“We’re at the bottom of the eighth now, trailing by one, two outs and facing the top of their order, with third baseman Reggie coming up to the plate.”

“Y’know, Cass, this is a guy, he’s been in a bit of a slump lately, but if I were coaching now, I’d have ‘em walk him, because this isn’t a guy you wanna give any leeway, not a guy you want making contact this late into the game.”

“I hear ya, Paul. And first pitch now: curveball, hung, and he gets it, deep, deep to left, out to the warning track, this ball may be-”

“Maldy hits the wall and does he have it? Does he- YES! MALDY with an AMAZING diving catch, haven’t seen anything like THAT in a while. 22 years old, just called up to the bigs two weeks ago, his folks are in the ballpark right now watching, and I bet they’re proud of him now.”

“Maldy with the third out, and that’ll end the inning.”

“And Reggie’s walking back to the dugout now, and he does not look happy-”

Third, third. Third. I ask for the 3-hole, they play me leadoff. I asked for third. Third. Three. That’s three-three-three, number thirty-three. 0-3. Doesn’t matter. Heart of a lion. Claws out. Tear through the dugout. Bite the phone out of the wall. Bash the water cooler til it breaks. None of it matters. They’re trading me anyway. 

Age 33 season, supposed to be “past my prime”. None of us pass it anymore. No color, no smell, couple drops under the tongue, and you’re good. Only some of the other guys have it, only through me, but all of us got it, in different ways. Some guys shoot, some guys swallow. Doesn’t matter what route you take. It didn’t even change us all that much, I don’t think. The hardest thing in all of sports is to hit the ball with the bat. You have to be good to do that. The smell changed, the lockers smell like stables now. The fans can probably smell it too, it’s where all the animal names came from. “The Lion” “The Bull”. It’s stupid, but the fans like it, and there’s more of them now than ever.

What mostly changed is the mental. I’m already good. One of the best. I see the other guys now, and I see them as they are. We’re all animals, or something like animals, some sort of combination. I see the pitchers with their claws, their stingers, I see the pinch runners with their hooves, outfielders with wings, but we’ve all got the same faces. For the most part. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. I look in the mirror, I see the mane, my arms are bulging, the leg veins are about to pop right out. I had some guys make me some paintings, some pictures. Me with lion legs and a tail, but the top half is me, I’m holding the bat. I put them up on the bedroom walls, floor to ceiling, opposite sides. I look at them when I fall asleep. Lion in the grass. Running fast, pouncing. Fifteen stolen bases and halfway through the season. Thirty-three home runs. Was about to be another. Fucker caught it. Cocksucker. New kid, eyes too big for his head, he hasn’t gotten any yet, his face would sit different. Maybe the faces do change. Guppy. Eyes look like fish eyes, so he’s the fish. Flops around out in left. Easy catch, on a different day. It doesn’t matter. We aren’t really animals, but we aren’t people, either. Maybe something in between. Maybe something higher, some new type of thing. Maybe everyone could be like that, one day. Animal and people both. 

“We’re at the top of the ninth now, still trailing by one, and they’ve got their star closer Anton out on the mound looking for yet another save.”

“Folks, if you’ve been paying attention for the last few seasons or so, you know this is one of the best closers in the game right now. Nasty cut fastball, touches 96 miles per hour, real buzzsaw. They’re calling him “The Scorpion” out there on their own home field, have him walking out to “Rock You Like a Hurricane”, and-”

“Probably won’t be hearing that one tonight, Paul. And in the number nine slot we have Maldy, with his third plate appearance of the night. And its first pitch: changeup, just clipping the zone for strike one.” 

“Y’ever notice Cass, lotta these newer guys seem to have some trouble with those offspeed pitches, makes you wonder if they need to mix up what they’re throwing down in the minors to get ’em up to snuff.”

“Here comes the windup: fastball up and in, for strike two.”

“Looked like it was about to get him right in the hand there, coulda been ugly. Thing about Anton, he’s got the stuff, but the location is all over the place. He’s hit 8 batters so far this season, makes you wonder how much of it’s intentional.”

