“We take our orders from a cat?” Jeremiah Quallon said, a sneer on his face.

“Yes,” I said. “Live with it.”

Hammy had us march out to left field behind him. He’d already asked Trevor to set up four artificial mounds which had been stored in the equipment bunker, as well as four home plates. They’d turned left field into a bullpen of sorts, where the team’s relief pitchers could practice throwing regulation pitches to catchers stationed at home.

The rest of the team, in various positions, would run their practice drills at other parts of the park. There were twelve relief pitchers on the 40 man roster, so we’d do our workouts in three flights. The cat impressed me. He had it organized really well.

“Meow meow,” Hammy said.

He had me set up on the artificial mound in the deepest part of left field, near the warning track where Kestrel had various tool laid out in preparation to build the outfield fence.

I was on mound 1, and Hammy had one of our four team catchers, Jeremiah Quallon set up sixty feet, six inches from me to receive whatever I’d throw.

Nope. Wasn’t doing that. Call it unprofessional if you like, but I refused to be caught by Jeremiah Quallon. I said as much to Hammy.

“Meow meow!” Hammy said.

“I don’t care,” I said. “Get somebody else!”

“Meow!”

“Right back at you,” I said.

So, we were off to a great start.

But, to his credit, the cute orange cat switched catchers, and had me throw to Wulf Stanston instead, which meant he’d pair Jeremiah Quallon with Ulrich Farrowhill who was pitching off mound 2, to my left.

“Thanks,” I said. My tone was a bit less than gracious, but I actually was happy not to have to pitch to someone I loathed. Maybe I had my back up because I wasn’t sure how Hammy, and I would get along. He seemed a bit argumentative.

Yes, he did have a point about pitching in an official capacity. It’s true, in a game situation there might be a time I’d have to pitch with, potentially, idiot Quallon playing behind the plate, but I was hoping to get him traded before tournament time.

“Meow meow meow,” Hammy announced.

Thirty pitches for a relief pitcher was a good amount. He was going to give us a workout, and get a good look at our abilities at the same time.

Throwing from mound 3, Hammy had the right hander Bern Kinley throwing to Ead Yellow. And, on mound 4, left hander Leonard Weaves was being caught by Oswald Chester.

The other eight relief pitchers sat on the outfield grass, and watched us, waiting for their turns. The team’s eight starting pitchers were off somewhere, probably right field, with the team’s new Pitching Coach, Hag Tupper. All I could do was put my faith in Hag, and hope she had things organized, and had an idea of what she was doing. I was optimistic. If a cat could figure it out, then she definitely could.

“Meow meow!” Hammy commanded.

And, we were off to the races.

The artificial mound impressed me with its bits of loose, rubbery dirt. I’d donned a pair of baseball cleats found in the equipment shipment that I’d claimed for my own. I dug the cleats into the fake dirt, and the grip and hold felt true.

The better you could dig in, and plant weight onto your leg, the better the pitch.

At least… this was my understanding. I could’ve had it wrong, but it just felt intuitive.

Our weather was pleasant. The clouds had parted, and sun beams rained down on left field. I was glad to have a milder temperature too, compared to how cold it had been days before. My fingers were still cold, and I still blew into my hands to warm them up, but at least I could actually feel my hands whereas before my extremities had been completely numb.

My first pitch to Wulf Stanston went right down the pipe. Dead center over home plate. But, the speed of it wasn’t great, and there was next to no movement. An average pitch overall. Hammy thought so too.

“Meow,” Hammy said.

“I know,” I said.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

The second pitch was almost exactly like the first.

“Meow meow,” Hammy said.

“Are you going to stand there the whole time?” I said.

“Meow meow.”

“Fine.”

I put a little anger into my third pitch. When I swung my arms overhead, and shifted my weight over my front foot, I could feel the ball leave my right hand with more oomph. I noticed the velocity measured in my radar gun vision, and it clocked at 87 miles per hour.

“Ha!” I bellowed as I heard the snap of the ball in Wulf’s glove.

That was probably the best pitch I’d thrown yet, including the evaluation drills we’d done before.

“Meow,” Hammy said.

“Thanks.”

Not elite level, but I knew that pitch would help me gain Experience Points.

Hammy said he’d stay and watch a few more pitches before moving on to observe the others who were throwing at the same time.

It was unnerving to have the cat’s eyes focused on me while I pitched. No, he didn’t know any more about pitching than I did, but he was assertive in giving his opinion. I didn’t know whether to give the guy a loving head scratch or to shoo him away with a broom.

