The Closer

The moment the closer releases the pitch, his head goes down. 3-1 fastball. Inner half. Grooved. The crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the opposing dugout emptying like a crowded theater on fire don't even register. By the time the souvenir lands 8 rows back in the raucous home crowd, the closer's spikes are crunching the white bits of coagulated, damp chalk on the third base line into a fine powder - superstitions be damned, he's the best there is and refuses to alter his stride like he did in Little League. The lines will be redrawn tomorrow.

*******

Papelbon sits at his locker, his shoulder immobilized by a hundred yards of ace bandages and enough ice for a tailgate cooler. He's surrounded by the same faces he sees every game, the camera lights blinding him in the otherwise gray and foreign locker room. The headlines tomorrow will read much like the headlines today: Papelblown. Papelbombed. Two blown saves in the same series are a little much for his overinflated ego to handle, but he puts on a brave face and spits out the same cliched one liners to the press. Like he always does. Win or lose.

*******

Two days later, the closer is back out there. 2 outs in the 8th. Runners on 2nd and 3rd. His mid-90's fastball can give hitters fits, if he's willing to change the batter's eye level with it, and mix in a splitter or a slider here and there. His pride won't let him do that. Despite his intimidating arsenal - enough to make a junkballing starter jealous - he shakes off the catcher once, twice, three times. He wants to throw the heat. The catcher stands up and walks out to the mound, determined to change the closer's mind; the batter is sitting dead-red and just hooked the last heater 450 feet foul. As he trots out to the bump, the aging catcher exchanges a knowing glance with the veteran third baseman. This game was decided for the worse the moment the closer took the hill.

*******

After the game, before the interviews, Papelbon is on the phone with his agent. What the hell was Francona thinking, bringing him into a tie game, in the 8th inning, no less? At least it was only inherited runners who scored, keeping his ERA nice and pristine. He's got a big payday coming this December, and can't be getting 4 outs in tie ball games if he wants to finish the season strong enough to garner the elite contract he staunchly believes is entitled to him. The agent promises to have a word with the Sox front office, a group already weary of the prima donna and openly grooming Pap's replacement for 2011. Varitek and Lowell watch the phone call take place - Papelbon hasn't even showered yet - and shake their heads. In six months, Papelbon will be smiling in a press conference, with 5 guaranteed years at $17.5 million per annum under his belt. They can only hope it won't be here.