Senior Year Box Set

After they’d gotten the worst of it up, the groundskeepers applied some calcined clay drying agents for the mound and batter’s boxes.

When Eastside warmed up, they were made to stay off the infield as well. Right before the game started, they allowed our starting battery, Trent and Tim, to go out and warm up.

Last game, our stands had filled in slowly because we started early. This time, the crowd was bigger from the beginning. It looked as though many of the fans had taken the opportunity to play hooky from work to come watch the game. Almost all the spectators had come decked out in orange and blue, our school colors.

Today, Moose let Trent stay on the mound beyond a couple of innings. I found playing behind a ground-ball pitcher like Trent to be one of the hardest things to do while playing baseball. I didn’t have a ball hit to me in the first five innings. In fact, I barely moved at all.

In the top of the sixth, with one out, the Eastside batter popped the ball up into shallow center field just behind second base. I took off as soon as the ball left the bat, determined to make the play on this one.

“Mine!” I yelled when I saw Brock backing up to make a play as well.

When he heard my call, Brock peeled off to give me room to make the catch. Hindsight being 20/20, I’d probably made the wrong call because Brock was closer. I was a little irritated with myself when I saw I would have a tight race to snag the ball before it hit the ground.

I debated diving headfirst or sliding to make the play. The advantage of sliding was your body remained more upright, which made it easier to block the ball if it hit the ground. I wound up sliding on the slick grass as I made a stab at the ball. This time, Lady Luck smiled down on me, and I made the grab.

Brock gave me a pained look because I’d made that play far more difficult than it needed to be.

“Sorry. I made the wrong call on that one,” I admitted.

“If you’d missed it, then we would have had words,” Brock said with a smile.

“Like I said … sorry,” I replied as I tossed him the ball.

The next batter hit a weak grounder back to the pitcher for the out. As I trotted to the dugout, Coach Haskins stopped me before I took a seat.

“I know … I should have let Brock have it.”

“No, you made the right call. I don’t want you to second-guess your decisions on the field. I expect you to take charge, even if it turns into an adventure.”

“Yes, sir,” I said as I trudged to the dugout.

I sat down between Wolf and Tim.

“Did he chew you out for calling off Brock?” Tim asked.

“No. He told me to take charge.”

“I would rather you field that charging in than one of us trying to run backwards to make the play. With you coming into the play, it’s in front of you, and you can see everything better. I agree with Coach,” Wolf said.

While we’d discussed the play, Brock had hit a single, and Milo walked, giving us base runners on first and second with no outs. Don was now up. Tim stepped out to the on-deck circle to prepare to bat next.

“Be a hitter! Put the ball in play!” Wolf yelled from the dugout.

Eastside’s pitcher was beginning to get tired. This was when we would get to him, and our crowd sensed it. The pitcher promptly threw three straight balls to get behind in the count. Their coach called time to try to settle him down.

After a heated discussion, he left their pitcher on the mound, fuming. I understood why when they intentionally walked Don and called in a pitcher from their bullpen to face Tim.

With the score deadlocked at 0–0, it wasn’t as bad a call as you would think. Everyone knew that the pitcher would’ve had to throw a strike on the next pitch. Don was a good enough player to make contact, which would have in all likelihood allowed the runners to advance, if not score. If it had been us, with our defense, I would have chosen to pitch to Don and hope for a double play. Their coach must not be as confident in his team.

Eastside’s closer had a live arm. I watched him warm up and could tell he planned to try to throw it past Tim. At the same time, I watched Tim concentrate on the timing of his pitches. I was confident Tim could make contact and score Brock, who stood at third.

When the umpire called for the resumption of the game, our fans got on their feet to show their support. I smiled because I could tell the crowd noise was something the Eastside baseball team wasn’t used to. By now, we had a full house, and they were vocal.

Tim dug in at the batter’s box to prepare for the first pitch. He looked like a coiled spring, ready to launch a game-winning home run. Eastside’s pitcher seemed to mentally psych himself up as he jammed his foot into the rubber. The catcher gave him the sign for the pitch he wanted, and then the ball was sailing home.

I barked out a laugh when I saw the pitcher had thrown a curveball. Tim made a mighty cut and missed by a mile. Clearly, Eastside’s pitcher wasn’t a one-trick pony and had more pitches than we’d guessed.