepper on it. I saw that fist slap the center of the mitt. And let's finish this shit.

I straightened up. I closed my eyes and centered myself. Twenty years. I walked away twenty years ago. I hadn't missed it, had I? I had a different life. The one I wanted. I didn't miss this, I told myself. I opened my eyes and went hard to the plate.

As soon as the ball came out of my hand, I knew I had found it. Everything was perfect. Every knee, elbow, wrist, hip, shoulder, head, and foot was in the exact right place. My body mechanics had just produced the most efficient slingshot possible. It had taken exactly 50 pitches to get back to that point from twenty years prior.

There was another thing I knew as it left my hand: this throw looked different.

For my previous two pitches, I had thrown a two-seam cut fastball, also known as a "cutter." For that pitch, the ball is held in the hand in such a way that there are two seam lines perpendicular to the two throwing fingers. It means that as the ball speeds toward the plate, the two seams with the slightly off-center backspin imparted on the ball from the fingers provide some late movement to mess with a hitter, but at the expense of speed. You can see a cutter when it's traveling directly away from or directly towards you because the ball looks bright white with two thin, perfectly solid, and nearly vertical reddish lines.

But that's not what this pitch looked like. That's because this pitch was called a "four-seam" fastball. Four seams are placed perpendicular to the fingers so there is twice as much lift from the backspin. Good four-seamers are as straight as an arrow and faster than shit through a goose. So, the middle of this ball looked dark and fuzzy and the two sides looked bright white, like polar ice caps, as it sped away from my hand and toward home plate. It was the perfect throw. It had so much backspin that it didn't drop an inch.

CRACK!

I could tell from the impact that had been a burner. I stared at the ground. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. My shoulder throbbed. My legs were weak. The crowd roared louder than before and Victor bellowed.

"Ninety-four!"

My catcher lumbered up and handed me the ball. I could barely hear him as he leaned in to yell in my ear, "You didn't throw those bullshit cutters back then, did you? I bet you threw those first two pitches slow on purpose."

I smiled, "Never thrown a cut fastball in my life." I wiped my eyes. I turned and pointed to the crowd. "Made for good TV, though, didn't it? I can hear him saying it now, 'As he reached down deep for that extra speed...'"

He patted me on the behind. "Proud to catch for you, champ. Go get 'em."

I walked toward Victor and the camera. Annika was smiling. Her eyes looked a little teary, too.

All I wanted to do was walk away. I remembered the dance, though, and knew I had to give at least one more interview. I put on my sports smile and held back the tears that threatened to burst forth for the game I had forgotten I loved so much.

-----

After the camera was done with me, Annika came up with the ice pack the production assistant had made up for me.

"Shoulder or elbow?" she said softly.

They were both throbbing and both would be hurting like hell tomorrow. I raised my elbow. She gently placed it on me and wrapped the towel around itself to secure it in place. I took over from her and held it on my elbow and looked into her eyes. They were soft.

"Thanks," I said.

I wanted to get us away from the crowd as I continued to get pats on the back, high fives, and "You the man, bro!" when I just wanted to know what Annika was thinking. I looked over the crowd and could see an empty bench away from the throng.

I started toward the bench and she dropped in beside me. I looked at her and smiled. She smiled back. As we cleared the crowd, she spoke.

"Clearly, I was wrong. You throw a lot harder than me."

I stopped when we got to the bench and turned toward her.

She shook her head slightly. "Will, your throwing motion is beautiful. Not an ounce of wasted motion." She paused. "I looked you up. You were drafted in the second round. Why didn't you go pro?"

I took a deep breath. In for a penny; in for a pound.

"Well, there's a second part to the story that I've only told a few people about."

I fished out my phone from my pocket and sat down. She sat down on the bench, facing me. I typed a search for that game on YouTube. I'd never watched it before, but I figured that someone had put it up. Of course they had. It wasn't long enough to show me coming in from the pen, so I started my story without the visuals at first.

"This game was at the end of my final year of eligibility, but the story really starts at the beginning of that school year. It was sometime in September that my friend's dad got us in the locker room after a Rangers home game in Arlington. He worked for the Seattle Mariners who were in town that weekend. They just trashed the Rangers that night so by the time we got to the locker room, the team was in high spirits and tearing things up. It was a typical locker room atmosphere and guys were doing all kinds of silly, stupid juvenile things. And there we were, two college kids watching the pros do what we did after our wins."

I paused. She was staring at me and leaning close. She smiled and nodded. "Go on." I did.

"Anni, I had never been in a professional locker room before so I didn't know what it was like, but I had expected something a lot...well, different. These were the pros. They were supposed to be professional. What I saw was they were just idiots like us. Just older idiots.

"One guy was off to the side away from the commotion. He was just watching. He was watching them. He was watching me. He seemed above it all. He was a catcher -- aren't they always the catcher? -- and he motioned for me to come over. We talked for a bit. He asked me who I was. I think he already knew or he could predict the type. He had probably broken in a hundred young pitchers, all convinced they were the next Nolan Ryan or Roger Clemens. He asked what I wanted to do after school. I realized that at that moment I didn't have an answer for him. Seeing the state of arrested development for these guys had awakened something in me. Finally, he said what I had already figured out in those few minutes in the locker room.

"He said, 'I don't think this is the life you're going to be happy with.' And that was it. I didn't know what I was going to do, but it wasn't going to be baseball. So over the next two months, I spent a lot of time around campus with deans and some family members and decided to change my major from Communications, and expecting to be a ballplayer, to Accounting. I told my coach that I was quitting the team, which he then talked me out of with 'Your team is like your family' and all that.

"But I knew when this game started," I held up my phone, "that this was the last time I'd ever play baseball."

I slid closer so that we could watch my phone together and pushed play. She laid her head on my shoulder. From my phone, the crowd roared. I scrambled to mute the sound before the announcers started. The younger me leaned in to catch the sign for the 3-0 pitch. Neither Annika nor I said anything to each other. The ball streaked into the catcher's mitt low and away from the right-handed batter. He was taking all the way. Strike one.