Third Base (The Boys of Summer 1)

We’re back to facing the Orioles and they’re kicking our ass. I’m so sick of losing. I know our team is better than what the standings show, but damn if we can’t prove them wrong. The number of fans in the stands is starting to dwindle. There are more important things going on right now than to come and watch your hometown team lose, although the faithful’s are here telling us exactly what they think of us.

The one fan I can count on is Daisy, even though she doesn’t stroke my ego or sugarcoat how poorly we’re doing. She does tell me what I need to work on. I take her criticism seriously because she’s usually saying the same shit my dad is. Her knowledge of baseball is a serious turn on. She’s like my own personal aphrodisiac.

It’s the bottom of the fifth and I’m on deck. The score is Renegades, zero – Orioles, four. We need five freaking runs in order to win. It’s harder than one might think, a come-back like this, but it can be done.

Bainbridge is currently on second, stuck in no man’s land unless one of us can single and move him to third. Kayden Cross went down swinging, giving us our first out of the inning. Preston Meyers is in a pitching duel right now, hitting foul ball after foul ball and barely staying alive. Baltimore is still using their starting pitcher who hasn’t slowed down and continues to throw heaters down the middle at ninety-eight miles per hour. One always hopes that by mid-game starting pitchers begin to wear out, allowing us to get the bat around quicker, but it seems as though Cross is just getting started.

Meyers hits a line drive toward the shortstop, freezing Bainbridge on second. The throw to first isn’t in time to get Meyers, making him safe. The fans cheer, but the Skipper for Baltimore comes out of the dugout, clearly not happy with the call. While the umpires get together to discuss it, I wander over to Meyers to chat for a minute.

“Nice hit.”

He shakes his head, taking off his batting gloves and handing them to our first base coach, Shawn Smith.

“He’s throwing heat, but its garbage. His slider sucks right now. Wait for the fast ball.” His words are quick and rushed, trying to keep our conversation to ourselves without their first baseman rushing off to tell his pitcher.

The instant replay airs on the Jumbo Tron, much to the delight of the fans. Meyers is safe by at least one full step and the umpires agree after they review the footage over by the dugout. The home ump calls the game back into play and my music comes on.

I can hear John heckling the pitcher. It makes me smile that since the first time I made sure he could get to a game, he hasn’t missed one yet and has even taken to talking about my stats when I come over for lunch. I know Daisy’s happy he’s getting this opportunity and thanks me every opportunity she gets.

In two weeks she’s meeting my parents. I know it’s early, but my mom is right when she says you just know when you’ve found your “one”. Since I’ve been with Daisy, my nervous twitch has lessened. So much so that even our General Manager has asked about it, wondering if I needed to take a piss test to see what kind of drugs I’m on.

When I look at Daisy, I don’t see a summer fling or someone I’m with just to pass the time. I see someone who I can come home to every night and wake up with each morning. I see the woman that I want to spend all my free time with and when we’re not together I count the hours until we are.

And now, when she’s yelling at me to keep my eye on the ball and to swing through, instead of being mad at her heckling, I want to kiss her and thank her for being the support that I need.

Standing in the box, I stare down the pitcher, showing him my bat. I dig my right foot into the dirt and move some away with my left before resting it on my shoulder. My first two pitches are high and outside, and well out of my strike zone. I step out of the box and readjust my batting gloves while the catcher jogs out to the mound. I can’t imagine they’re intentionally walking me with my batting average being less than stellar right now. I’m not a threat up here and they’re better off pitching to me. With my luck it could be in their favor and I’d hit into a double play.

As much as I want to look at Daisy right now, I don’t. My focus needs to be on the game, my bat and mostly the pitcher. Meyers’ words are on auto play through my head as I step back in, repeating my ritual.

The next pitch is high and inside, brushing me off the plate. The crowd surrounding me has a few choice words for the pitcher, who is stoic. It’s the way he should be, no emotion. Maybe he felt like I was crowding the plate and is sending me a subtle reminder that this is his territory right now. What he’s forgetting is that I own him with a count of three and zero. As far as I’m concerned, I’m about to take a walk to first base, loading the bases for Singleton.

The pitch is delivered, and the ball is the fucking meatball I’ve been waiting for all night. This is that moment when I can either stand here and take the strike, because that is what’s expected of me and I’ll still be ahead in the count, or I can swing for the fences.

If I swing, it has to be full on through the hips with a follow through so hard that the bat is smacking against my shoulder blades. I need to make him pay for giving me the fastball I love so much, the one right down the middle.

The motion of my bat is automatic, as if it knows it wants a piece of that white-leather-red-stitched ball flying toward us. My eyes follow the ball as it smacks hard against the grain of my Louisville. The deafening crack has the catcher saying, “Oh shit.” I let out a battle cry as the bat hits my shoulders before it slowly comes back around and hangs to my side as I watch the ball fly to dead center. The Oriole outfielders are running back, both left and center, wondering which one is going to catch it. Meyers and Bainbridge are tagged and ready to run on the catch; Bainbridge will score easily.

The crowd is hushed as we all watch the ball sail through the air, no doubt each of us wondering if it has enough height to clear the wall. The centerfielder crashes into the wall just as the ball clears the boundaries. Everyone erupts as I drop the bat and take my required run around the bases, slapping hands with our first and third base coaches when I run by them.

After a homerun, stepping on home plate is something different. Your team is there to meet you, to celebrate with you. When you turn to see the scoreboard, what was just a zero now reads three. We’re now only down one run and we need to hold them so we can come back and win this thing.

We’re pumped when we return to the dugout, cheering Singleton on. When he takes the first pitch and hits it out of the park into right field the announcer is yelling, “BACK-TO-BACK HOMERUNS!” and now we’re meeting him at home plate. That’s when I glance at Daisy and John who are both cheering, right along with everyone else in the stadium. She doesn’t see me staring, giving me a brief moment to just look at her.

There’s a soft glow about her, which could be the overhead lights, but I don’t think it is. I think she looks happy and I hope it’s because of me.

We lose.

Singleton’s homerun was as close as we got. We gave up two more runs, losing four to six. And now I’m sitting at a long table, dirty and sweaty, waiting for a press conference to start. Right now I’d like to go back to the time when I didn’t have press access so I could be in the shower or resting in the whirlpool instead of here.

My name gets called, and I take a drink of water, waiting for their question.

“How did the homerun feel tonight?”

Who comes up with these questions?

“Uh… I guess it felt good. I mean it brought in some runs and built some momentum.”