The Rookie

1 - The Last Inning

Ace Wilder' POV

"On the top of the ninth inning, coming in to replaced Rockfort's Ace, Daniels, Wilder takes the mound. He's a left handed pitcher with a unusual form. While Daniels leaves the mound after sustaining a injury to his shoulder and arm," the commenter on the speaker spoke obnoxiously loud, "The count is three balls, one strike. Let's see what he can do for us in this nearly one-sided game."

I apprehensively collect my hat, raising myself up off of the bench, the bench that had been my place since the beginning of this season. I dangled my head down, sweat slowly dripping done my face as I readjust my hat onto my head. The blistering heat burned the back of my neck as I slowly shuffled towards the mound. Walking to the mound felt heavily with pressure, I fidget my hands in front of me. I felt a obnoxious ball form at the back of my throat, making it difficult to swallow. Although I tried to not to glance at anyone face, I couldn't help but look at them. Any person who could see the looks of dissatisfaction and distrust from the rest of the team would practically know right away.

As I grew closer towards the mound, the faces of my so called team because even worse, close to the look of disgust. My ears began to burn and I struggle to clear my throat, instead becoming worse. My shoulders slumped done, shamefully avoiding eye contact as I stopped in front of Coach White. It was my first time actually stepping on a real mound. The only other one being the one in the bullpen.

My eyes widen and without noticing, I stop myself from breathing. He made no effort to hide anything as he harshly sighs loud even for my infield teammates to snicker and sneer at me. I flinch away as he hurriedly shoves the baseball towards my hand, in a split moment I couldn't help but look up at him. His eyes slowly trailed upwards to my eyes, his face turned into one filled with scorn. Grabbing my hand with his sweaty hand that was in his pocket, he domineeringly opened my fist as he placed the ball in my hand. He leans into me, his deep raspy breath boiled my skin.

"Don't screw up like you always do, Wilder." his voice was quietly hoarse, making it barely able to hear him over the loud stadium music. Although it hadn't matter if he was to quiet, because it happens to be the only thing he actually tells me.

My head drops back done, seeking distraction I swiftly move the dirt around and looking for a diversion as to not look at the catcher, Mitchells', face that was molded into one of disgust earlier. I had slightly glimpsing up at the him, he had his eyes set straight towards the dugout angrily looking over at the coach. My head drops back down, the looks on his face was basically saying there was no chance of winning.

Perhaps he may be right or maybe not. I've never pitched in a game before so there was no telling whether I would do well or bad. The only thing I have on this team is myself, looking around I noticed the faces of the others. They look like they had given up on the game entirely. I quickly put my head back down, taking a deep breath. I have to remember why I joined baseball to begin with, I love being on the mound. I love pitching altogether.

My head raised slowly, I chewed the inside of my mouth. The burning sensation seemed to have as decreased soon after I realized that I am playing the sport I loved the most. The batter starts positioning himself in the box, this was the real deal. Something that was new to me.

I've been at every game for this team, the batter's face was not someone unfamiliar to me. Unfortunately it happens to be the fourth batter, the first cleanup hitter on there team. It's too late to question my luck, since I am already standing on the mound. My first pitch could very well be blown out of the park, I could worsen the situation and stay the disappointment on this team.

Suddenly a unusual feeling of a surge happens inside of me. It was confidence that rushed through me. I knew everyone on this team wants me to fail and ultimately quit baseball forever. If I do that, what will become of my passion for baseball? I can't just let my love for it to disappear, this is the last game until next year.

Turning my body to the side, I already knew Mitchells wasn't going to give me signs so I didn't bother looking for any. That is just something that comes with being loathed. I'll have to plan accordingly and with the entire season of being on the bench, that was easy. I can easily remember this team's weaknesses and strengths from the hours and numerous of games that I've watched them.

I look back at the fully loaded bases, which was filled with the first three hitters in the lineup. This wasn't going to be a easy inning. I slowly relaxed my shoulders as I prepared for my windup, steadily lifting my extended leg up so that it's just barely reaching my head. I breathed out attempting to calm my strained core muscle because I wasn't given a warm up before starting. Holding the ball in a familiar way as to reassure me. I lunged my body forward, my arms pulling back. I swing the same arm around until it was straight in front of me releasing the ball. It has always been my most comfortable throw. The one I trusted the most, the 12-6 curveball.