“I got this, Coach,” I assured him.
So far today, I’d been less than stellar. I’d struck out; hit a sharp grounder that should have been a hit; and had a weak pop-up when I guessed wrong on a curveball that didn’t break as much as it should have. The rest of the team hadn’t fared much better. The game was currently tied 0–0. If it hadn’t been for Justin pitching an almost flawless game, we would have been losing for sure.
I stepped up to the plate, and the crowd came alive again. Pontiac’s pitcher looked me in the eye to challenge me. I hid the little smile that wanted to touch my lips because he looked ridiculous, posturing like that. Did he seriously think he could intimidate me?
I settled into the batter’s box and followed my usual routine. The umpire indicated he was ready, and the pitcher dug his toe into the dirt in front of the pitching rubber. He got the sign from his catcher and threw a fastball down and away for a ball. It was a smart pitch to throw because this was a big moment, and most batters would be looking to swing. He’d thrown exactly the type of ball that hitters might chase.
The Pontiac pitcher gave me a devious smirk, as though he was setting me up for something. I quickly ran through the pitches I would throw to me in this situation. I predicted the next one would be high and inside to push me off the plate. Then he’d throw the following one over the outside corner for a strike.
If I hadn’t puzzled it out, I might have taken the next pitch on the chin. I made a big production of diving out of the way and acting worried. The umpire warned the pitcher and both benches that he wouldn’t tolerate anyone being thrown at.
I tentatively got into the batter’s box. When the pitcher got set, I called time.
“Sorry,” I told the umpire loud enough for the pitcher to hear. “It’s just that a couple of weeks ago, I got clocked in the head.”
I acted terrified, taking a deep breath and visibly steeling myself to finish my at-bat. This sent the crowd into a frenzy as they saw blood in the water. Here was their team’s chance to take down their most significant threat. The little shudder I gave might have been a bit much, but I was an Academy Award winner, and this was a big dramatic moment. You had to build the anticipation, right?
I focused myself and dropped into the zone. The crowd noise fell away, and time seemed to slow down. At the release of the pitch, I knew I’d guessed right. I bent at the knees to get the bat head at the right height while I focused on not overswinging. The crack of the bat signaled that I’d hit the ball solidly.
I didn’t showboat to relish the moment, just took off running hard to first. The ball dipped down and skipped off the ground. It looked like it would clear the fence for a ground-rule double. Instead, the ball caught the top rail and bounced back into the field of play. The outfielder had charged hard to make the play. When the ball rebounded off the fence, it flew over his head and began to roll toward the infield.
We had been taught to back each other up. If I’d been playing center field, I would have been there to pick the ball up and throw it to the infield; the base runner would have only gotten a double. Instead, their center fielder was caught flat-footed, watching the play. The outfielder who’d had the ball bounce over his head almost broke his ankles, trying to change direction.
By now, I had rounded second and spotted Coach Haskins at third. When I saw him windmill his arm, I bore down and timed my turn at third so my right foot touched the corner of the bag as I headed home. The catcher set himself up to block the basepath.
Almost every time, the runner goes behind the catcher to tag home. The problem with that was the catcher’s natural movement was to catch the ball and let its momentum turn him in to tag the base runner. If I ran in front, he would have to catch the ball and then lunge forward to tag me.
Runners usually ran behind the throw because if you blocked the ball with your body, it would be interference, and you’d be called out. You couldn’t change the course of the ball or hinder the defensive player.. That meant that if I ran in front, I couldn’t touch the ball or impede the catcher from making the play. Well, I could, but it couldn’t be obvious enough for the umpire to make the call.
“Aaaahhh!” I yelled as I got close to the plate to make the catcher think I might run him over.
That was another ‘no-no’ in high school ball because someone could get hurt. Still, if this had been game seven of the World Series, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
Just as I arrived at the catcher, the ball skipped in from the outfield. The umpire positioned himself perfectly to make the call. This would be one of those plays that guaranteed someone would be unhappy because it would be so close.
When I moved in front of the catcher for my slide, everyone took a collective gasp. I reached my hand out and slapped the center of the plate at the same instant the catcher smacked my butt with the ball.
“Safe!” the umpire yelled emphatically.
That brought out the boo-birds. I thought I was safe, but I wouldn’t have begrudged the umpire if he called me out. Making a call like that, with how hostile the crowd was … yep, I might have wimped out if I had to make that one. He would need security to make it to his car after the game.
“Bullshit!” the catcher yelled.
“Son,” the umpire warned.
I jumped up and grabbed the catcher before he got in the umpire’s face.
“Let your coach handle this. You don’t need to get kicked out,” I warned him.
His coach didn’t disappoint. He had an epic meltdown that had the crowd cheering. He did the whole scream in your face, get ejected, and then kick dirt on home plate routine. The only thing the coach missed was going to second base, pulling the bag out of the ground, and tossing it into center field. If I were their athletic director, their coach would have just earned himself a job for life.
Moose made sure we didn’t celebrate too much when I reached the dugout.
“This game isn’t over,” he predicted. “Focus on the next play. We can celebrate on the bus ride home.”
Our next three batters went down in order. In the bottom half of the inning, Pontiac managed to get a runner to third, and their pitcher came up. In high school ball, the pitcher was most often the best player on the team.
So, it wasn’t a surprise when he hit a sharp grounder to Ty at third. The ball all but ate him up, but Ty recovered and fired to first. It should have been the final out of the inning, but the pitcher legged it out and was safe, tying the game at one-all.
At that point, Moose decided Justin was done and brought in Bert to get the last out. I was happy when, on the first pitch, the batter hit a weak comebacker that Bert fielded cleanly and tossed to Wolf at first to end the inning. This game was going into extra innings.
In our half of the eighth, we advanced a runner to third, only to strand him there. Bert became shaky in the bottom half and loaded the bases with one out. I held my breath when their last batter made contact, but he hit into a double play to end the inning.
In the top of the ninth, Johan pinch-hit for Bert. He shocked Pontiac when he bunted to get on base. Up next was Ty. Our leadoff hitter worked the count full and drew a walk when he held up on a close ball outside. Bryan Callahan hit a screaming one-hopper right at the second baseman. They doubled up Ty, who thought the ball would get through.
We’d been taught to be aggressive on the base paths, so the guys all congratulated Ty when he came to the dugout. The play had allowed Johan to make it to third. With two outs and a runner at third, Wolf came up to bat. I was up next, so we knew he would get pitched to.
On the first pitch, the ball got away from the pitcher and clipped Wolf on the forearm. You could tell it stung, but it was obviously an accident, so Wolf took his base without making too many comments.