Torrealba arrived at 6:45. The bus left at 7:30. He changed alone.
Same routine. Team shorts. Sliding shorts underneath. Left leg elastic shot since February.
The coffee was powdered. He drank two cups anyway.
Vargas asked about sliders. “Watch the front shoulder,” Torrealba said. Kid wrote it down. Twenty-two.
The pitching coordinator found him. “Wakefield today. First three.”
Torrealba had never caught a knuckleball.
“You’ll be fine.” Already walking away.
Three rows back. His thumb taped.
Wakefield was throwing in the outfield. No spin. The ball just moved.
First pitch hit dirt. He knocked it down. Second sailed. He jogged after it.
“Don’t chase it,” Wakefield said. “It’ll find you.”
Third pitch hit him in the chest.
First inning. Ball floated. Strike. Second hit dirt, skipped past. Runner took second.
“Nice try,” the ump said.
The knuckleball hung. Line drive double.
“That one didn’t dance,” Wakefield said.
“Throw it again.”
Home run to right.
The foul tip caught bone. Might’ve been the fourth. His wrist already swelling. The trainer looked. “I’m good.” The trainer still looking. “I’m good.”
Said the same thing in Pawtucket.
More innings. The passed balls—five, six.
In the seventh, something shifted in his elbow. He kept catching.
Vargas came over between innings. “You’re setting up too high.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m just saying—”
“You’re twenty-two.”
The kid walked away.
Vargas took over in the eighth. Caught everything. The pitching coach nodded.
At the complex, Thursday’s assignments were up. Torrealba wasn’t.
Behind him, Vargas checking the board.
“Thursday,” the kid said. “I got Thursday.”
“I know.”
The kid stood there. Waiting for something. Torrealba gave him nothing.