“Well, I’ll make sure I don’t upset your delicate sensibilities,” Coach Kingwood said.
“Thanks, Coach,” I said with the hint of a smirk and then ran out onto the field.
Allard Hensley was a backwoods good ol’ boy from Arkansas, with a wild mop of golden hair that made him look like he belonged in a heavy-metal rock band. I watched him as he warmed up. Allard had a nice fastball. He also had a small case of nerves, which affected his control. Coach Mallei walked out and had a quick talk with him. Allard gave him his easy smile, nodded, and immediately settled down. This wasn’t his first rodeo.
The only place for fans to watch the game was along the outfield fence. I guess I wasn’t surprised when people crowded five or six deep to watch our game. Looking out across the other two diamonds, they didn’t have anyone watching. I just shook my head and decided to forget about it.
I took a deep breath, looked up at the blue sky dotted with big fluffy white clouds, and felt myself relax. This was why I was here, to play the game I loved. I could feel my stomach clench. What the heck? I ran back by the fence and lost my lunch. Talk about a way to make the fans take a step back.
Now I was ready. I took my position, and Allard went home with the first pitch. Brave’s leadoff hitter hit a sharp one up the middle. I realized neither Joe nor Mitch would get it, and I’d been on my toes, so I exploded forward to grab the grounder. Their runner rounded first but had to dive back when I fired the ball to Dave at first. I wanted to let everyone know that they were not picking up extra bases on me.
The next batter worked the count full on Allard. I did a little fist pump when he got a called third strike. The third batter was clipped by a fastball on the wrist. The trainer had to come out and check him. He insisted he was okay and took his base.
We had allowed two on, and Allard now faced their cleanup hitter. It took just one pitch for them to be up 3–0 as he hit a screamer that rocketed down the third base line. I think the best part of the play was the small boy, about Bob’s age, who snagged it out of the crowd. The kid had skills.
I took an instant dislike to Brave when they acted as if they’d won the game. It was okay to celebrate, but you didn’t taunt the other team. Allard’s face turned red. I figured he would either use it to bear down, or he wouldn’t make it out of the first inning. I smiled when he struck out the next two batters.
“We need base runners,” Coach Kingwood called out. “Don’t try to get it all back at once. Just get on base and let your power hitters clear the bases.”
The Brave’s pitcher was even more nervous than Allard. He gave up two base hits and then walked the third batter. It was now up to me to get them home. Coach Kingwood stepped out of the dugout to talk to me before I came up.
“If you can, hit it down the first base line. Their right fielder tweaked his arm this morning.”
How he found that out, I wasn’t sure, but if that was how he wanted it, I was willing to try. Hitting a baseball into a particular place wasn’t that easy, and I’d been working hard to be able to do it. I mentally walked through the five steps to batting: rhythm, seeing the ball, separation, staying square, and weight shift and transfer. I stepped into the box and focused.
The Brave’s pitcher’s body language showed his frustration. That was understandable. His team had given him a three-run lead in his first outing, and he was about to give it all back if he wasn’t careful. Modeling and acting made you aware of body movements and interpreting what they mean. If it hadn’t been for that, he would’ve hit me square in the ear. I called time so I could brush myself off.
“That sent a message!” their first baseman called out.
Boy, they shouldn’t have done that. I felt myself drop into the zone. I was looking for something low and away so I could push it down the first base line. On the next pitch, I guessed right and crushed his fastball. If the first baseman had simply put his glove up, he might have caught it, but it screamed past him, never getting more than six feet off the ground. Their right fielder sprinted to the corner and dove for the ball. I was running full-out as I rounded first and watched the ball smack off the fence. It caught the top bar and came back into the field at a funny angle.
Coach Way was our third base coach, and he was signaling me to round second. He gave me the universal sign to slide as he waved both arms down with his palms down. I hit the dirt and felt the ball catch my shoulder; it popped up and rolled towards home. I jumped up and thought about trying to press my luck when their pitcher grabbed the ball and came up throwing. It felt like we were in Little League when he missed the third baseman by a wide margin.
