Andrew at the bat

Astor might be the best team we play all season, and their Friday starter, Zack Khatri, will almost certainly be the best pitcher we face. He’s an intimidating presence on the mound; some of that is his stuff, reminiscent of Noah Syndergaard, but some of it is just because he’s a big, big man—about the same size as Thor, too, come to that, except that instead of looking like a Norse god, he looks like an avatar of Vishnu or something. I realize he’s only half-Indian, but you couldn’t prove it by me from the sight of him.

Khatri doesn’t throw his sinker as hard as Thor, but he can touch the mid-90s with it, and he does hit triple digits with his four-seamer—even after a hundred pitches. Obviously, his change, curve and slider aren’t plus pitches, but they’re good enough scouts think they might end up that way. He’s a good, graceful athlete with clean mechanics, so his command is above average and projects plus as well. Dude’s already being talked up as a high first-rounder this year.

So why isn’t he pitching for baseball royalty? Astor’s good, but they aren’t Miami, LSU, or Cal State Fullerton—or, if you want stronger academic options, Stanford, UCLA, or Texas. But Khatri only started playing baseball late in high school, and he was a lot smaller then. Ken Garrido, the Colonels’ head coach, saw the potential, though, and he had a good school and program to sell; and if ending up 6’5”, 235 has had a lot to do with Khatri turning into a dominant **** on the mound, so has his pitching coach, and Garrido’s faith in both of them.

We’re significant underdogs, but we’re determined to do our best for our fans. Doug Coble’s a good pitcher and a draft prospect in his own right, but he’s not at Khatri’s level. Still, you don’t have to be to throw a shutout, if you execute well and get some good plays behind you (and your share of luck), and even Khatri can’t do better than that. Doug’s pretty worked up—mostly positively; fortunately, he’s the most controlled person I’ve ever met, so he should be channeling that emotional energy into his pitching rather than letting it disrupt him.

*****

Doug handles the top of the Colonels’ order quite well, giving up a single and fanning a couple. When I step to the plate, the look of incredulous fury on Rick’s face tells me he wasn’t really paying attention to anything anyone said about our team. Either that or his belief in my inferiority is so axiomatic that if he heard my name, he assumed it must be a different Andrew Lane. Either way, he’s taken completely by surprise.

I’m taking all the way on the first pitch—I want to time Khatri to get a feel for his heat. It’s a four-seam fastball above the belt on the outer edge for a strike. 0-1—and 100 mph.

The next one is much the same, only further outside; I watch it go by for a ball. 1-1.

He follows that up with a change, also outside; it moves like a split-change, with more drop than I had realized from the scouting report. It has some definite arm-side fade, too, breaking down and away from me—much more break and it would be a screwball. Unfortunately for Khatri, either it moved more than it was supposed to or he started it too far outside. 2-1.

Khatri shakes off his catcher several times, giving me a moment to wonder how he makes that pitch move like that. They’re pitching me away, away, away, but you can’t live on the outer edge alone; I figure he’s likely to come in on my hands, probably high and tight, to keep me honest. I can’t camp on that, but I’d best be watching.

. . . And that’s exactly what he does, with another four-seamer. I doubt I would have recognized it in time if I hadn’t been looking for it, but I keep my hands in and turn on it hard, sending a rocket over the first baseman’s head. It gets past the right fielder and all the way to the wall, and I pull in to second with a stand-up double. As I brush myself off, I can see Rick fuming ninety feet ahead.

Grant Foster, our second baseman, comes up behind me and drops a soft liner into no-man’s land in left-center for a single, moving me to third. I pop up, brush off my pants, and give Rick a half-smile. “Hey, Wood, long time no see,” I chirp. All he can do is glare. I smirk back at him and say, “Well, you’re a lousy host. Don’t worry, I’ll be moving on soon.”

“In your dreams, you—” Rick growls, then stops when our right fielder, Duke Griffis, sends a screamer down the right-field line that’s very nearly the twin of my double.

