Word: fiske
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That's okay, Bobby," Jackson said compassionately. "Let 'em wait until you're ready. Take your time. Just make sure you're ready." Fisk slapped him on the butt and retreated to the plate...
...goin' for it. You know it and he knows it. There's two down and they ain't gonna send Morgan home from third on a walk. One sharp pitch and they'll go home 'til next spring. Go get 'em." Another slap on the back and Zimmer and Fisk silently turned their backs and departed...
Bobby pounded the ball into his glove. "What's goin' on?" he barely uttered. As he stood frozen on the rubber like a petrified rabbit, Fisk was flashing finger codes at him, and Bobby didn't know what any of them meant. Out of fear he just nodded neurotically. And then he stood there, not knowing what to do. The crowd had worked itself into pent-up silence, awaiting the pitch of the season. The sweat was pouring down from Bobby's brow, flooding his eyes and blurring his vision. He stepped off the mound to wipe his forehead; George...
...Fisk spat a chaw of tobacco in front of home plate and trotted up to Bobby. Al Jackson came out of the dugout, looking more than a bit distraught...
...What's goin' on, Bobby?" Fisk asked in his driest, most professional tone of voice...