“Layla, it, literally, does not appear physically possible, despite countless valiant attempts.”

Dad meant well, and he was right at the time. But you had to go and up end physics, you little hag.

She toed the rubber on the beaten mound. Nine innings of work had already eroded the sand and clay of the mound at Chili Peppers Ballpark, and yet the contest remained a tie.

An unusual unsettling washed over her. Her baseball debut was coming at the age of 18, and that might be the least unusual thing about her baseball life. She’d never experienced even a high school crowd. She’d competed in private, in scrimmages and elite and clandestine baseball camps across the globe. Her father’s condition for allowing her to pursue a career no woman had ever managed.

The shock announcement by UCLA manager Kinji Hayakawa that not only was he letting a true freshman take over the closer position, but that said freshman was a girl, sent waves not just through the UCLA or even the USCBA, but through the entire sports world. ESPN had been clawing desperately at everyone remotely near her for details. Where on Earth did this female phenom learn to overcome the physical limits that bound every female baseball player before her? And how was her existence kept so secret? Layla accepted no interviews. Refused any comment. It was her decision – to let her pitching speak for itself.

She rubbed the familiar leather and traced the impossibly taught stitching, and it settled her. As she leaned in to make her first offering, she fought a grin. She set, stretched deep and low into a near crouch, and exploded up and forward, twisting her arm in such a way that made almost every pitching coach scream, often aloud. Her cutter arced violently and caught her opponent at the knees. Strike one.

“He’s one of the most risk-tolerant GMs in the game, so from a baseball perspective, he’s as open-minded as we come. Beyond that, you have to admit, as your dad he’s encouraged you to push your limits your whole life. So when he denied your application to the GPBL, he made the right decision as a baseball guy and as a father.“

She toed the rubber again, deciding to test her fastball high and away. As soon as she felt it release, she could see the hunger in her opponent’s eyes. Shit, he’s sitting on the fastball. He turned on it in a blur, lacing the belt-high 89mph offering down the left field line. She scurried into position to back the throw from the outfield. You stupid, stupid girl.

She could hear the commentary vomiting every cliché imaginable. 89! Not bad, for a girl. Too bad that’ll never cut it at this level! She didn’t really think she could come in and throw heat to a man at this level, did she?!

The next batter came up with an eagerness that she’d seen countless times. Her heart skipped a beat. This tool has no idea. She fired a sinker. His swing went from Tombstone to Looney Tunes before he could manage to dribble the ball halfway to the mound. Layla let fellow rookie Breary scramble to it and threaten the runner at second before firing it to first. Easy out. The next batter popped her fastball straight up, and Breary again sealed the deal. As she caught the fresh ball from the umpire, the memory of her Uncle’s words completed: “Then again, as an Uncle, I might have a different perspective.”

She remembered walking out of her Uncle’s study wondering what he meant, but then just moments later getting her acceptance email from the GBPL. She was to attend baseball’s most elite biomechanics camp hosted by baseball’s best funded and secretive baseball lab, the GPBL. And she was going to do so without having thrown a single pitch outside of her backyard.

The next batter took her more seriously, and worked her into an 8-pitch full count standoff, which he won on a crap corner call. No help from Grampy Blue, got it. With runners on first and second with two out in the top of the tenth, her debut was looking potentially dangerous. Layla savored the smooth serration of the silk suturing on the fresh ball, and fired a cutter over the middle to DH Irving Maxwell, which he swung on and missed. Layla crouched, exploded up and out, and repeated the offering. He turned and drove it on a rope, 380 feet, foul. Once more, Layla repeated her set, windup, and threw the same cutter right down the pipe. Maxwell swung and chopped it to second, easy out.

She squeezed her mitt and clenched her jaw as tears flooded ducts, just waiting for the slightest signal to flow. She stepped off the mound coolly, a fiery smirk forcing the tears’ retreat.

The bottom of the tenth came and went without score, and skip sent her right back out for the 11^th. Her teammates, made wise to the fact that with the controversy and history that Layla’s presence courted, so too came opportunities for them to impress some of baseball’s most high-powered minds, generally fell into one of two camps: rabid, brotherly supporters, or polite, dispassionate haters. The fans fell into a different set of bins, not restrained by professionalism or dreams, and were wildly vocal in every direction. Tuning out everything, the good and the bad, was the only way to cope.  It helped to be in a progressive town, but even still, she’d heard things that ranged from odd to troubling.

“I give it two weeks before she’s on the IL with anemic anxiety”

“Oh let’s use pink chalk for the basepaths and some throw pillows on the mound would make it cozier”

“You know her teammates are only putting up with this because there’s a PEBA GM in the stands watching”

Layla shook it off. She coached Breary on the sequencing she wanted after she reviewed the lineup. UCONN was out of replacements. They were stuck with their lineup. She wanted to work quickly and overwhelm them.

The first batter tried to be patient but fell behind 0-2 to consecutive sinkers before Layla got him swinging on her changeup.  Take that shit!

She worked faster now. Set. Crouch. Explode. Set. Crouch. Explode. Cutter, sinker, cutter. Each pitch moving more than the last. Three pitches, three strikes.  You’re DONE.

The crowd of 3,000 baseball faithful, for the first time in her life, rose and roared a low, rumbling roar, LAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY-LAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

Set. Crouch. Explode. Sweat flowed from her brow into her cap as she fired sinker and cutter after cutter and sinker. Each crouch and explosion a full-body workout. LAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY-LAAAAAAAAAAA!!! The count even at 2 and 2, two outs, and sophomore 3B Archie McCosh fighting to stay alive. Layla reached deep and fluidly unfolded from her crouch, her arm, wrist, and fingers twisting in an inspiring product of biomechanical engineering, as she fired her cutter yet again. The stadium radar flashed “90”. McCosh would later comment that he could hear the ball buzzing before he fell swinging, trying to track it through his swing. The crowd sang a baseball roar. Eric Clapton’s Layla blared over to PA, “Got me on my knees, Layla…”

Layla walked off the mound. Time stammered in her mind like a hurricane with gale force winds frozen in place. As she walked off, a group of men strained against the rail atop the dugout, frantically bellowing, hollering, and screaming while punching fists into the air. Dad and Eli, Uncle James and Uncle Kevin, Henry and AJ and Tommy – a family of heavyweights in baseball, decked out in UCLA gear like soccer nuts. One tear shot past her guard, as a contorted simper – equal parts unrestrained joy and cool reserve – flashed across her face. That’s one.