Imperfect: An Improbable Life Read Online Free Page B

from the stands, vaguely took the tone as encouraging, vaguely understood that Yankees fans felt the urgency of the pennant race. In my head, the drumbeat of the start began.
    In the tunnel outside the clubhouse, Tony Kubek, who did Yankees television, asked Showalter about me, and my imprecise August, and what that might mean for September, and Showalter said, “We think Jimmy’s going to pitch very well in September. We need him to. It’s as much wishful thinking as confidence in Jim.”
    Probably just as well I hadn’t heard that then.
    Dana, I knew, would be in her seat in the family section by then, somewhere just to the left of home plate on the field level. These days could be rougher on her than they were on me, and lately they hadn’t been much of a joy for me. And yet, when the anthem was done and my warm-up pitches were done and the baseball eventually came back to me—delivered with a sharp throw and a nod by Wade Boggs from third base—all of that was gone.
    I liked pitching at Yankee Stadium. It was fair for left-handers, even if the fences down the lines crept in closer than I’d like, and I seemed to give up balls down the lines. I had a good feel for the park, and it for me, seemingly. It helped that the grass was high and the field was crowned, the drainage design making it appear Nokes was two or three feet closer than he was in other parks. From that vantage point, it seemed there was nothing behind him but the stands, a different perspective given how quickly the ground fell off behind the plate.
    Banks of lights were on above the top deck even for the afternoon game, and the stadium was about half-filled—both elements reflecting the weather. Mattingly led us out of the dugout and onto the field. The mound was pristine, another attribute of a stadium reborn overnight. The dirt was fresh and almost gummy, but firm just beneath the surface. My own cleat marks followed me to the rubber.
    The recorded voice of the baritone Robert Merrill burst from the speakers in center field. I held my cap to my heart, over the interlocking NY, and I listened to the anthem just attentively enough to know when it was over. My mind was on Kenny Lofton.
    As I took one last look around, I noted the flags were blowing to right field. Short out there. I cleared the small globs of muddy dirt from the rubber with the toe of my right spike, licked my lips, readjusted my cap.
    I squared my shoulders and brought the glove and ball to about chin level, briefly met eyes with Nokes, and looked for his fingers. He wanted a fastball. I knew he would. As I initiated the delivery for my first pitch, I felt the hardness beneath my feet, a pitching rubber that, in twenty-four hours, would be unearthed and delivered to my locker.

CHAPTER 2

    M y first pitch skittered to the backstop.
    Just took my four-seam grip, went into my windup in front of all those people, let go of the baseball and yanked it past Matt Nokes on the glove side. It hit the backstop on two hops, which wasn’t so bad; the wall is back there a good ways and to reach it I knew I must have my decent fastball.
    One pitch in, I’d cleared out the catcher and the umpire, scared the bat boy off his stool, and drawn a light groan from fans still stuffing their ticket stubs into their pockets. Or maybe that was just Showalter, as he was still stuffing the lineup card into his pocket. Maybe he was thinking it wouldn’t be long before I was running through the streets of the Bronx—this time with his permission.
    In that last start against the Indians, I’d left, oh, a pitch or two over the plate. Maybe this was my body’s unconscious effort to correct that. You know, aim for the inanimate objects—pine tar rags, helmet racks, backstop padding, whatever—and reduce the professional risk.
    Kenny Lofton was the batter and in 11 at-bats against me he’dhad seven hits. I did the smart thing and walked him on five pitches, which wasn’t so smart because he also led the