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again. But I got no choice."
    Terry's only response was to continue shivering. Rick remained nearby to watch him take his practice pitches. Because Terry was replacing an injured pitcher, he was entitled to as many as he needed. Not that the number mattered, since he sensed tonight he'd never really get warm. His first toss must have bounced a full ten feet in front of home plate, bringing a glare from the catcher, Chris Bailey.
    The Seattle fans reacted too, promptly vilifying Terry's effort. Even with midnight fast approaching, the stadium was still full. Evidently the spectators anticipated their patience being rewarded, that with only a one-run deficit, the bases loaded, no outs and a rookie pitching, they'd soon claim victory. While Terry continued his warm-ups, the noise level radically increased, as if everyone present was going for the kill.
    In all his years in baseball, he had never heard a crowd this loud. And here he was, the focus of their wrath. At a certain point, despite not actually feeling ready, either in body or pitching arm, he realized it was futile to continue the practice pitches. He'd never get any warmer. Besides, why prolong this agony? He motioned to the umpire and to Rick that he was set. Bailey came to the mound from behind the plate to review pitch signs.
    "Good luck," Rick said, and he and Bailey left, Rick to the dugout and Bailey back behind the plate.
    Terry heard a nearby train whistle, probably signifying an arrival at the station he'd learned was close. He glanced toward the outfield and observed fog beginning to descend on the stadium, giving the entire scene a surreal appearance. He felt almost as if he were a spectator to the drama unfolding, not the main character. Perhaps this was simply his way of dealing with his own anxiety, his only means of coping.
    The numbers two, three and four men were coming to bat, the three best in the Seattle lineup. Terry noticed all the infielders playing back, willing to trade a run for a double play. Evidently, Rick would be satisfied giving up the tying run if he could force the game into additional extra innings.
    The first batter stepped into the left hand batters' box and Terry looked at Bailey for the sign. Knuckleball. While going to the stretch position to hold the runners close to their bases, he reminded himself to throw "the diver" over the top, not the side, as Rick had instructed. And to make sure to keep his wrist stiff. He fired, and the pitch felt good leaving his hand, like it would get nice downward movement. The batter swung and hit the ball on one hop right back to Terry. He fielded it and quickly threw to Bailey, who touched home plate with his right foot and fired to first base. Double play, without the tying run scoring. Now there were two outs, runners on second and third.
    Rick quickly trotted toward the mound. Terry wondered what he could want, and glanced instinctively at the bullpen. No one was warming up to possibly replace him. Then he remembered—there was no one left to warm up.
    "Nice start," Rick said, matter-of-factly.
    Terry admired his calmness. Bottom of the sixteenth, game on the line, more than forty thousand fans screaming, and Rick was his normal self.
    "Pick your poison," Rick stated.
    Terry looked at him blankly, clueless as to his intent.
    "Gates or Casey?" Rick continued. "With the open base we don't have to face them both."
    Terry gazed at the two hitters standing in the on deck circle. Gates, the left hander, perennial home run champ. Casey, right handed, currently leading the league in hitting.
    "I'd walk Gates," Rick suggested. "Pitch to Casey 'cause he's right handed. Least they can't accuse us not playing percentages."
    Terry nodded, muttering something almost incoherent about never being very good at mathematics. Then he was standing alone again, after getting pats on the rear from Rick and from Bailey, who had joined them on the mound. As he intentionally walked Gates, loading the bases once