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)
I can’t help but shake my head. He’s clearly still fuming, and I brace myself for another confrontation if he crosses my path. However, I remind myself that I’ve dealt with worse. Arrogant players come with the territory. Some nights they calm down; other nights they hold grudges. Either way, I have a job to do, and I intend to do it.
I slip into the small umpire area behind the backstop, grabbing a quick sip of water from a cooler we keep there. My shoulders ache from the constant crouching, my gear feels heavier than ever, and my face is flushed, but the thrill of being on the field overrides every complaint.
As I head back out, a few fans shout at me. “Hey, ump! Call it down the middle, will ya?” one hollers. Another, wearing the visiting team’s hat, yells, “Don’t bail them out again!” I ignore them both. The crowd will always be divided. One side thinks you’re great; the other side thinks you’re blind. That’s the nature of officiating.
When I take my position for the bottom of the seventh, I notice Riptide is next in the batting order. I wonder to myself why he’s even batting. It’s probably his God complex kicking in. Now I’ll get to see if his frustration carries over to the batter’s box. Part of me braces for more fireworks. Will he try to show me up? Maybe get ejected by yelling about something else?
“Why not use a designated hitter?” I mutter as he passes by.
He strides up to the plate, bat propped on his shoulder, eyes locked on me rather than the pitcher. “And let you miss the opportunity of watching me knock it out of the park?” The tension between us is almost tangible. But I focus on the new pitcher, who’s shaking off two signals from his catcher. Finally, the pitcher sets, winds up, and fires a high fastball. Riptide doesn’t even move. “Ball!” I call.
He taps the dirt with his bat. “Well, at least you can see that was high,” he mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Why does he have to be so gorgeous?
I ignore his dig. The next pitch comes in low and away. “Ball two.” Riptide squares up, but he still sneaks a glance my way, as if challenging me to say something. The crowd’s volume seems to taper, everyone waiting to see if we’ll have another altercation.
Pitch three is right down the heart of the plate. “Strike!” I announce clearly. Riptide scowls, but he doesn’t argue. He steps out of the box, takes a practice swing, and steps back in. The next pitch is borderline, painting the black on the outside corner. It could go either way, but from my angle, it nicks the strike zone. “Strike two!”
He exhales, jaw clenched. I watch him tighten his grip, probably wishing he could do something to retaliate. Then the fifth pitch is a nasty slider in the dirt, and he holds off. “Ball three.”
Now it’s a full count. The stadium is electric again. The fans who love him cheer wildly; those who hate him boo just as loudly. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. The pitcher sets, eyes locked on the catcher’s mitt, and unleashes a rocket of a fastball. Riptide swings, making contact with a deafening crack. The ball slices foul down the left field line, landing among a scramble of fans leaping for a souvenir.
We reset, still locked at three balls and two strikes. The tension is thick as smog. The next pitch is another fastball, but it sails high. “Ball four, batter takes first,” I announce. I give him a little wink. “Maybe you’ll hit it out of the park next time, Rip.” I step aside as Riptide tosses his bat and jogs down the line.
As he passes me, he mutters under his breath, “Don’t think this means we’re cool,” and continues on. I don’t respond. Let him stew. I’m not here to make friends.
Eventually, the inning ends without him scoring. There’s two innings left, and anything can happen in baseball. But for me, the real story of the night has already played out. I called a balk on the local golden boy, and now he’s got a personal vendetta. Fine. I’ve dealt with bigger tempers and stronger personalities.
I take a breath, letting the humidity fill my lungs. The lights overhead are at full brightness now, illuminating every blade of grass and every speck of infield dirt. The scoreboard glows with the 4–3 tally, reminding me we’re not done. I brush dirt off my pants and settle my mask back on my face, preparing for the top of the eighth.
No matter what else happens tonight, I know I made the right call. Riptide can seethe all he wants; I’m not backing down. If he balks again, I’ll call it again. That’s how this game works.