Triple Play

One heartbeat.

Larry looks nervous. He does not like to pitch this many innings. I do not like to play catcher for this many innings either. I am the best catcher on the team because I can snag the ball quicker and throw to second more accurately than anyone else, but I am still scared of getting thrown at. I am tall, thin, and hesitant. Standing four inches shorter than any other kid on our team, Larry talks bigger and faster than any two of us combined. He throws faster too, and he is very proud of that.

“I’m telling you Chris, I can pitch faster than any of those other kids can see,” Larry has bragged to me many times.

As his catcher though, I know the truth. Larry can throw a total of twenty-two pitches faster than any of the kids in our league can see. That is about two perfect innings worth of pitches, give or take a few foul balls. We are in the bottom of the tenth inning now, and Larry has been pitching nothing but fastballs for the last four of those. I know he is tired. Larry knows he is tired. The enemy knows he is tired. They can see his pitches now.

We are not a good team, we have been given the ugliest violet jersey’s, and the standings have already told us that we are going to miss the playoffs. Our opponent, dressed in their bright and sharp orange jerseys, is clinched to make the playoffs though. They are a good team. Yet somehow today, we are contending with them. We have pushed the game to an extra inning and are ahead by a single run. In the dugout, just before the inning, I felt in all my teammates the desperation to get the win before our luck ran out.

He is a good hitter, the kid at bat. I recognize him because his cheeks are always bright red. His orange uniform makes his flush cheek seem even brighter. He is full of blood, lively, and ready. Already, Cheeks has two RBI’s this game. The runner on second is a good hitter. Earlier in the inning, he snagged one of Larry’s fastballs for a grounder cutting past our shortstop Marvin and our third basemen Korey. The runner on first was not a good hitter, he struck me as a touch lazy. He had dragged the bat behind him when he walked to home plate. But coach had ordered Larry to throw curveballs, which Larry hates throwing, and the kid got a free walk to first base. He walked there very slowly.

Our present enemy is no slouch, so I signal a curveball as coach ordered. We have no outs and are only ahead by one in the bottom of the tenth. If we can hold here, we win. If Larry can hold here, we win.

Two heartbeats.

Larry shakes his head. I see in his eyes what he is going to do. He begins the wind up without waiting for a signal. Larry, not the… I do not have time to get anxious as I brace for Larry’s fastball.

Three heartbeats.

Larry throws the ball with all his pride, rotating his shoulder to give the projectile its maximum velocity. The moment he sees the pitch, Cheeks lets out a slight grunt.

“That’s how it is then,” I imagine Cheeks thinking, “Mano-a-mano, Shortie.”

The problem with a fastball is that it is predictable. The baseball is going only one direction to a single place: straight through the middle. It is a challenge from the pitcher to the batter to swing as fast as the ball is thrown. But Larry was not throwing as fast anymore, and our enemy, Cheeks as I had dubbed him, knew exactly where to swing. A metallic ringing burst in front of me as the bat connected with the ball right in the middle of the strike zone.

Four heartbeats.

Before I can panic, my eyes track the ball and I am relieved to see it is an infield pop fly, an easy catch for the pitcher. The ball floats lazily at the top of its arc as the bright white orb sits before the backdrop of a twilight sky. Larry is already waving his arm, signaling that he has the catch. I make a note in my head that one enemy is down. Cheeks knows it too. He only runs a few steps before slowing as he watches the falling symbol of his demise. The runner at second waits. The runner at first waits. Larry waits to catch the ball.

Five heartbeats.

Six heartbeats.

As the ball nears Larry’s glove, disaster strikes. Larry knows what everyone else knows, this catch is a done deal, as simple as putting on a hat. Immediately, I see in Larry’s eyes what he is thinking. He looks behind him to see if he can throw out the runner at second. A single out is not enough for Larry, not when it comes so easy to him, he wants a double play.

With his eyes off the ball Larry’s glove dipped and the ball fell right out of it with a pitiful plop. I take an involuntary step forward out of alarm. We need this out. We need this win. There are three runners on. We need an out Larry, go get it!

Seven heartbeats.

The crowd in the stands erupt as they see the tragedy. I cannot tell for sure, but I think I hear Larry’s mom yelling the loudest. I must admit, that as a general rule I get a little stuck on the small tragedies that inevitably spring up throughout daily life. I freeze up and am prepared to stand there for another five seconds just gawking at the blunder.

Larry had already moved on. I know he dropped the ball. The crowd knows he dropped the ball, and Larry definitely knows that he dropped the ball. However, since Larry is facing away from the rest of the infield, the other players are not aware of what just transpired. Larry still has a goal in his mind, a beacon drawing him ever forward, demanding he go ever quicker. Larry wanted to make a double play. He snatched the ball off the sand and ran for the runner on second base. The poor kid barely had time to take three steps towards third. He, like everyone else there, had been caught by surprise when Larry did not make the easy catch. The disaster for our team had turned into an unmitigated disaster for the enemy.

Eight heartbeats.

The runner on second is easily tagged out by the speedy little pitcher. Lanky Marvin waves his long arms to motion to Larry to step on second base. As soon as Larry’s foot touches the bag, he has secured his preposterous double play and we have one out to go. Larry does not run to second base. He runs to first base, because Larry sees drama unfolding on first base and an even bigger prize has arisen in his mind. Larry wants a triple play.

Nine heartbeats.

I turn to see what Larry sees and I scoff at the sight. The runner on first does not know what is happening at all. He is turned away from everyone else and staring off into the wide-open expanse of the sky. And what else would he do? It was the easiest catch in the history of catches. Cheeks lands on first base and starts yelling at his teammate to run. The kid is confused and shakes his head, pointing that Cheeks is supposed to go to the bench. Then suddenly Larry is there and tags each with the baseball. He spins around just as quickly and with a shout of triumph he raises his hand as high as he can reach with three fingers sticking out. Larry has done the impossible: he made the triple play. We won.

Ten heartbeats.

In an instant everyone on our team has tackled Larry. The infield tackled him, the outfield has tackled him, and everyone on the bench has tackled him. A pile of ugly violet jerseys crowds first base. This game did not affect playoffs. They were a better team than us overall, but on that day we proved superior. In that tenth heartbeat, I did not know that later the umpire would rule it as a double play. I did not know that Larry, with his tired arm, would give up 3 more runs before the game was done. It would not have mattered to me, because in that moment Larry and his ridiculous insistence to always go fast had triumphed.