Talkin' with Tewks: Mail Call plus Book Excerpt

As you aware, I am hard at work at writing a fictional book about baseball. Here is another excerpt to tide all of you over until I finally get around to finishing this thing:

The highlight of Tewks’ junior year, and probably his life at that point, came in the Division I sectional playdowns. Huron High was pitted against a powerhouse school from Flint. The River Rats clung to a tenuous 5-4 lead heading into the bottom of the seventh when Tewks was called in from the bullpen.

A leadoff single, sacrifice bunt, flyout and walk had runners on first and second with two out and Flint’s cleanup hitter striding to the plate. A deep pit of despair formed in Tewks’ gut as he watched the batter ready himself in the box. This slugger was someone from Tewks’ baseball past; a vestigial reminder of all the disappointment he had felt at the hands of the game he loved.

Gretzpo grinned out at Tewks from the batter’s box. The Gretzpo family had moved to Flint eighteen months earlier; the change in scenery did little to quell his prodigious talent. Gretzpo led the state in RBIs and was fifth in home runs. The change in scenery also did little to change the fact Gretzpo was still an asshole.

Gretzpo hocked a glob of spit towards the mound and mouthed the words, “You’re fucking dead”, to a visibly shaken Tewks.

Tewks, his confidence dropping, stepped off the mound and wiped his brow with the back of his left hand. How do I pitch him, Tewks thought to himself. As visions of Gretzpo walk off home runs swirled around in his head, Tewks realized two things:

First, Gretzpo hadn’t seen him pitch in over two years. To him, Tewks was still the doughy coach’s son with no semblance of talent. He had no idea of the work Tewks had put in over the offseason to transform himself into a bonafide closer. He’s expecting me to throw slop at him, if I get it near the plate at all, Tewks reasoned.

Second, Tewks could use Gretzpo’s massive ego to his advantage. It was obvious there was no doubt in Gretzpo’s mind that he was going to break Tewks’ heart and win the game for his team; he didn’t want to just get on base, Gretzpo wanted to deposit Tewks’ offering about 400 feet away in left center. He looked way too comfortable standing in the batter’s box. Tewks decided to shake him up a bit; make Gretzpo move his feet. There was only one way to do that.

Tewks took the sign from his catcher, reared back and let fly with the hardest fastball he could muster. The ball shot towards Gretzpo’s jugular vein, forcing him to pirouette wildly out of the way of the incoming heat seeker, his feet kicking up dust in the process.

Gretzpo, his chest heaving, stared incredulously at Tewks, shocked at the velocity of the pitch. He quickly regained his composure and once again readied himself in the box. However, this time Gretzpo’s feet weren’t quite so steady. There was an imperceptible shift in his balance, which marked his unease.

Tewks smiled inwardly. His ploy had worked. Gretzpo’s focus was not one hundred percent on hitting; he was now concerned about taking a pitch in the chops.

Tewks took the sign and steamed in another inside fastball but this one caught the edge of the plate, which froze a flinching Gretzpo. The count was even up. 1-1.

Huron High’s catcher flashed the sign for a changeup, but Tewks shook him off emphatically. He’s looking change, let’s stick with the heat.

Tewks came set, checked the runners and sent another fastball screaming over the outer half. Once again, Gretzpo watched it go by; he was looking for the local and got the express. 1-2.

The count in his favour, Tewks didn’t want to fool around with a waste pitch. He wanted to wipe that smug smile off Gretzpo’s face right here. The River Rat’s catcher signalled for another off speed pitch and once again, Tewks shook him off.

The catcher, suddenly cognizant of what Tewks was trying to do, threw down his index finger, the universal signal for the ol’ Number 1. But this time, he swirled his finger around in a circular motion as if to say, throw it harder than before.

Tewks took a step off the mound and inhaled deeply. He was completely focused, drowning out the sound of the swelling crowd and the atmosphere around him. He shook his left arm vigourously, pumping himself up for this next pitch.

Completely ignoring the runners and lifting his right leg high, Tewks ripped a fastball right down the cock. The ball barrelled toward the plate, just above Gretzpo’s belt buckle. Gretzpo had started his swing early, but the ball got on him too quick. His bat sailed beneath the ball, which smacked into the catcher’s mitt with the sweetest sound Tewks had ever heard.


Strrrriiiiikkkkkkkkeeeeeeee Three!!!!!!!!! Game over.

Tewks pumped his fist in victory and was immediately swallowed into a victory huddle with the rest of his jubilant teammates. Tewks was so caught up in the commotion that he didn’t notice Gretzpo, ever the sportsman, fling his bat with disgust, nearly braining a spectator, and stalk dejectedly back the dugout embarrassed by his former teammate and favourite target of ridicule.