Baseball

I hold the red and white sphere in my hands, the smooth leather pressing against my palm; my fingertips graze the red stitching. I tossed it in the air just to hear the ball smack into my leather glove.

I take my position, not a base, nor pitcher but the openness and remarkable view of centerfield.  The smell of the fresh cut grass dances with my senses, the wet clippings stick to my cleats. 

I turn and face the infield; I adjust my baseball cap to protect my eyes from the contemptuous sun, a bead of sweat escapes from underneath my cap and rolls off my nose.

“Batter Up” The short, stubby umpire pulls down his facemask. 

The first batter steps into the box, the pitcher rolls the ball around in his hand and with his arm extended, his leg gracefully cuts through the air, the first pitch was released.

The ball grazed the bat only to tip it into the air, the catcher held out his mitt and like a magnetic force the ball falls into his glove.

“OUT”! The stubby man screams.

One down two to go, I take my stance as the next batter makes his way to the box, the ball is released and the bat makes contact sending the ball up into the air and into centerfield.  I look up calculating what path the ball is going to take, smack, into my glove it goes.  I throw the ball back to the pitcher. 

Two down one to go. The third batter hits the ball sending it down third base, giving him enough time to take his place on first.  I punch my glove.

The next batter hits a liner to short stop, the sound of the ball hitting the leather sent a chill of excitement down my spine. That was our third out, our turn to put up the numbers.

I grabbed the bat twisting the handle in my hands, I take a swing, the air rushing over the barrel of the bat was like music to my ears.  I stepped up to the plate.

The pitcher stared me down. He pulled his arm back and released the ball; I had to wait for that right second, that perfect moment where the ball hits the sweet spot, sending it flying into the outfield.

CRACK, like thunder the ball connected with my wooden bat, the ball went flying out in left field. I dropped the bat and took off down the baseline, my cleats digging into the hard ground sending dirt and chalk into the air.  I round first only to be met by a ball getting sent to my next destination, I kicked my right leg out and pulled my body down as my foot hit the second base.

“SAFE!” I stood up and dusted the dirt of my shirt and pants.  My right leg on the base and my left leg leading me to third, I stood there waiting for the pitch.  The pitcher pulled his arm behind his back and looked at me. 

His arm extended and the moment the ball left his fingertips I took off for third. I could hear the ball and bat connect, as I hit third, I turned for a split second to the see ball in mid air to first.

 I rounded third. All I had to do was run 89 feet and I would be home.  I tucked my head down and sprinted as fast as I could.  The opposing crowd was screaming home, home, throw home.

I did the mistake of diving for home plate, my hand connected with the white rubber, the deafening crack of bones breaking echoed through my ears as the catcher’s cleats dug into my batting glove.  The pain shot up my arm, I tucked my arm in and rolled onto my back rolling over home plate.

“SAFE”! Holding my left hand close to my torso I got up and made my way to the dugout. I was rushed to the emergency to room only to be told it was broken, my heart sank, the season had just started and I was officially out!

My glove now sits under my bed collecting dust.  Whenever I smell leather, or smell fresh cut grass, it sparks old memories of the game I grew to love and respect!