Very good short story

As he sat on his ripped up, stained, green plaid couch, Oliver Perez wonders if he will ever pitch again. He leaned forward, grabbed his spoon and needle, and fell back into the couch. In his mind, he kept replaying the final inning of the final game of the Rochester Red Wings’ season. After grabbing a small piece of cotton swab, about the size of a mini-marshmallow, he dipped it in an alcohol solution, and began to clean a spot on the inside of his elbow.  It was a championship game, and Oliver was in the midst of a complete game shutout. He felt around under his skin for a good vein, most of which are already shrunken or collapsed. Before he took the field in the top of the ninth, his coach noticed him massaging his elbow.

¨Oliver, I really think we should bring in some relief to pitch the ninth,” his coach stated half-heartedly.
Oliver knew this was the best call, but he was determined to finish his complete game shutout. “I would rather die than not go out to pitch.¨ Oliver firmly said. He took the field in the top of the 9th, and began to throw some warmup pitches. With every pitch, his arm was starting to hurt more and more . Finally, the inning started and with no trouble at all; Oliver struck out the first batter on four quick pitches. ¨Piece of cake¨ Oliver thought. The next batter came to the plate. C***y-as-ever, Oliver threw a pitch right over plate. It was a meatball of a pitch, and the batter did what any other batter would do with a pitch this easy. Smack. The ball exploded off his bat.
Slugged back on the couch, Oliver grabbed his needle. He slowly held it up in front of his face. It was shiny. Although very small, he could still see, in the needle, the reflection of his short beard, bloodshot eyes, and broken dreams.
The ball began to rise higher and higher, and it started to go further and further. ¨S***, there goes the gem” Oliver accepted defeat, as if the whole game was over.  He bent over on the mound with his hands on his knees. The Crowd started to cheer. Confused, Oliver looked into the outfield to see his rightfielder made a terrific catch over the wall to save the home-run. ¨God is with me¨ he thought to himself as he took a lap around the mound and got ready for the next batter.
Oliver looked around his apartment. Chipped paint, empty bottles, and a smell of urine greeted you when you entered his door. “Where are you now God?” Oliver said outloud. He lowered his needle from his line of sight down to his arm. A skinny, hairy arm.
Sure to not make the same mistake again, Oliver pitched low and outside. It was a good 0-0 count pitch, but the even better batter took it for a single over the first baseman’s head. This, followed by a double and walk loaded the bases. Two outs, bases loaded, his team up by two, Oliver began to realize he may be falling apart. Seeing this, his pitching coach, a nice man about five foot, four inches with bleached white hair, came out to the mound for a visit.
“Buddy, we need one more out. I see they’ve gotten in your head. We have Niles warming up in the p-”
Before the coach could finish his sentence, Oliver stiffly stated,“I am finishing this game for us. Give me one more batter, and I can win it for us”. Knowing it was a losing battle, the coach returned to the dugout, and Oliver got set. He sized up his next opponent, Otis Mansfield. He had never seen Mansfield in his career, so he wasn’t quite sure how to throw to him. He tossed one in high and away for strike one. “Thank god” Oliver thought. Now the coached called to throw the batter off with an inside curveball. Oliver got set, wound up, and when he spun his arm to get the maximum curve on the ball, he felt a jolting pain right above his elbow. The ball landed in the dirt and the catcher made a beautiful stop to halt the runner from stealing home. The catcher, Paul LoDuca, called time and walked the ball back out to Oliver.
“Just one more out, and then we’ll be taking shots poolside, outta the trophy.,” Oliver took the ball, gave a chuckle, and stepped back on the mound.
Slowly, he moved the needle closer to his elbow. Although the apartment was painfully silent, he could still hear the cars going by on route 35, which ran right in front his complex. He took a deep breath in, and pierced the skin. Then the vein. He injected the heroin, and exhaled heavily.
LoDuca called for a fastball low and inside. Oliver knew he had to give this fastball everything he had. He began his windup, pulled his arm back, and with a quick sling-shot motion, exploded his arm forward to deliver the pitch. This pitch felt different. It didn’t feel like the other ninety-seven pitches he had already thrown that game. The moment he released the ball, he knew something was wrong. It was as if the water balloon that was his elbow had popped, and he couldn’t move his arm. The ball sailed up off his fingers, through the sky, and over the backstop into the first row of seats.
Oliver threw his head back, and took another large breath in, then out. He began to feel light headed. He wanted nothing more at that moment than a water bottle from the fridge. He leaned forward, and brought himself to stand up. He shuffled across the thin, dirty carpet. About halfway to the fridge, he began to start seeing black. He stopped. His heart didn’t feel right. As if it was racing like a cheetah.
Oliver clutched his arm and fell abruptly to his knees. His whole career flashed before his eyes. He fell backwards and laid with his back on the ground, motionless.