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!
