6. six
six
Brooks
My cleats and uniform are ready for me in my locker, having been laundered and cleaned by our hard-working staff and hung up tidily for me this afternoon. They take great care of us players, and even though their consistent hard work may go unnoticed by some of the more veteran players on our team, it doesn’t escape me.
I quickly dress in my white and blue home uniform, tugging my hat over my hair and lacing up my crisp white cleats before selecting my bat for the game. I toggle between a few options before settling on one that feels right for tonight. Let’s hope it doesn’t let me down.
Though most players were able to keep things cool all day, as we approach game time, the tension is palpable.
“Back it up, back it up,” Jonah says, shaking his well-endowed rear to a song he’s blasting from his speakers.
“Careful, Bell,” I say. “Don’t wanna split your pants before the game.”
Most of us can’t help but laugh at his antics. He’s trying to keep us calm and help us shake off the jitters before we take the field.
At 6:23, I head out to the field with my teammates. It doesn’t matter how many games I play, every single time I emerge from the tunnel into the dugout, it feels like coming home.
Kids and avid fans crowd the steps where the team funnels out onto the field, vying for autographs and pictures. It’s a jumble of voices and shouts, but I see several kids single me out, their eyes bright and smiles wide. I remember how much it meant when I was younger when players would take time to sign a few cards, baseballs or to take a photo. I always try to stop and do so if I can.
“You’re my favorite player,” a scrawny boy with braces says to me with a grin.
“Thanks, man,” I say, scratching out a signature onto his outstretched hat. “Means a lot.”
I take a few selfies and then check the time. 6:40. I take one look up at the seats behind the dugout and see my family waving wildly once I spot them. Then my eyes find her.
Nora.
She looks stunning, even from a distance. I can see her red lips from here, full and smiling. She looks right at home sitting next to my family. The sight of her here momentarily takes my mind off the nerves and everything that’s riding on this game.
I’m shocked further when Nora gives me a quick thumbs up. My heart flips in my chest. It’s the same thing she used to do when she’d come to my high school games. There’s no way she’d send me that little private signal if she wasn’t telling the truth in her text. It must have been an honest mistake. I want to believe that. Nora knows what that thumbs up sign used to mean to me. That small gesture gives me an instant boost. One that I didn’t even know I needed.
There will be time to ask questions and get more answers from her later. For now, I’ve got to get out and play a great game.
I raise a hand towards my family and the fans screaming my name before loping out onto the field to play catch with Miles.
“You’re smiley tonight,” Miles calls out.
“What’s it to you?” I yell back.
We move back to home at 6:57, lining up with the team for the National Anthem.
At 7:08, we assume our positions on the field. The sharp scent of the freshly cut grass and rich smell of the dirt rises up beneath my cleats as I run to shortstop.
It’s game time.
Unsurprisingly, the Utah Archers come out swinging. The game is back and forth, and I’ve gone two for three at the plate– a nice single and a double.
We’re not gonna talk about the strikeout.
The seventh inning stretch arrives, and we’re all tied up. The crowd is rocking, and the excitement is palpable at the bottom of the eighth as we get two runners on base. But with two outs, Miles is up to bat next and knows he had better deliver.
“Let’s go, baby!” Wesley Shaw, first baseman, hollers from my right as Miles’ walk-up song, “Machika” by J Balvin, blasts through the speakers.
As Miles steps up to bat, it’s pandemonium in the stadium. I’m feeling secondhand adrenaline coursing through me as I watch him get ready to hit what we all hope will be a game-changing grand slam. Beau Andrade, our third baseman, and I are chewing and spitting sunflower seeds at a record pace, hoping it will help ease some of our sky-high stress.
But, the closer the Archers decided to bring out is ruthless. Within minutes, Miles has two strikes and no balls.
“Come on!” I slam my palms down on the dugout bench in frustration. Miles looks furious as he prepares to hit again. I know there’s a fire blazing underneath his skin, and he wants nothing more than to clock the next pitch sent his way into the stratosphere. This is why the fans love him. He’s inhuman when the pressure’s on.
“Come on, Miles,” Beau mutters with his hands steepled at his mouth as if in prayer. “Come on, baby.”
The next pitch is a blur as it comes in. A fastball right down the middle. I hear the satisfying crack of Miles’ bat make contact and all of us seated in the dugout rise onto our feet. It’s a deep fly ball, and the crowd roars as we collectively watch it whistle through the air.
“That’s it!” I yell. This is the miracle we needed. Miles is going to turn the game around and give us the chance to pull ahead.
For a moment, it’s as if time slows down, and I can see every inch of air the ball falls through as it lands…right into the glove of the centerfielder at the wall.
The energy in the stadium deflates in a vacuum of disappointed gasps.
But nobody is more pissed than Miles. He chucks his bat, yells something unintelligible, and then stalks off the field, his anger mounting as he enters the dugout. We all know better than to speak to him when he’s this upset, so we let him pass, feeling waves of frustration rolling off of him.
Beau and I glance at each other. Now that our prime scoring position has been lost, we’ve got to take the field and hold the line.
At the top of the ninth inning, we’re still tied.
Cortez is ready to shut it down when he steps onto the pitcher’s mound. After he strikes out the Archers’ first batter, the pressure in my chest starts to loosen. If he keeps this up, there’s still a chance to come back and win this thing.
But then, despite an insane play by the outfielders, my old teammate from the minors, Frankie Fieldman, gets a double. He’s grinning like a madman on second base despite the boos from the crowd.
The third hitter steps up to bat and whacks a perfect ground ball to Wesley at first base. Wes scoops up the grounder and touches first to get the runner out, but Frankie was still able to make it to third. Freaking Frankie.
Two outs.
I can feel my pulse pumping through my arms, down my legs, and into my feet. Even my toes are tingling. The stress is building inside me, forcing me to work to keep my breathing steady.
Frankie glances back at me and winks. I glare back, punching a hand inside my glove and getting into position as the next hitter steps up to bat.
Cortez throws a slider, and I hear the sharp snap of the ball as the hitter makes contact. It’s a blur, but I’m already moving. That ball is mine.
I’m running with everything I’ve got, feeling the press of my cleats in the dirt, the bunching of my muscles as I throw the force of my body towards the ball. I have to slide across the field to snatch it from the ground as it bounces towards me, but somehow I get it into my glove. I barely hear the wild roaring of the crowd as I leap to my feet and turn, rearing my throwing arm back to let the ball rip to home. I jump to put as much momentum as possible into my arm, but as my feet leave the ground, my center of gravity shifts, and I feel the error before I even execute it.
The ball ricochets towards Jonah like a bullet, but I’ve thrown it wide. Jonah has to lunge off the plate to field the ball, and in the seconds it takes him to retrieve it, Frankie Fieldman scores.
It’s like all the air has drained from my lungs. I’m shaken by the deep pang of disappointment that floods my gut.
The ball went wide.
The crowd shifts from elation and shock at what I was just able to pull off to raging anger in a matter of heartbeats. I hear the booing and cursing my name like a distant storm rolling towards me.
My father did not raise me to be the kind of guy who lets mistakes like this roll off. Play with perfect precision, or don’t play at all. That’s what he’d always say to me.
Moments like this always cut right into my center. I glance up into the stands, finding Nora and my family in the distance, and feel the mistake I just made lodge itself deep inside me.
The Utah Archers are up one, and it’s entirely my fault.