The Pitch.

The Pitch.

(9-21-10)

“Batter up!” signals the next in line to bat.

The “Game of the Century” was what the presses were claiming it to be. Newsmen rallied around the odds that favored the boys at home for a change. Young and old showed up to take in the day expecting nothing but what was guaranteed an almost certain victory. Except those people weren’t banking on a change in the lineup when they made those odds. Nothing like change to throw a kink into a straight line quick. And this was the kind that no one could have seen.

No one could have seen that curve ball a mile away. The slightest curve was a mere tip off the bat which Sweet moved quickly and took up a place on first. The same curve that landed the visiting pitcher with his face up looking at the bright blue heavens. Out across the gaudy green pasture of smoothness lay the shape of a white uniformed fallen solider. Three men pull away the fallen body as the organ plays a round of “Take out to the Ball Game” while the new kid pulls up quick to fill in the big shoes. A rookie unknown sets foot on the field as the crowd screams “FOUL PLAY” and “FORFEIT” toward the opposing team’s replacement.

New kid or not, there’s no chance the crowd’s going to miss this…

An unknown. A rookie. A youngster. Without a record or past. Not so much as a hint of experience as he crosses the green. Sizing up his game are the nine faces in the dug out and the crowd of several thousand more. The kid’s got a chip on his shoulder and walk to match the pace.

Up until now it’s been like any ordinary game. All about watching the play and thinking how to react to the pitch. Some like to go out and cat-and-mouse it with the pitcher in an attempt to guess the right swing. It’s all about guessing which pitch you might see at the plate and this kid’s not making it easy.

The first man batting up against the unknown is Peters. Rushing in and up to the plate. Quick switching his bat to toss off some parade. Showing his intensity and taunt. But the Rookie isn’t intimidating A stand-off ensues. His gaze matches Peters gaze. And his best isn’t going to shake this vet from hitting a home-run. Peters calls the place in the sky and swings low.

Pitch.

Strike.

Pitch.

Ball.

Pitch.

Strike.

Each and every time he calls the ball in the air and tells the rookie with a laugh, “Put it right here sonny. Right where I need it.”

Wind up. The pitch. The crowd gasps in wonder. Man down. There’s a player on the ground and a foul ball to blame.

Player after player follows. A simple game of nine has become a calculated contest of blood. Every pitch is personally sent out filled with a hateful aggression to any that would dare take bat and intend to swing. Between strikes and balls the Rookie manages to take a small piece out of each batter. A tooth. An bruised hand. Black-eyes. A broken bat cracked by the impact of his fast ball that begged not to be hit. The umps’ not playing fair and keeps calling it the same.

Like the war wounded falling down into the trenches each player lands and takes seat in the dug out. I remain still observing this enigma while the team morale shifts.

Carefully I lift my cap to my face. Through one of the vent holes I can make out his profile. The sneer of his lip. The look in his eyes. His isolation from the rest of the field shows me his vendetta against the game. In his expression there rests a level of pure hate that fuels his pitches across the plate. There’s no guessing what comes next as he hurls out pitch after pitch of aggression across the plate to the catcher. Scrutinizing every detail of his stance reveals no more than a further analysis of shallow information.

“Batter up!” They’re calling you up to the plate. And in this case it sounds a lot more like a death sentence than an invitation to play the game. I’m watching and sizing it up. One by one they’ve stepped up before you. And one by one they’ve fallen. Grayson takes a blow to his left side and hits the ground. Flynn moves to the base and meets a strike that removes a part of his left ear. By luck, Chester makes it to the third with limp after Harrison takes a hit on the right that walks him to first.

Slow. Heading out slow carrying two bats in one hand and my batting helmet in the other.  My slow walk toward the plate seems long and drawn out. Leaving a sense of mystery. Not giving away my intensity. In this purpose I’m watching his on the hill. His confidence should be shaken by the experience that he can’t see my purpose, but nothing makes this Rookie jump. I set down the bat with handle rested against my thighs. I adjust my helmet with both hands and step into the box. I don’t give any inclination of preparedness. No nod of my head that I’m ready.

Pitch.

Ball.

Pitch.

Strike.

Between balls and strikes it’s like I’m fast asleep. The whole world out there doesn't matter. I can’t hear the stands. There’s no one in the crowd. No eyes. No voices. Nothing can shake my stare. I’m watching the beast without shaking his stare. Facing off.

Pitch.

Ball.

Careful my hands swing out with the slugger between each speeding orb. There’s no contact with me in the box as they move by. As though time slowed and took a breath. Each one knowing that it’s not the right one.

Pitch.

Strike.

As one more strike passes by I know that’s the last one I need to see. I’ve got it.

The wind up.

The pitch.

The Swing.

CRACK!

A still hush falls over the crowd before erupting in a loud cry. This one won’t fall back as the “Game of the Century” but the newsmen won’t be done with it in the least. It’s not because I’ve hit a home run. It’s not even a base run. It’s the fact that I just hit this Rookie right square in his face. A clean shot that cracked off of the bat with the speed of an arrow. Through the open bright green across the field of smoothness I can see him standing still on that tiny hill and his face with a gap the size of ball that holds for a moment before breaking into a fall.

In life, like in baseball, you can't strike out if you never go up to bat...


A story that has little to do with a saying and a saying that was taken completely wrong by others... whom it was not intended for. If  you think every mantra is for you then you may be wrong and this one isn't advocating to attack another person it simply suggests involvement in living... As I juggle my craft of writing with the joy and chaos of living, loving and breathing I like to remind myself to continue to press towards the things such as success, goals, and etc. In life, like in baseball, you can't strike out if you never go up to bat... and you can never hit it out of the park either. You have to be involved to be able to accomplish anything. People accomplish things because they are involved and pursuing a dream, a goal, etc. Baseball analogy and it happens to be one of my favorite sports to watch. Had a talk with a someone, I've only known a short while, about three, maybe four months ago and I decided that BB players played harder than FB players. I don't know if that's true, but I don't yell at the baseball games as much as I do football games. Anyway, this was a little fun inspired by Casey at the Bat and the SF Giants having a fabulous season last  year. So when was the last time you played baseball? if you've never read please enjoy. and if you've never watched or played baseball... give it a chance. live, love and breathe. kisses. m.