Holm, Stef Ann

Baltimore
Park

Baltimore,
Maryland

The
day
was hot. Sweltering.

But
the fans didn't seem to mind. They crowded the grandstands that surrounded the
playing field. Men in shirtsleeves, women in white blouses tucked into long
broadcloth skirts, their voices a low buzz of excitement as Alex Cordova
considered his next pitch.

Most
people thought he was the greatest player in baseball. Definitely the best
pitcher the Baltimore Orioles had ever had.

He
was elevated on the pitcher's mound, his broad shoulders blocking a portion of
blinding summer sun. His hard-muscled chest gave way to lean hips and legs that
were long and as strong as steel. Built of sheer brute strength, his body could
stop a solid punch.

Men
looked on with grudging admiration and dreams of glory. Women dreamed of more
than that—a glance their way, a look or a kiss. But Alex stood silently,
concentrating, his dark eyes narrowed on the batter.

Everyone
was sure it would be a hard slider. Even Joe McGill, the Giants' catcher, as he
waited at the plate, his bat held in ready tenseness.

Alex
glanced over his left shoulder, then turned to Joe and exploded with a pitch
that was up and in. Quick thinking made Joe drop to his belly. Dust choked the
inside of his nose as he lifted his head. That son of a bitch could have
clipped him if he hadn't moved fast.

Vaulting
from the ground in a cloud of dirt and curses, he hurled his bat and charged
Alex, who was already coming at him.

Joe
was blindly aware both dugouts emptied in his wake and took the field in a
hot-blooded dukeout. His fight with Cordova had to be broken up by the umpire,
who threatened fines and ejections to get both sides to return to their
benches. The game continued as Joe resumed the batter's box.

His
chest heaving, his mouth tight, he glared at the pitcher with a hostility that
was returned.

Alex
wound up for the next pitch, his eyes hooded beneath the bill of his cap as he
nodded, shook his head, then released the ball. Joe chased it and lobbed a fly
right at the Orioles' center fielder to end the inning.

The
side retired and Alex was first at bat for Baltimore.

Joe
McGill crouched behind him from his place as catcher. His thighs burned from
the beating his body had taken in the brawl. It was a hell of a thing to have
his joints ache and quiver. He was twenty-five but he felt fifty-five.

From
last week's game against the Cincinnati Reds, he sported black and blue marks
imprinted by seventeen foul tips, a bruise on his hip the size of a melon where
a thrown bat had struck, and two spike marks on his shins. Yet he considered
himself lucky.

But
he would have been luckier if Cordova hadn't slammed a fist in his gut. Because
of that throbbing pain, he leaned forward to irritate Cordova, his knee
brushing against the jersey covering the back of Cordova's calf. Joe rode him,
just the way Cordova hated it, while the man took a few practice swings.

"It
was a fair pitch, McGill, not a beanball," Alex said with a cold edge.
"You went down because you couldn't hit it and you didn't want a strike
called."

"That's
a load of clams," Joe bit out, adjusting the headband on his catcher's
mask. The cheek pads settled tightly against his sweat-slicked face. He socked
his fist into the pocket of his mitt, looking at the Giants' pitcher, Amos
Rusie.

Rusie
had the face of a mortician. You could never read the guy. But Joe was the
best.
He
could read him. It was his job to decipher what the man was
thinking, how he was feeling on any given day out at the pitcher's box.

Today
Rusie was feeling like fastballs. The trouble was, Cordova liked to hit
fastballs. But he couldn't find leather on a spitter. So Joe gave Rusie the
signs for a spitball, down and out.

Rusie
nodded.

Alex
took his stance, gripping the bat with his large hands apart.

Through
the wire cage of his catcher's mask, Joe taunted, "Try and hit this one,
busher."

Calling
a player busher was about as insulting as telling him his mama was ugly.

A
low grunt came from Alex.

Joe
spit. The brown tobacco juice landed on Alex's shoe heel. But before Alex could
slam him, he prompted, "Heads up, busher, the ball's coming at you."

Rusie
grooved one right down the middle of the strike zone. He threw so hard, Joe had
to line his mitt with lead to lessen the impact. Behind him, the umpire made
the call.

"Sttttttttttrike
one!"

Joe
rocked back on his heels and threw a bullet, knee high, right over the base and
back to Rusie. "I'm having a picnic at the plate, busher. You aren't even
making me work."

"You
throw like an old woman," Alex responded.

The
next pitch came in, and Alex missed it.

"Sttttttttttrike
two!"

Joe
caught the lopsided ball; he coiled his arm and delivered it back to Rusie.
"One more to go, busher, and your ass will be back warming the
bench." He moved closer, kneeing in hard and tight against Alex's right
leg.

Gazing
down, Alex said, "You'll see me when I cross home plate." His
confident smile opened the crack on his lower lip, and he winced. Joe took
satisfaction from it; he'd belted him one on the mouth.

"You
won't make it to home plate. I'll mow you off, just like shooting a blackbird
off a bush—
busher."

Bunching
his muscles, Alex swung. The bat crashed against the ball for a foul tip. The
ball made a hard hop and shot into Joe's knee with the force of a hammer.
Red-hot arrows darted up his leg, and he violently swore as he staggered on his
feet.

He
wanted a piece of Cordova, but he couldn't come to blows over a foul tipped
ball. Any catcher who couldn't shake it off had no right to be in the game.

So
he limped back to the plate, adjusted his mask, and squatted back down. He had
to refocus. Remind himself he was the best catcher the New York Giants had ever
signed. He was batting .320, had the highest earned run average in the league,
and had perfected double steals. Women chased him, and he got free drinks in
saloons. Everybody liked him.

As
for Alex Cordova...

Some
of
his
teammates and most of the league resented him because he was so
damn good. With that greatness came arrogance. For the past two years, the
Sporting
News
had rarely written about him in a flattering light—even when he was
pitching flawless games and hitting home runs.

And
all this "Grizz" crap. What was that about? Cordova had spent the '95
winter out West somewhere and had come back telling reporters he was a grizzly
bear, fearless and untouchable. Now he called himself Alex "the
Grizz" Cordova. Joe didn't need a handle to play ball. Just plain Joe McGill
got the job done.

Rousing
cheers from the fans brought him out of his reverie, reminding him that not
everyone resented the Orioles' pitcher. Perspiration blurred his vision. He
squeezed his eyes closed, and when he opened them, he could have sworn he saw a
white butterfly wavering on the motionless air. He blinked, then squinted. It
was gone.