“Ta-ta, Dickie,” I say cheerfully as I take off for home. Grant’s a lot faster than I am, and he’s running a lot harder to boot, so he crosses the plate not far behind me as Duke steams into second with a two-run double. That’s the high point of the inning, though. Khatri picks Duke off with the sneakiest, ballsiest move I’ve ever seen, then plucks a hard liner out of the air in front of his face for the second out. One more pitch gets him out of the inning as he pops up our third baseman—Grant’s older brother Sean—with a four-seamer high and away. Still, two runs, which is two more than I would have expected; I guess it’s more than the Colonels expected either, as there’s some sort of kerfuffle going on in their dugout. Doug goes back out to the office (as he likes to call it) with the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on his face.

He doesn’t stay out there long. He’s energized, and his stuff is downright filthy. Three up, three down, two more Ks and a grounder to first, and we’re up.

The bottom half of the second goes much the same way. Khatri’s command looked a little wobbly in the first, but he settles down and shows our 6-8 hitters what the bear does to the buckwheat. Not only does he strike out the side, he does it on ten pitches.

Doug looks distinctly less giddy when he takes the mound for the top of the third, but he sets their 8-9-1 hitters down in order. Khatri takes two pitches to get the first out of the bottom of the inning, and I’m up again.

The first pitch is another four-seamer, high and outside, but too far off the plate. 1-0. He follows it with a hard slider outside, which looks like a ball out of his hand but breaks down and in to catch the outside corner. 1-1, and I have to salute him for that one. He gives me a nod and a slight grin. Next comes a changeup, low and away; I foul it off. 1-2. I figure he has to come inside now, but no—another four-seamer, at the numbers on the outside edge. I’m crossed up, but I manage to make contact and shoot it foul off the end of the bat. Still 1-2. Khatri follows that with yet another outside fastball, this time the first sinker he’s shown me, low and away; it’s farther off the plate, trying to get me to chase. I don’t bite. 2-2. Another change outside—What is he doing? Why isn’t he coming inside?—which I again foul off; this time, though, it’s a booming fly into the third-base stands. Another slider, but this time I’m alert for it, slashing a hard ground ball not too far outside the left-field line. Another changeup, but a little too far off the plate; I let it go. 3-2. Starting on the fourth or fifth pitch, he’s been shaking off his catcher every time, and a little longer each time, as he keeps going relentlessly away, away, away.

And on the eighth pitch of the at-bat, Khatri throws me another four-seamer on the outside edge, right at the belt. Part of my brain thinks, His pitch selection really sucks; the rest is completely focused on putting the bat on the ball. I don’t care if it’s 100, he’s gone to the well a few too many times already. I let the ball get deep into the zone, and I uncoil on it like a striking cobra, sending a railgun shot right at the third baseman.

I leave the box cursing at myself—and not under my breath, either. I hit that sucker hard enough, I could have sent it 400 feet—except I didn’t get any lift on it at all. I need to hit high line drives to succeed, because as slow as I am, if an infielder can get to it, I’m out. I hit that thing right to Rick—he won’t have to take more than a step, and he won’t have to reach, and I hit it hard enough and low enough that he won’t even have to catch it. All he has to do is knock it down and stay in front of it, and he’ll have plenty of time to throw me out.

My only chance is if he rushes it and pulls the first baseman off the bag, or throws it away. It’s a lousy chance, but it’s all I have, so I need to play it for all it’s worth. I run flat out; my focus narrows to my feet, the baseline, the base up ahead, and the first baseman. He’s looking over to third, but not setting up for the throw. As long as he’s not setting up, there’s a chance. My feet churning, my breathing loud in my ears, I get closer and closer, and he doesn’t move. I don’t understand it, but he doesn’t move. I will myself to run faster, and finally I realize I’m going to make it. I don’t understand it, but there’s still no throw, and I’m going to make it.

As my foot hits the bag, my senses open back out to the world again, and I realize I’m running in a ringing silence. I hear the sound of my feet as I run through the base—and nothing else. Nothing else. The entire stadium seems to be holding its breath.