Knuckleballer: Art

I created this image to go with my story “Knuckleballer.” If this goes through to publication, I’ll do a better-quality version.

Riley Miller: Fictional Major League Baseball Knuckleballer

Links to the story:

Knuckleballer, Part 1

Knuckleballer, Part 2

Knuckleballer, Part 3

Knuckleballer, Part 4

Knuckleballer, Part 5 (end)

*Do not copy this without the permission of MJ Twain.*

Knuckleballer, Part 5: Conclusion

The first inning didn’t go well.

Riley walked the first better, gave up a base hit, and allowed a steal. The crowd that had gone wild in welcoming her back grew restless. Knights fans were both the best and worst in all of baseball. They could idolize you one day and demonize you the next. Riley cared what they thought, no matter Ben’s advice.

She got through that dreadful first inning to end it by striking out a batter who’d never faced her before.

The stands exploded with crazed applause. Riley dredged up a smile and waved her cap before retreating to the dugout. Trainer Sam appeared at her side to poke at the wrist.

“How’d it feel out there?”

Riley pretended not to notice a dozen or so pairs of ears waiting to hear her answer.

“No pain,” she said.

The other Knights visibly relaxed. She didn’t want them to worry, so she didn’t mention the slight stiffness. Sam knew about it, of course, and he knew she’d say if it got worse.

Tim Blake, the first baseman, waved her over as their first hitter got up to bat.

“You looked a little tight out there.” He said it close to her ear, where only she could hear. “You sure you’re okay?”

She stretched out her arms and wiggled her fingers.

“I’m rusty, but all accounted for,” she told him. She leaned a hair closer. “It is a little tight. The docs say it’s probably going to be like that because of the screws.”

“That’s why you can’t throw…”

“Yeah. Let’s not talk about it.”

The inning ended sooner than Riley would have liked. She grabbed her glove and trotted to the mound.

Over then next three innings, Riley walked several more batters and allowed two runs. Some of the more rowdy fans in the outfield bleacher seats started booing when she made bad pitches. Worse, Ben had a relief pitcher warming up in the bullpen.

Men were on first and third with two out when the catcher met with her on the mound.

“Send this guy a couple sliders then a change-up,” George said.

The next batter was Felix Garcia, a strong hitter. It was his first at-bat for the day. Riley had hoped to avoid facing him. He’d been given the day off, but they clearly had other plans by bringing him in to pinch hit.

Excited chatter washed through the stands. Riley’s rivalry with Garcia was well known. He could hit all but one of her pitches.

Pat, the pitching coach, hustled out with Ben.

“Walk him,” Ben said.

“What about Ramirez?” George asked. “He’ll get a grand slam if we’re not careful.”

“I’ll throw out Garcia.”

Pat shook his head. “Not without that knuckler.”

As if on cue, the crowd’s various chants and shouts coalesced into the last thing Riley needed to hear.

“Let’s go Riley!” Clap clap, clap-clap-clap. “Knuckleballer!”

“Don’t even think about it!” Pat shouted above the growing roar. “It’s too risky.”

“Let’s go Riley!” Clap clap, clap-clap-clap. “Knuckleballer!”

She dropped her hand away from the glove. No one believed she’d throw a good knuckleball again. Nobody but the fans. She bent her fingers like she was gripping the ball. Pat, Ben, and George couldn’t see, but, behind their backs, the almighty Jumbo-tron did.

The fans lost their minds.

“Knuckleballer!” Clap clap, clap-clap-clap. “Knuckleballer!”

George held his catcher’s mitt in front of his face and shouted over the wall of sound.

“Slider, breaking ball, then another slider or a changeup, depending on what he does. Catch him looking, and we give him that slider.”

“Okay.”

Ben and Pat jogged back to the dugout as the home plate umpire arrived to break up the conversation.

“Knuckleballer!” Clap clap, clap-clap-clap. “Knuckleballer!”

Riley stepped up, ready for the slider. Movement at the corner of her left eye. She spun and threw to first. Not in time. The runner slid back in, safe.

“Knuckleballer!”

The frenzied chant was the loudest thing Riley had ever heard. She hesitated, looked into the crowd, something she never, ever did while on the mound.

Over forty-thousand fans were on their feet. Signs with her name and-or her number flashed all over, some printed, but most hand drawn.

“Knuckleballer!”

Riley walked off the mound. The Knights needed Garcia’s out. She looked to George. He spread his arms in frustration. She stepped up, readied for the pitch.

George flashed signs until she nodded. Slider, angle down and right. Take advantage of Garcia’s other weakness.

She ached to get her knuckle on the little while ball but decided against it. She wound up and released.

The slider did its job, but Garcia was ready. She swung for it. The ball smacked into the bat and flew straight up. George tore the mask off his face to see and get under the ball.

It juked sideways to fall behind the net. Oh and one.

“Knuckleballer!”