“Windup, third pitch: fastball, middle, Maldy gets it, goes just over the head of the shortstop for an infield single.”

“Just incredible, WHAT a night for Maldy, flashing the leather big time in that last inning, big out to make to change it over, comes in to his next at-bat and knocks one in on an 0-2 count. We’re looking at a future stud.”

“Next up we have Aldo in the lead-off spot, 35 home runs, 75 RBI, seventh consecutive game with an extra-base hit.”

“‘This might be Aldo’s career season, just hit after hit after hit, already put down a double in the 5th and he’s not showing any signs of stopping.Team captain, “El Toro”, the guys love him down in the clubhouse, we just need to see-”

Stance in, back straight, knees straight, upright, stamp the foot. Bend slightly. Bull in the field, ready to charge. He’ll throw up and in, wants to shatter a horn. Glove up over the mouth, staring me down. Something’s wrong with his eyes. Wrong with the whole team’s eyes. Can’t let it get to you. Eye on the ball. Don’t like the way he winds up, don’t like the way the leg curls around the other, doesn’t thhhhhhhhwump STRIKE.

Too close to the bone, almost tore off the finger. Knew it was coming. Time out. Need a breather, need to get my head in it. The kid just got one, got one in like it was nothing. Anton doesn’t have the command today, it’s a head game. He wants to wound, poison. He’s poisonous. Something sickly about him, especially lately. Ill intent. Under a bad star. He’s plunking guys, always been a bit wild, but it’s intentional lately, no plausible deniability. Doesn’t go for the ribs, goes for the head. For the eyes. For the throat. Something’s off. Bad air coming off of him. Bad light. Gotta get back in the box.

Dialing in, straight ahead. Stomp in the box. Stamp stamp stampede. Crowd loves it. Toro bravo. If you watch it close enough, you can see it slow down. Time can slow. Grind to a crawl. Watch watch watch thhhwack fouled back. Not great, down in the count. Bad sign. He doesn’t like it either, doesn’t like that I made contact. Air is shifting. Bad sun setting in the sky, bad moon above. Winding up again, watch watch watch but it’s too close, close thwwuuum ball one. Pulled back my head just in time, could have cracked the temple. Broken bull in the temple. On tubes in the hospital. Left horn snapped off. Eyes dilated. 

Get a grip. Get a grip. Bat grip. Can’t happen again. Poison eyes. Watch watch watch thhhwack foul back again. Again, watch watch thhhwack foul back. Sharp, sharp stabs in the temple. Did it connect? Awake, alive? Temple’s cracked. Crack. Crack. Fouled back. Endless at-bat. Red mist cloud. One more. One more. Barrel to ball. Dead middle. Watch watch watch thhhwack. Bullseye.

“Aldo laces it, and Maldy jumps off the bag at second, guns it down the line to third, trying to bring in the tying run, and center field’s got it-”

“-and Maldy dives head first making hard, HARD CONTACT WITH REGGIE AT THIRD and, and it’s looking like, it’s looking like-” 

“-called out at third-”

“-but, it’s looking like, it’s looking bad folks, it’s looking bad, it’s looking like Maldy got his lip, somehow, got his lip caught in Reggie’s cleats, it’s bleeding really bad-” 

“-Reggie’s down, and this is turning into a bit of a situation out here on the field-”

“-it looks like he may have, may have even, the jaw, the jaw’s looking dislocated, and Reggie’s down, leg’s not looking too good but he’s grabbing his chest, he can’t get up-” 

“-now the benches clearing, the bullpen’s coming out, and-”

“-he’s grabbing his chest, Reggie, he can’t get up-”

im hooked im hooked im hooked it hurts it hurts hurts hurts hurts it hurts, i’m not a fish not a guppy guppy guppy i dont want to be hooked i dont want to be fried i dont want to be eaten please dont eat me please please please dont eat me i want to play i wanted to play i just want to play play it hurts so bad it hurts it hurts it hurts i want to play it hurts it hurts it mom mom mom mom mom i want it to stop i want it to stop stop stop stop stop please please please i want to go home i need to go i need to leave i need to go don’t hurt me don’t eat me please please 

