The Countdown on the Bench

The umpire signaled. The closer came set. As his hands separated, Lin saw it—the ring finger pressing a faint ridge into the glove. Slider. The same pitch that had frozen him three years ago. Pain kept his right arm from rising. His blue focus bar plunged from fifty-eight toward forty. Yet Zhou's words cut cleanly through the noise. Don't look at the scoreboard. Watch the ball. Lin lowered his hands two inches and planted his front foot. The ball left the pitcher's fingers and fell toward the outside corner. He swung. Pain, humiliation, every night of three years spent on the bench—all of it compressed into that swing. Crack!