A new ball landed in her glove from the umpire. George signaled her for the breaking ball. She had a bad feeling about it, but there wasn’t time to worry.

She hurled the breaking ball. It missed just outside the zone. One and one. The crowd sighed then retook up the chant.

“Knuckleballer!” Clap clap, clap-clap-clap. “Knuckleballer!”

Sweat dripped down her forehead. She pulled her cap back and used her sleeve to mop the sticky stuff away. She put the cap back in place and stepped up.

George signaled for the slider.

“Knuckleballer!”

Riley shook her head. He signaled changeup. She shook her head then spun again to halt the steal. The runner stayed safe on first.

George signaled for a curveball. Definitely not. Breaking? No. He stood, pulled up the mask and glared at her. The umpire said something to make George get back into position. The catcher moved his hand into the familiar sign. The one she hadn’t planned to see that day.

She nodded. George shook his head, but she pulled her hands in close. Her knuckles found their way. George’s eyes widened behind his mask. Riley smiled, all sweet innocence.

“Knuckleballer!”

At the place, Garcia reacted to her Cheshire grin by narrowing his eyes.

Hiding the ball as long as she dared, she wound up and pitched.

The ball bounced in front of the plate.

“Ball Two!”

The crowd roared. The chant was buried under an unintelligible mix of glee and horror, much like Riley’s mind.

George charged up to the mound, Pat and Ben close behind.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Ben yelled.

“I can do it.” She fingered the next ball. To her far right, the bullpen came to life. “You know how they say it’s not your business what other people are thinking? Well it is. It’s our business to know what our fans are thinking and then act on it.”

“You will not try that again,” Pat warned. “Not until you can prove it’s good.”

“Fine,” she spat. She wanted all of them to back off. One more pitch was all she needed.

“Knuckleballer!”

The reorganized chant filled her with hope. If the fans believed in her, who was she to deny them?

Riley had never deliberately crossed up a catcher. She hoped he’d forgive her.

Riley set up for the pitch. The stiffness vanished. Her critics ceased to exist. Time to rock and roll.

The knuckleball is the most difficult pitch to master in baseball. Riley Miller is its mistress.

-THE END-

☼

This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from MJ Twain.

Knuckleballer, Part 4

Riley’s first game back with the Knights was the third Sunday that August. The Knights were chasing Denver for the Wild Card slot. If they were very lucky, they had a chance to capture the division lead.

She had a case of the nerves like she hadn’t felt in years. Her change up, slider, and fastball pitches were close to normal, but her signature move was a no-go. No amount of practice had restored Riley’s knuckleball.

“Ready?” Ben asked. “You have great stuff. Don’t worry about that knuckler.”

Riley nodded, but she felt incomplete. She flexed her hand. Lingering stiffness remained a concern, but she was cleared to throw. There was no pain, just a hint of solidity where it used to be fluid.

“If I walk more than a couple guys, everyone going to throw me under the bus,” she said.

Ben put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll tell you something my mother always said. What other people think is none of your business.”

“They like to make it my business.”

Ben shook his head. “Only you can do that.” He pointed toward the exit that led to the field. “Your job is to get out there and throw a clean game. If the fans get upset because you don’t throw the pitches they want, so be it. They’ll be dazzled by your record and regret how they felt. That’s their business.”

The jumping beans in her belly dropped into a slow roll. Pregame jitters were normal, she reminded herself. She’d get past them and do her job.

“Thanks, Ben.” She jogged toward the clubhouse exit.

“Don’t tell anyone about this little chat,” he called after her. “I’ll deny it.”

She flipped him a cheerful bird over her shoulder. Ben laughed. The sign was a running joke from her first spring training with the Knights.

His knuckleballer might have been winged, but she was back. Still, there were things to watch. Riley Miller had more to prove than the average player fresh off the DL. If she cracked under the pressure of her first game back, her career was done.

☼

…to be concluded

☼

This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from MJ Twain.

Knuckleballer, Part 3

“Look, we haven’t even reached the All-Star Break. Take your time. I don’t want you back until you’re healthy,” Ben Kemp, the Knights manager, told her.

Riley wanted to punch something. Her wrist felt fine. She was lucky she got hurt early in the season, and she was well aware of it. Getting back in the game, however, was going to get more difficult for each start she missed.

“I’m going nuts here,” she countered. “If I don’t see some action, I’m gonna start climbing walls.”

Ben slapped his hands on the paper-covered desk. The sound was muffled, but it was loud enough to startle Riley.

“You are going to Ohio for rehab. They got a good catcher from the Double-A that will take the knuckleballs. We’ve been looking at matching him up to you anyway. Get a few starts and try it out—after Sam clears you for that knuckler.”

Riley clenched her fists. Her left wrist tightened where the screws held it together.

“Thanks a bunch, Skipper.”

She stalked out of his office. Outside the locker room door, she paused. Pulsing rock music tickled the bottoms of her feet as she inhaled of whiff of sweaty socks and talc. The guys would want to see her before she flew to Ohio.

