The Countdown on the Bench

It felt as if a truck had struck his right shoulder. Half his body went numb, and a groan escaped his clenched teeth. Zhou, meanwhile, raised his arm and rotated it twice in disbelief. “My shoulder…” “Maybe it finally warmed up.” Sweat covered Lin's brow. “The gloves are my interest payment.” He pulled them on and walked toward the plate. Every step drove a saw through the bone of his shoulder. Stadium lights burned white. Forty thousand people dissolved into shifting shadows. The opposing closer stood on the mound with machine-cold numbers above him: 【Fatigue: 38. Focus: 94. Luck: 67.】 Bases loaded. Two outs. Full count. Lin had no pitch to waste.