He could throw

He could throw. There was no denying it. Nobody in their right mind could say that he couldn’t hurl. Couldn’t throw smoke, couldn’t make the ball shimy, shimy, slide right past you. Looking small as a penny, 90 miles an hour. Always just a little outside or just a little inside, higher or lower than where you swear it should have been. People said it was cause of those fingers. Those long dam digits that went on and on. Freakish. Fucked up fingers. That pressed themselves into the seams. That rode up against them. that draped themselves over top. As he released. His wrist would snap. His front leg would step way off the mound. The Ball finding the pocket of catchers glove. A mighty thump, crisp and loud and unmistakable. Could be heard clean as a whistle in the 15th row.