The Dinger

Jimmy Dugan poured a whole bottle of water over his head when he came back into the dugout. Coach thought it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever seen, but we all thought it was pretty funny. I laughed from my spot on the end of the bench, where the extra helmets were stacked. My granny would've said it was hotter than a blister bug in a pepper patch. I still don’t know exactly what a blister bug is but it was pretty hot. We finally got our third out and it was time to change places. We were down 7 to 5 in the bottom of the ninth, but Paul Huger was the first one up and Paul was the reason we had 5. 

We all moved to the fence to get a better view. Everyone's uniform was green and brown, scuffed and scratched from slides and slips that probably weren't necessary. My uniform looked brand new. I tried to rub some dirt on it while the rest of the guys weren't looking, but it just wasn't the same. I looked down at my clean cleats and I heard a CRACK that sounded like a canon shooting the ball into the air. 

The ball hit the back fence and Paul rounded first and second, stopped at third by a last minute attempt from the outfielder. Jay Marshall was next, and he slammed one out to first base that sailed right by the baseman! The outfielder scooped the ball and threw home though, keeping Paul on third. Jay made it to second with another totally unnecessary slide (that Margaret Miller from homeroom probably swooned over) and then Petey was up. 

The problem was, Petey struck out. I was excited at first, since I'm usually the only one who does that, but then Aaron did the same thing, striking out on a monstrous swing that sent his bat toward the away stands. Someone's Dad jumped up, a big white streak of sunblock on his nose, yelling something about him doing it on purpose.

Next up is Alan Mays, our second best hitter. We all gave him a pat on the back as he grabbed his bat. Well, I technically missed but it's the thought that counts. He took two strikes, then slammed the ball into the dirt right in front of the shortstop, giving him enough time to get to first but not enough for Paul to make it home. “Two outs - three on folks” I heard the announcer say. It was Mr. Thompson from the used car lot. My mom always said his coat looked like it was made out of someone’s drapes. 

The team was buzzing. The next batter could win the game, or send us all home with complementary orange slices. No one could remember who was after Alan because we normally didn’t make it that far down in one inning. I saw Coach dig out the crumpled batting order sheet that he always kept in his back pocket. Then he scowled. 

“Bobby Morris. You're up.” 

The dugout deflated. I walked over to the bat rack, begging my chest for breath. My hands were numb, and when I picked up the bat on the end of rack the whole lot slid off the other side in one big crash. The Coach shook his head and the guys all sucked their teeth at once, knowing we could kiss pizza hut goodbye. I grabbed a helmet, wishing for a sudden thunderstorm harder than I've ever wished for the answers on a math test.

By the time I made it to the plate I realized I had the wrong size helmet, but it didn't matter. There was no way I was getting a hit off the guy that struck out the best of our lineup. There was no way I was getting a hit off anyone, really, but especially not that guy. 

I pushed the helmet up away from my face and choked up on the bat, just in time to see the pitcher cover his mouth for a chuckle. I could hear my Mom holler my name and the guys in the dugout snicker. I was vaguely aware of my trembling knees. The sun was brighter than I've ever seen it, making waves in the outfield. The umpire used his mini-broom to sweep the dirt off home plate in a big cloud. I breathed it in when I stepped up, thick and powdery in my nose. I sneezed, hard, and the helmet clamped down over my eyes. When I got it back up and got set, the first pitch blurred by at the speed of light. The umpire yelled “Strike!” and I heard him click the button on his counter. 

I adjusted the helmet again and choked up on the bat, feeling the slick wood grain and the rough tape that countless boys wrapped their hands around. Boys that could swing and hit.

The pitcher whirled his arm again and I felt the breeze as the ball sailed by. The megaphone behind me barked "STRIKE." Someone in the dugout hollered for me to just step in front of it and get hit. I didn’t think it was too bad of an idea. 

I stepped back from the plate like the pros do, wishing for a miracle. Every bit of moisture drained out of my mouth and a thick copper taste took its place. The guys in the dugout were already packing up. The coach has his head hung. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Margaret Miller (from Homeroom) sitting on the end of the stands with her Mom. My chest locked up again, and I felt like crying. Whatever minuscule chance I had at asking her to the middle school dance was surely lost. Two strikes and I didn't even swing.

I decided I had to go out with a bang. I had to do something to compete with Jay Marshall and his cool hair. My Dad always said it didn’t matter if you went down, as long as you went down swinging. So I had to swing. I had to try.

I stepped up to the plate, ran my foot over it like a bull about to charge, pushed the helmet out of my eyes, and tightened my grip on the bat. My heart was pounding so loud I could hear it between my ears, and I could feel Margaret looking right at me. Trying my best to look cool, I narrowed my eyes on the pitcher. He looked back at me, smiling victoriously. The catcher knelt and I could smell his sweat, a mix of old socks and dirty hair.

The pitcher started to wind up. I lifted my left foot off the ground and swung with everything I had. I had so much momentum that I spun myself around. I think I may have even closed my eyes. I felt the bat hit something and heard a crack, but I was sure I had hit the back of the catcher's helmet. I did that once in practice and he punched me in the shoulder so hard I couldn’t raise my arm for a week. 

I opened my eyes just in time to see the ball dropping on the other side of the fence. The guys on the field didn't know what to do and neither did I. I had never even gotten a base hit in a game. Then Coach ran out and started waving his hat at first base like a crazy man and I snapped right out of it.

I rounded the bases like the Babe at the World Series, and the crowd went nuts! Even Margeret Miller was clapping, and that was just about the best thing I had ever seen. In fact, I liked it so much that I couldn’t take my eyes off of it and I ran right into the catcher. I didn’t even feel us hit the ground though, I was numb to everything except her smile. The guys ran out to home plate and picked me up, patting my back and shaking my shoulders. They couldn’t believe it and neither could I. My first hit was a dinger. 

Once they had me on my feet I gave Margaret a smile. She gave me one right back. I still didn’t know how to ask her to the dance, but I felt a little better about what she might say.