Chapter Text
Late August, pennant race, 3-2, top of the ninth. Music blares over the loudspeakers: Beethoven. The crowd has been roaring since long before the music cue, but they've held something in reserve and shake the air with their screams. It is an impressive effect, even on the home team. The outfield door swings open and the Ghost steps onto the warning track and tips his cap to home plate. He sprints to the mound, glove on his left hand, ready to blow the competition away.
Harvey Specter has a lot of saves under his belt. He's small for a pitcher, just under six foot and without the big thighs of a hurler. He's not young either: 31, first year into his big free-agent contract. His nape is neatly shaved under his ball cap and he wears none of the totemic jewelry -- magnetic necklaces, copper bracelets -- that are popular among his bullpen brethren. Bucking the trend of huge baggy trousers, his uniform fits him closely, in the old style. The pinstripes end at his knees and the black socks take over. As is Yankee tradition, he wears no name on his home jersey. You're just supposed to know who #00 is.
He doesn't need to throw long off the mound, just to keep himself warm while the network is on commercials. Litt is crouched behind home plate, mask firmly in place, though he adjusts it after every catch. He flashes a couple of signs against his thigh so Harvey will see: white tape on his index and ring fingers. Harvey might be the only pitcher on the team who knows that index finger is broken, victim of a bad foul tip two days ago in the 3rd. Catchers have a thing about playing hurt, moreso even than closers.
They get the go-ahead and the batter stands in. Harvey makes quick work of him. He's famous for his cut fastball, in on the hands of lefties and away from right-handed batters. He has honed his aim over the years so he can locate precisely that magical line at the edge of the strike zone, and fool almost any batter. The man in front of him goes down on three swings.
"All right all right," shouts Litt, and tosses the ball around the bases. Harvey's not a crazy perfectionist like Jim Palmer used to be, but he can see out of the corner of his eye that his second baseman is out of position, flapping his gums at the outfielders. That kid's going to be a problem. Harvey pushes that out of his mind and concentrates on the next batter.
He bends forward with his hands behind his back. White-marked fingers flash and Harvey nods his agreement. Litt throws a couple of extra signals -- one of them a warning to the shortstop about his clueless teammate -- and settles in the dirt. The umpire behind him leans in. Harvey sets his foot on the rubber and rears up and throws: hip, back, shoulder, elbow, wrist. That last flick as the ball leaves his fingertips gives it spin, and he balances on his landing foot as he watches the ball break late and evade the bat. Another strike.
Just for variety, he throws a ball next, and after that a four-seam fastball. Harvey can go off-speed, but generally doesn't unless he's stuck. All his pitches are pretty much set-up for the cutter, and he strikes out the second batter without too much trouble. The fans chant, Ghost Ghost, Ghost, an indistinct mass of voices.
Third up is Vega, a big guy from the Dominican, so tall he doesn't seem as fat as he is. He plays the fool on camera, goofy in his idiosyncratic English in interview, but he's been cleanup hitter for the past year for a reason. He's hit a few off Harvey, even: he can alway spot a mistake and capitalize on it into the bleachers. He narrows his eyes and sizes up what Harvey's got today, and finds him wanting. His mouth twitches into a smirk.
The Ghost doesn't lose his temper, not even on those rare occasions he gets waxed. (It happens to everybody; statistically it's got to happen. But it almost never happens to Harvey.) A smirk from a competitor isn't even an irritant, it's an incentive. Harvey throws a fastball by him and then teases him with a couple of balls low and inside. Vega doesn't swing: he's waiting on the cutter. Maybe he's seen a flaw in it. Maybe it isn't breaking as hard as it should today. The air is pretty dry for September. The break is never as good when the humidity's low. Harvey and Litt have a conversation with their eyes and then Litt paces out to the mound to repeat it with words.
"Use your goddamn tools," says Litt. That's a pep talk, coming from him.
"Eat shit, Louis," Harvey tells him, and Litt staks back to home plate with a chuckle.
But for all the chatter and the hand-signals from Litt, Harvey opts for the lower-risk proposition. He's been messing around with it on the side for a while now, and it's time to try it in a game setting. Litt sets up in the right place, expecting to catch the cutter again, and instead Harvey throws him a sinker.
It's not the best sinker he's ever thrown, but Vega's certainly not expecting it. He swings wildly and gets only a piece of it. Harvey feels more than sees the ball thump hard in the dirt in front of him and bounce up. He ducks and throws up his left hand and by the unlikeliest of chances the ball smacks into the webbing of his glove and he closes his hand over it. He lands on his ass in the dirt and throws from there to first for the out.
The stands erupts with noise. Somewhere the loudspeakers are playing Sinatra, but nobody in Yankee Stadium can hear it. Vega shakes his head, laughing, and walks away. Another win for the team, another save for Harvey, another bit of aura for that Ghost mystique. His teammates line up for high-fives and Litt bumps him in the chest with a fist. "You devious motherfucker," he says to Harvey, and the outfielder behind him cracks up.
Over near the dugout, the cameras are limbering up, talking heads ready for action. They'll want to talk to Harvey about the surprise sinker, but he stalks away toward the showers instead. The Ghost doesn't do on-field interviews. He hardly does interviews at all: mostly he makes Litt do the talking for him, and Litt loves to talk. It's a fine arrangement. Besides, Harvey has about an hour of icing and rubdown to do before he can even think about getting dressed. He's got to take care of his arm. Not a lot of pitching you can do without it.