Talkin' With Tewks: A Pitcher's Nightmare

A Pitcher’s nightmare . . .

I know my usual writing focuses on jackass observations wrapped up in a delicious little biscuit of humour, but I wanted to spread my wings this week and try my hand at dramatic writing. In another effort to avoid a real career, I’ve started work on a book about baseball. Basically, I’m Brian from Family Guy.

The following is a quick excerpt from what I have written so far. It describes a dream that any pitcher worth his salt has had at some point in his career (if he denies it, then he’s lying; or just not a very good pitcher).

I have used my name in the excerpt to protect the kickass awesomeness of the real protagonist’s name. Enjoy:

Tewks opens his eyes and finds himself on the loneliest hill in the world. Ten inches of dirt and clay. The pitcher’s mound. Fifty thousand pairs of eyes bear down on him, like they’re trying to peer into his soul.

He grabs the resin bag, feels the fine powder cling to his sweat-soaked hands and forearms, tosses it once in the air and flings it to the back of the mound. Tewks slowly rubs the snow white pearl in both hands, tracing the stitching and cowhide leather with his fingertips.

He squares his shoulder, taking a hip-width stance on the rubber, wipes his left spike across an imaginary undulation in the dirt in front of him and focuses his gaze on the hitter.

Both the hitter and the crowd are faceless. It’s just Tewks and the mitt, a tempestuous relationship that, when working, can be a form of artistic perfection.

Tewks steps back with his right foot to start his balanced, sound, mechanically efficient delivery that’s been honed through thousands of repetitions and hundreds of hours of practice.

But something’s wrong.

The motion is anything but smooth. His joints flail wildly like they’re attached to a puppeteer’s strings. Tewks tries to regain control of his limbs but his body ignores his brain. He has lost complete control and a sick feeling develops in the pit of his stomach. Bile rises up from his digestive tract and burns his esophagus.

The wild gyrations continue as Tewks’ left arm comes forward at an obscene angle and attempts to release the ball towards the mitt. The resulting “pitch” is a cross between a shot put and a five year old flinging a mosquito off her shoulder.

The ball lands fifteen feet in front of the plate and rolls towards the batter which he stops with the ball of his left foot. Boos and catcalls rain down from every corner of the stadium. Tewks gets the ball back and with great trepidation tries another pitch. This time the delivery is even more awkward and the ball loops over the batter’s head and strikes the base of the backstop, fifty feet from home plate.

Again and again Tewks pitches fly all over the place; some falling short, some going too long, others thrown halfway up the baselines. None come close to the strike zone.

He’s powerless to stop it. The crowd’s taunts become more derisive and vitriolic. The boos thunder down onto the field and rattle Tewks’ eardrums.

The walks and runs pile up like stacks of cordwood; Tewks looks in desperation to the bullpen, longing for relief and an end to the nightmare, but no one is there. He’s completely and utterly alone . . .