At the far end of the otherwise empty concourse, she saw players filing in to the visitors’ locker rooms. She started to turn away when a familiar face got her attention.

“Burr!” she yelled. She knew he’d been traded after the pitch that stole a chunk of the season from her. Here he was, big as life with his new team. “Burr, you jackass!”

The pitcher slowed his stride long enough to get a look at her in her street clothes and sneered.

“Hey, if it ain’t little Riley-girl,” he jeered. “Can’t take the heat of playing with the big boys?”

Breathing popcorn and beer fumes through her nostrils, she marched in his direction. His new teammates kept their distance as they watched how the confrontation would play out.

“You’re a pond scum-sucking rat who shouldn’t be allowed out of its cage,” she barked. “When I get back out there, everybody will forget you ever pitched to me.”

Burr wiggled his fingers in mock horror. “Ooh, you got me pissin’ my pants. I better watch out.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

Ben Kemp ran toward Riley and Burr. Less than five seconds later, half her team showed up behind him.

“Nothing,” she said. She knew her gritted teeth and narrowed eyes told a different story. “We were just discussing techniques—you know, like the difference between a great pitcher and someone who’s only mediocre.”

Burr’s face turned burgundy. He looked ready to say something, but he was herded away as his manager stormed up to Ben.

“She’s a hothead, Kemp. She keeps mouthing off like that, and she’ll find herself out on her ass.”

“Is that a threat, Tony?”

“It is what it is. My guys deal with more than enough. They don’t need a hysterical girl distracting them.”

Riley opened her mouth, but Kemp stopped her with a glare.

“My pitcher will do what’s necessary for this team. That’s all you need to know.”

Riley grumbled an impressive chain of obscenities that the opposing manager couldn’t hear. Some of her teammates did, however. When the other guys retreated to the locker room, the first-baseman stayed back and snagged Riley by her good arm.

“Tim, let go,” she ordered.

“In a minute.”

He pulled her out to the box seats above their dugout. Guys were beginning their pregame stretching on the field.

“See those men?” he barked. She nodded, unsure where this was leading. “That’s your team, and they’re relying on you to get back in one piece.”

“That’s the plan. I’m working my ass off so I can get back on the roster. What more do you want?”

Tim rounded on her. “If you go picking fights, it’s going to get you in trouble. You’re too classy for that shit.”

She shook him off. “And I’m supposed to let people walk all over me? I’ve worked too hard for that.”

Ben yelled up at Tim from the field. Fans were starting to trickle in for the game and to watch batting practice.

“I don’t have time for this,” Tim told her. “I’ll just say that it’d be a damn shame if you sink your career by doing something stupid. There’s a lot of idiots who’d love nothing more than to see you fail.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I hope so. But you have to get that arm healthy and be better than ever. Stow the attitude, too. It doesn’t fit.”

Excited chatter halted the speech, and Riley was grateful. Signing a few autographs and getting out of there sounded a lot better than getting lectured.

“Get us some runs,” she said. “I’ll call you.”

Tim nodded and trotted down to the top of the dugout, where he hopped off the roof. Riley heard at least two coaches yell at him as he joined the rest of the team. Once she was free of him, she signed a few balls and jerseys then slipped away from the growing pregame crowd.

She would’ve liked to stay and support the guys, but an assignment waited for her in Ohio.

☼

…to be continued

☼

This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from MJ Twain.

Knuckleballer, Part 2

“It’s broken.”

Doctor Gould cringed as he delivered the news, although Riley wasn’t surprised.

“How long will it take to heal?” she asked.

Gould looked to Sam and the Knights’ general manager, John Hicks. The GM had taken a lot of risks during his tenure, but none more so than backing Riley’s ascent to the Big Show. He was the last person she wanted to let down.

“It’s a bad break,” Gould said. “You need surgery. Beyond that, it’s wait and see.”

“When will I be able to throw?”

Gould shook his head. “I don’t think that you’ll be able to pitch at this level again. I’m sorry.”

Riley slouched further into her seat. She was in her sophomore year of the big leagues. Her career couldn’t be over just like that. Not yet.

“What are her chances?” Hicks asked.

Gould sighed. “It’s hard to say.” He crouched before Riley. “We’ll do all we can, but I sure as hell won’t promise anything. I will say that if anybody can come back from an injury like this, I’d stake my bet on you.”

Riley nodded without looking at him. She had to make it back. Baseball was her life. Her fans were next most important. Countless girls found their inspiration in her story. It was her supporters who made all her struggles worthwhile.

“Fix me up,” she told Gould. “I won’t let it end like this.”

“That’s my girl,” Hicks said. “You’ll be back on the mound before you know it.”

“Damn straight,” she answered. She stood. “Let’s get on with it.”

As her boss spoke with the doctor and team trainer, Riley turned away to hide her face. She only wished she was half as confident as she sounded.

☼

… to be continued

☼

This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from MJ Twain.