I step up to the plate.

Right foot scuffs the fresh batter’s box, cleats dig into the top layer of dirt. The left follows, grinding down to plant my footing.

I look up, lock in on the pitcher. His eyes look black from sixty-and-a-half feet away.

“Like a shark,” I think before the first pitch.

It’s a heater. High and inside. So fast I barely have time to move.

The air flees from the ball as it brushes by my face. I duck but the catcher is already tossing it back to the pitcher.

Emotionless eyes stare me down from the mound as I dig back into the box.

I get ready for the next pitch, ignoring the jeers from the stands.

“STRIIIIIKE!”

Another heater. This one shoots straight through the centre of the strike zone.

But I don’t swing. I take it to gather information.

This is the fastest pitcher I’ve ever faced, for sure. But there isn’t much movement on the fastball—it stays true.

“If I start my swing early and make contact…”

I take a mighty hack at the next pitch.

The crowd makes an audible gasp.

And the ball smacks firmly in the catcher’s mitt halfway through my swing.

“STRIIIIIKE TWO!”

“Gotta be faster to hit off my guy,” the catcher mocks before throwing the ball to his ace.

I’m not phased. “Thanks for the tip,” I say with a wink.

The next pitch is another fastball. It’s another brushback pitch, too, coming in on my hands—the type of pitch that shatters knuckles.

I make myself small, pulling in my arms and twisting out of the way. 

“That’s what you get for being a smartass,” whispers the catcher.

He tosses the ball back to the pitcher as the ump calls out the count, “TWO ‘N’ TWO!”

I’m still not phased. I half expected that one.

And I fully expect the pitcher to come back with a laser beam down the pipe.

“He thinks he can spook me and then beat me with the fastball.”

I take a deep breath before stepping back into the box.

My eyes narrow in on the pitcher’s glove. My grip loosens on the bat. My heart takes a calm, measured beat. 

The pitcher lifts his leg, winds up, and fires the ball toward the plate.

I put my bat in motion. Power against power.

Only, this wasn’t a fastball hurling at 100-miles per hour. It was an offspeed pitch. And it was breaking down and away from the zone, hard.

I try to adjust and slow my swing, bending over and reaching out.

It’s useless. My bat and the ball are a world apart.

I miss completely and the bat slips out of my hands, cartwheeling down the third base line.

“STRIIIIIKE THREE! BATTER’S OUT!”

The changeup

Curveball, slider, splitter, knuckleball, circle change.

Whatever it is, a changeup is one of the dirtiest pitches in baseball.

The movement is unexpected and the speed is unpredictable. Especially when it’s thrown after multiple fastballs.

A changeup disrupts your timing, keeps you off balance, and tricks you into swinging out of the strike zone. Or it freezes you into watching as the ball drifts across the plate.

It can make you look foolish and feel foolish.

Because you should have seen it coming—the pitcher set you up for it (or you set yourself up for it, depending on how you look at it).

Still, you swing away as if you’re guaranteed a regular ole fastball.

And, in most cases, you’re right. You get a base hit, sometimes an extra-base hit. Sometimes, you crank a homer deep over the fence.

Other times, you get thrown the changeup and strike out in the worst way.

That’s why it’s one of the dirtiest pitches in baseball. 

And why it’s also one of the dirtiest pitches Life can throw at you.

The adjustment

The best batters in baseball are those least fooled by the changeup.

They prepare for it. They sit on it. They wait for it to ‘hang’ over the plate. 

Then they lean into it. 

Of course, it takes some batters longer than others to make the adjustment. Just like it takes some people longer than others to adapt to life-changing events.

But once they do, they end up better off.

Guess that means it’s time I made an adjustment.

As a recent victim of the changeup, losing my full-time nine-to-five, I have no other choice. Which is scary, overwhelming, and about as unwelcome as a cold sore on date night.

That said, when I look back over my lifetime, the changeup has often been the catalyst to growth and opportunity.

When I was kicked out of high school, for example. That set me on a better path, one that led to graduating with honours and building my own electric guitar.

Eventually, it led to college and connections and a whole heaping of goodness. Love being first and foremost.

The changeup became a benefit during my first crack at freelancing. It led to The Davis Daily blog, where I learn to write better and better understand myself and my creative process.

The blog led to working as a copywriter for a marketing agency. The experience I gained there is priceless.

So, what adjustment will I make this time?

Well, I’m going to continue to write kick-ass copy for kick-ass clients.

Only I’m going full-time freelance.

It’s what I wanted to do from the beginning. What I left behind for that comfortable, predictable agency job.

The job that felt like a home run when I got it—the job that threw me a changeup six years later.

I have no idea if I’ll be successful. No idea if this is the right decision or not. (It’s not exactly the best time to be a freelance copywriter, with AI threatening the profession and distorting industry expectations.)

But a hot streak typically follows a strike out from the changeup.

And I think I’m due for a big hit.

~

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