27. CHAPTER 27 #2
Ricky swung over the first pitch. The second was a ball in the dirt, but the catcher kept it in front, and Zach had to stay at first. I took a practice swing in the on-deck circle, trying to time the pitcher but mostly just staying in my routine.
This would be my fourth at bat against him, and I had a plan.
The third pitch was a ball in on Ricky’s hands, and he popped it up to the pitcher.
Zach took a false step toward second, and the pitcher fired to first. Zach dove back just in time, safe by what felt like a millisecond.
When the ump signaled safe, I let out another breath.
Then I realized what was in front of me.
I stared at the bat in my hands and felt the weight of all the mornings we’d run before the sun came up. All the reps. All the sweat. All the belief I’d asked them to carry.
Four years ago, I’d stood on a metal box and addressed Maddux, Silas, and Ricky.
They had been the only ones who’d showed up to that first summer workout, more out of loyalty than belief.
My voice cracked as I’d told them my goal: to be the first team from our town to win a state title in any sport.
I’d said I had a plan, and if they followed me, we could do it.
If they put in the work, I would keep my promise.
We had joked about that speech ever since.
I wasn’t sure any of us really believed it was possible.
But now, I had the chance to deliver. A hit would extend the game.
A home run or an out would end it. I took a breath, let go of the promise, pushed aside the fear of failure, and stepped into the box.
First pitch, fastball.
I let it go, and it nicked the strike zone, leading the St. Ed’s crowd to roar.
The second pitch came at me, and I turned slightly, only for it to curve into the zone.
Strike two.
He hadn’t thrown back-to-back curves all day, and from Coach’s scouting report, I knew he wouldn’t now.
I took a breath and stepped back into the box. There was no sound. There was no smell. Just me and the pitcher, the bat and my hands.
He came set and delivered. Fastball away. I loaded my hands and exploded through the ball. This time, I knew I had gotten all of it.
The crowd behind me rose as the ball screamed to the right-center gap and landed on the grass. It skipped twice; both outfielders had their backs turned.
Zach raced to third, and I stood on first with a game-extending single.
I let out a primal roar, lost in the noise of the crowd. All the self-doubt was gone. I had done what I’d needed to. We had a real chance to win this game.
I watched Easton walk up to the plate for the fourth time today. He was two for two with a walk and had scorched the ball for both hits. He hadn’t made an out in four games.
The St. Ed’s coach called time. Apparently, he had seen enough. He was bringing in a left-handed pitcher to face Easton. I jogged over to third, where Coach had called Easton, Zach, and myself.
“Tanner, don’t get picked off,” he said. “We’re going to let Easton hit away here. This guy has a fastball and changeup combo. He struggles with throwing his curve over the plate, so sit on something straight.”
“How the hell do you know all of this?" I asked. The only way we would have played St. Ed’s was in the state finals, and he would have had to have driven three hours one way to watch them play.
“You guys have earned me knowing this.” At that, he turned away and walked to the coach’s box. Zach, Easton, and I chatted lightly, Easton congratulating me on my hit. I heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Gavin smiling at us.
“What’s up, Gav?” Easton said, keeping his eyes on the pitcher warming up.
“I just wanted to tell you that you’ve had a hell of a weekend, Easton. One more hit, and they get to make a movie out of it.”
Easton and I laughed at Gavin’s reference as Gavin grabbed a bat sitting on the grass and went back to the dugout. I turned to Easton and said, “Time to do this.” I gave him a fist bump and ran back to first base.
As I neared the bag, I remembered something Easton had told me months ago. He always made the last out of his team’s season. I had joked that I would tell Coach to pull him if he had a chance to end ours, but to hell with that.
Baseball had a way of playing jokes on its participants, and this was one of them. Easton was the one person on the team who hadn’t grown up playing with us. Not only was our last hope an “outsider,” it was also someone who always seemed to make the last out for his team.
And then I thought about our conversation last night.
About how baseball was the perfect game.
About how people always seemed to get another shot, and it was just a matter of if they would step up or not, and this was Easton’s shot.
On the other side of the coin, up until now, Easton had been perfect today.
It was a perfect scenario for a perfect game.
I looked over at Coach for a sign, knowing there wasn’t going to be any. When Easton stepped into the box, I took my lead. I glared at the pitcher, daring him to try to throw over. I was only a couple of steps off the bag. Past the pitcher was Zach, leading off third.
The pitcher lifted his front foot, and when it crossed over his back, I got into my secondary lead. I looked in at Easton, who took the first pitch for a strike.
We redid the process a second time, but it went for a ball. With each pitch, one side or the other erupted in cheers.
The pitcher came set a third time. He lifted his leg and delivered the pitch. I stayed on the balls of my feet and watched the pitch enter the zone. Easton swung like he always did when we’d hit in the backyard, full of torque.
The ball made that sound—that Easton sound—of when it hit the bat so hard and so squarely, it silenced ballparks.
Time slowed. I broke toward second on contact, ready to score from first and win the game.
Two steps—that was all I got. I froze, mid step, my breath catching.
I saw a flash of tan leather, snapping shut like a trap, ten feet away from me. The second baseman hadn’t even had time to move. He just stood there, the ball in his glove, the same look of shock on his face that I knew was on mine.
Game over.
We had lost.