He knocked the heel of his hand against the barrel of the bat three times in quick succession. A nervous tic turned good luck charm.
Bam Phillips stepped back into the batter’s box and swung at the next pitch: a low-90s slider. His bat exploded, wooden shards flew everywhere. So did a handful of rubber balls.
The All-Star felt the grassy field tilt beneath him. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Exposed on baseball’s biggest stage. His worst nightmare, fully realized.
Fifty thousand screaming fans had gone dead silent, every eye locked on him.
They didn’t boo.
They didn’t need to.
The Weekday One Hundred 