The next three pitches were a lot like the first three. A couple of average throws, and one good one. I wasn’t sure how the System might reward simply average pitches, but I’d hoped they would at least grant one XP for those.

After my sixth pitch, Hammy moved on to watch Ulrich. My shoulders relaxed a little with a bit of the pressure off. Looser limbs would assuredly lead to better pitching, right?

Well, I was still all over the map. I threw two pitches just over sixty miles an hour.

Wulf Stanston reacted by holding his glove out toward me. “Steady,” I heard him say.

I nodded.

With greater concentration, I managed two more good pitches, followed by one I’d consider below average.

Still, Wulf proved to be a calming presence behind the plate. It’s what you want from a competent bat catcher: a steadying influence. Any baseball games I’d watched on TV, the catcher appeared to be in control of a great many things.

He would send hand signals to the pitcher, holding his hands in clandestine fashion between his thighs - giving instruction on what kind of pitch to throw the batter in front of him. He’d also tell the pitcher what the manager wanted him to do in terms of base runners. If there was an opposing player on a base, the manager might want the pitcher to throw pitches in such a way so as to prevent that opposing player from stealing. Or, the manager might want the pitcher to throw over to the base where the opposing player was standing in an attempt to catch them out.

The catcher would have to relay all this information with these signs, these codes he and the pitcher would’ve studied ahead of time. Really, the catcher was responsible for a lot. I was impressed with Wulf as I threw to him. He seemed like he’d done it before, even though that was impossible.

Having said all of that, my thirty ball pitching performance hadn’t gone well. Overall, I felt I’d under performed. I hung my head as I left the artificial mound. Wulf came over, and gave me a pat on the back.

“It’ll come,” Wulf said.

“I hope you’re right,” I said.

“It will,” Wulf said. “How’s your arm feel?”

“Not bad, my ego though? Definitely suffering,” I said.

Wulf shrugged, and I realized, this medieval man likely didn’t have a concept of ‘ego’.

“Meow meow meow,” Hammy said. He’d returned to me after evaluating the others who’d been pitching at the same time.

“Could’ve been better,” I said. “Definitely.”

“Meow meow.”

“Not exactly comforting,” I said.

“Meow,” Hammy said.

“Well, that’s your opinion.”

What a hard ass.

Anyway, leftie reliever Aston Bale replaced me on mound 1. Wulf was matched with him. Grinth Done threw to Jeremiah Quallon (puke!), Smith Reeve (a fellow Level 2 relief pitcher) was caught by Ead Yellow, and Oswald Chester caught Wynn Willowby.

I decided to stick around, and watch these guys throw. I told myself I’d have to suck it up, and get comfortable with the idea these men might pitch a lot better in this session than I had. It was hard though. I just wanted to be number one in terms of earning Experience Points. I had no idea how many the System was going to give me at the close of this practice. As much as I wanted my fellow relievers to pitch well for the good of the team, from the perspective of the team’s owner, I also secretly wished them to falter a little so that I could be top dog.

Awful?

I’m just being honest.

Who doesn’t want to be the best?

[ATTENTION!

This is the System speaking…

Relief Pitching Assessment

After completing 30 pitches, the following Experience Points have been given (note: you require 100 XP to achieve a new level):

Level 2 Relief Pitchers:

Adam Bridger: +16 XP

Aston Bale: +14 XP

Smith Reeve: +15 XP

Level 1 Relief Pitchers:

Monty Holt: +1 XP

Stuart Manetten: +5 XP

Ulrich Farrowhill: +19 XP

Bern Kinley: +9 XP

Leonard Weaves: +28 XP

Grinth Done: +11 XP

Wynn Willowby: +8 XP

Emerson Iler: +12 XP

Dyer Thickenburg: +14 XP

These results have been copied to your Bullpen Coach. They will arrive on parchment scroll by delivery forthwith.

Further player upgrades will be updated in short order.

Thank you for your cooperation.]

Proctor found me near the home dugout.

“Are you happy with the relief results?” He asked me.

I shrugged. “I don’t have a lot to compare it to,” I said. “But, gaining sixteen points is better than none. Overall, I feel the guys performed well. Hard to say. I’m looking forward to checking out the hitting. How did the starting pitchers fare?”

Proctor cringed, and he motioned over toward Hag standing near first base, and who looked even saltier than usual. “Where shall I begin?”