Senior Year Box Set

I could see what was going to happen as soon as Justin released the ball, so I bailed on my shallow-center-field position. As I began to sprint back, I heard the crack of the ball and turned to track it. It looked to be headed for the fence in left-center field. I called for the ball as I raced back.

I cussed under my breath when I saw it would clear the wall. My cleats crunched on the warning track, and I timed my leap into the eight-foot fence. My arm reached over, and I made a grab for the ball as I slammed into the wall. I felt the ball in the webbing of my glove.

I landed a little off-balance after hitting the fence, so when I tried to gun down the runner returning to first, the ball sailed on me. The runner made it back as the ball flew over Wolf’s head. He didn’t hesitate and took off to second. I pumped my fist when I saw that Tim had backed the play up from his catcher’s position and gathered in my errant throw. He gunned the runner down at second with plenty of room to spare.

The Lemont crowd who’d gotten on their feet to cheer the home run stood in silence as they witnessed me rob the hitter and Tim take down their base runner. By all rights, they should be up 2–0 and trying to expand that lead. Instead, we were coming up to bat.

I led off the top of the second. Coach Haskins pulled me aside.

“Show that … uh, kid … that one man can win a baseball game.”

I choked back a laugh because it was so unexpected to see so much emotion from the crusty old veteran. Chuck must have struck a nerve.

“Yes, sir. Do you have a preference as to what I should do?” I asked.

“See that house?” he said, pointing about a block away. “Knock out the kitchen window.”

Frick! That would be a monster shot for even a major leaguer.

“Yes, sir,” I said and stepped up to bat, now that I had my marching orders.

When I got close to the batter’s box, I looked back at the catcher. He was one of the guys who had been with Chuck earlier.

“Hey, do you think Chuck would give me Kayla’s phone number?”

The catcher stood up.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” the umpire growled. “Play ball and let’s not have any unneeded distractions.”

“I just need to get my signs straight with my pitcher,” the catcher said.

“You do, and I’ll kick you out of the game,” the umpire warned and then turned to me. “You keep talking crap, and I’ll do the same to you.”

On the football field, I’d heard WAY worse than that little shot. But that didn’t matter because umpires ruled, and if they weren’t going to allow a little banter, you’d best do as they said and just play ball.

“Sorry, I’ll get it after the game, sir,” I said to the umpire.

Oooh. I would need to save that particular look for special occasions when the little ones got out of line. For some reason, I seemed to be getting a lot more looks like that recently, and I was locking them in memory.

Either I was being a bit of a brat lately, or it was the new car syndrome. That’s what happens when you buy a new car. Suddenly, you noticed there are way more of that model on the road than you ever realized. After dealing with my niece last weekend, I knew I had to up my parenting skills; ergo, cataloging the faces made at me that I usually ignored.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when the first pitch was high and outside, by a mile, and was called a strike. I probably wasn’t getting any calls today.

The second pitch was closer, but the umpire did his job and called it a ball. I resisted the urge to point that out to him.

I settled in to bat again and got excited when I saw that Chuck had decided to challenge me. The pitch was a fastball that looked hittable. The ball ended up being a little low, so I bent my knees. I made a prodigious rip at the pitch and got under it. The ball flew up and over the backstop and hit one of the lights behind the stands, breaking the protective cover.

The crowd scrambled to keep from being hit by falling glass.

The umpire called time to make sure no fans had been hurt. While he did that, their catcher trotted out to talk to Chuck. Welp, that wasn’t good because Chuck’s head snapped around, and he tried to stare me down. It seemed their catcher was a tattletale.

“I thought you were going to kick him out,” I said to the umpire.

He looked out at the mound and just shrugged. I guess I deserved it if Chuck put one in my ear.

I felt like a dick when Chuck took the high road on the next pitch. Instead of clocking me, he bore down and threw a rising fastball past me that the umpire called a ball. I stepped out of the box and vowed right there that I was done with childish hijinks for the rest of the season. These games were too important to let my amusement rule the day.

After my mental butt-chewing, I stepped back into the box. Chuck threw the next pitch low and away to try to entice me into swinging at a ball. That one was close, but I held back. I breathed a sigh of relief when the umpire didn’t play the homer and called it as he should have.