It was a Wednesday as Peter stepped out from the dugout. He could hardly believe he was here! He was transferring to another city next week, and he thought his hopes of even one at-bat with this team were shot for the season. But the coach had come to him, even though he thought the more glamourous batter had stolen the spotlight for good; he came to him and told him of the pitcher with the subtle curve ball—Peter's specialty.
Peter walked to the plate, slowly, confidently, as his ease defied his knowledge that he had not batted at all in quite a while, and especially had not gotten a hit. He was nervous for sure, but if the pitcher smelled that, the effects would be those of an animal "smelling" fear. So he was confident. He knew that although he may not have the most polished style or widely accepted technique, if it got a hit, that's all that matters, even if it is in more specific situations.
He tapped the dirt from his shoes, and the pitcher saw his youthful face, and more youthful uniform--bright and clean, contrasting from his more seasoned teammates. He prepared himself mentally, and attempted to separate himself from the situation to mask his nervousness. To his credit, it was working.
He assumed the stance, and knew what was coming. The pitcher was indeed not to be taken lightly, and Peter watched the exchange with the catcher. No... no again... and the pitcher then nodded. That's not fair, Peter thought with a slight smile. A pitcher and a catcher are a team, and discuss their strategy seconds before the pitch is thrown, while I just sit here and watch them do it! Who's my ally here?
The pitcher caught Peter slightly off guard, but he didn't mind it. A smile, sly and curious. Peter returned it, gripped the bat tightly between his hands, and pictured the ball going over the fence as it had in the past... months ago, or perhaps years.
The pitcher caught Peter off guard again, and this time he didn't like it. The ball shot across the plate, straight and true. He wasn't ready for that, but swung nonetheless.
"STRIKE ONE!"
A fastball? From a pitcher who throws curves? He gathered himself, and the pitcher smiled. This next one could be a fastball, a curve, or even a bean ball, for all Peter knew.
"STRIKE TWO!"
Ahhh, that was sloppy, and he paid for it. The swing came too late at a pitch that was barely worth it. Why did he do it? He was eager, and there was a chance for glory there. No way was he going to pass that up. Too many chances had gone past him already, even in this game. He remembered the two beautiful pitches that sailed by, and when he swung at the third, it was too little, too late, and feared that would be it for the game. So he had to at least try with this new pitcher.
And then he heard the bells, tolling for him. This was his time,
his potential moment of fame. A hit here would make him the man of the
hour, even if it allowed him no further than first base. The bells
tolled in Peter's mind, and filled him with courage. He concentrated,
imagined the ball sailing through the air just as it left the pitcher's
thin right hand. He swung with a force and determination that would
indeed have sent the ball into the stratosphere, had it made contact.
"STRIKE THREE!"
I'm out! he told himself. The inning was over.
He and the pitcher crossed paths as they went to their
respective dugouts. She took off her hat, exposing her short, brown
hair.
"Those were some great swings," she said. "You'll do better
after you transfer."
"Yeah, I know." I'd heard those words before, and had to say
that I honestly believe them this time. "See you."