“Aldo on second, coming in as the pinch hitter is-”

“You really don’t want to see an injury like that, injuries like that, type of thing to end a season, end-”

On purpose, it was on purpose, the fucking kid, the fish, he slid like that on purpose. He wanted to take out the leg, take him down, it’s dirty. Dirty as the rest of us, fish-eyes. Filthy. Slimy fish eyes on a fat fish head. I’ll suck them out of his skull and bite down. Salty fish eyes bursting. Fillet the flesh, scoop out the guts. Cut down the middle. Fin to fin. Fucked fish. Fuck the fish. My fist inside your fish guts. Picking out the pinbones. Cut open alive. You’re hooked, your jaw’s on sideways. Fish fucked raw. 

Now the bull. Fat fuck. Proud, strong bull. Team captain. Future hall of famer. Bull fucker. I wanted to see his brains leak out his ears. Head cheese. Cow brains and bulls eyes in jelly, cut out his tongue, cut off his ears, paraplegic, maybe quadriplegic, pull out the plug myself. Stew the dead arms and legs. Carve up the heart, liver, kidneys. Chop into mincemeat. Boiled in the hospital bed, brazen bull. Looked scared then, more scared now. Fish flopping out on the dirt, gasping for air. Stomp down on the head and smear it in the grass. Didn’t like seeing it, but didn’t intervene. Castrated lion, now castrated bull. Clamped down and ripped off. Marbles the fat and makes it succulent. Fattening up in the coma ward. Lights out. 

My career is already over. Age 39 season, too long on the poison path. Coke, creams, soaked in decades of venom. Leathery carapace skin, scaly around the injection sites. Bottle of drained abscess fluid in my locker used to coat my hands before they dip into the rosin bag. I lick the fingertips sometimes as a good luck charm. Veins on my arms and thighs collapsed and sealed shut. I’ve watched more than a few guys get into it over the years, watched more than a few guys collapse on the ground after months, their hearts ripping apart in their chest like a wet newspaper. Newspapers that read murder-suicide, family bludgeoned to death, father found hanging, prime of his life, prime of his career. Guess it’s just bad luck. Luck is the only thing that really matters in the end. There is no romance in baseball.

Three rings, ten pennants, endless division leads. Rings hollow. A win is the same as a loss. There’s no importance, no grander scheme, nothing profound. Profundity in a torn ACL, slipping like boiled lobster from a shell. Cracking a hamate bone, lined out, hooked. Teeth lodged in cork, chaff ground to tiny bits, wet ashes in an urn. Winnowed, widowed, ground to a paste, grass sluiced with pulp. Melted into glue, wax, tack, tar. Skinned. Boiled alive.

What will happen next, is the next pitch I throw will be cut, up and inside, slow enough to hit, hard enough to break the bat. The bat will split down the middle, shearing perfectly, and I will fly off the bump to grab it. It won’t matter where the ball lands, as long as it lands, and you charge off the base. You will run at full speed, seeing red, and your helmet will fly off. The bat will be in my hands, and I will throw it up and inside, splitting your left eye in half. Slivers in your iris, pupil dripping onto the chalk. It will likely be my last pitch, as my ligament will snap as a result. You will never see red again. 

My body is dissolving itself from the inside out, teeming with pus and plasma. My teeth are ground down to slivers, gums to slime. Driven only by scorn, disgust, repulsion. I don’t have much longer to go, game or no. I will soon curl up and die, but you will die screaming. It is my nature. I will wind up for the last time, my leg lifting up to wrap around the other, pulled taut. I will unwind, my arm will raise up straight over my head for the last time, and I will throw. 97 miles per hour, seams slicing through the air straight ahead, only to curve so sharply to the left in the very last instant. Bullseye.

“Up and inside again from Anton, and it’s a broken bat, floater, shallow right, and its down-”

“Aldo charging to third but Anton is OFF THE MOUND and GOING FOR THE BAT, HE’S PICKED IT UP AND AND AND-”