Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
The next batter is a switch-hitter who opts for the left side. He digs in, adjusting his gloves, and peers at Riptide. I take a moment to look at the man on the mound. His posture is rigid, but there’s no denying his skill. When he’s not fuming at me, his form is something to admire—fluid, powerful, and precise. It’s ironic how someone so talented can let pride sabotage his own performance. So good-looking too.
He delivers another blistering pitch—right down the middle. “Strike!” I call. The batter steps back, presumably to gather himself. The crowd, still a bit rowdy from the earlier drama, begins chanting for a hit.
A group of children leans against the chain-link fence near the dugout, craning their necks to see the action. They’re the purest fans out here, just wanting a good game. They don’t know or care about the drama swirling around Riptide and me. Their innocence is refreshing.
The next pitch is high and outside. “Ball!” I announce, and I notice Riptide flinch. He might be second-guessing every move now, afraid another balk call is coming. The scoreboard still shows a tie, which means this game is on a razor’s edge. A single swing could change everything.
The at-bat stretches longer than usual—fouled-off pitches, more balls, a lot of head shakes from Riptide, and anxious stares from the batter. Finally, on a full count, Riptide unleashes a wicked curveball that breaks late and sends the batter flailing. “Strike three, batter’s out!” I yell, motioning the end of the inning.
That should be the last out for the top of the seventh. Relieved, I peel off my mask and walk toward the umpire’s station for a quick breather and to switch out a couple of scuffed balls. The home team jogs off the field, Riptide heading straight for the dugout without looking at me. I can practically feel the waves of anger emanating from him, but he keeps it tamped down.
As I reach for a fresh set of baseballs, the second base umpire, a veteran named Tully, ambles up behind me. “He giving you trouble?” Tully asks quietly, jerking his chin in Riptide’s direction.
“He’s not thrilled with my call,” I reply, shrugging. “But it was a balk. No question in my mind.”
Tully nods. “I saw it too. Had to happen at some point. Kid’s got good stuff, but that pick-off move’s always been on the edge of legality. Sooner or later, someone was gonna call him for it. Good on you for sticking to your guns.”
I give Tully a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to keep the game fair.” And that’s the truth I remind myself of every time I step on the field.
When we return to our positions, the scoreboard transitions to the bottom of the seventh. The stadium announcer’s voice booms over the speaker system, reminding fans of the post-game fireworks if the home team manages to pull off a victory. The crowd cheers, eager for any sign of a home-team comeback. I check my watch—time is marching on, but the tension remains thick as ever.
Riptide’s team takes the field for defense. I notice he’s still out there, stretching his shoulder and rolling his neck to shake off the previous inning. Despite the drama, he’s staying in the game. I almost respect his determination… almost. But I remember the way he got in my face, accusing me of everything under the sun. That, I don’t appreciate. There’s a line between frustration and hostility, and he tiptoed right over it.
The bottom of the seventh begins with a base hit to left field, and the crowd roars its approval. The next batter bunts, advancing the runner. Then a ground ball to second results in an out, but it moves the runner to third. Just like that, there’s a scoring threat. Riptide’s team scrambles, trying to keep it together. A base hit here would mean the home team takes the lead.
The crowd rises to its feet for the two-out pitch. The batter connects with a solid crack, and the ball screams toward the right-center gap. The runner on third sprints home, crossing the plate before the outfield can scoop and relay. A fresh wave of cheers explodes, making the bleachers quake. The scoreboard updates: 4–3, home team in the lead.
My chest tightens with the excitement of the moment—I love a good nail-biter, even if I’m the neutral official. The intensity, the roar of the crowd, and the tension among the players is what keeps me coming back game after game.
I jog off the field, my throat yearning for water. I can see Riptide reemerging from the dugout, snapping at a teammate who probably offered some unwanted advice. He picks up a bat, likely taking some practice swings for his own turn in the lineup.