The I in Team

“So this it it son. You feelin nervous?”

My eyes were glued to the pine trees of the interstate road, the trees not standing out in particular, but making up the unit of beauty that always caused my Dad to take the back road. 

“Nah, I’ll be alright.”

“Well you know, my High School team was only a half game back of the playoffs with a game to go, of course I was more of a pitcher than a reliable bat. I ended up getting dinged around a bit, but thankfully our reliever…”

He continued his monologue on and on until we made it to the field. I, however, was preoccupied with my own thoughts. For 4 years I had been in the Arkansas Legion League, and for 4 years I had been at the bottom of the barrel. At 15 I was more or less a pinch runner, speed always being my natural talent. At 16 I was more or less a defensive option, batting ninth in games against offensive power-houses. At 17 I was given the honor of the 8-hole hitter, but even then I was constantly pinch hit for.

Yet at 18 things took a turn. Mediocrity and indignity I no longer accepted. While all my other teammates partied and kicked back in the winter, I was at the cages any chance I could be. Mornings for me weren’t for sleeping, but for hitting the weights. In a word, I finally put some stock into me. 

And it paid off. As we continued driving down the highway I took a peek at the worn piece of paper I had crumpled in the front pocket of my bag all year. Through all the eraser shavings I could make out, 

Homeruns: 3

Extra-base hits: 20

Average: .295

“But even if it ain’t your best day, you got some good teammates…” I heard my Dad continue as I tuned in for a moment. The paper however was more important.

That average. .295. Just not good enough. The league's all star committee almost never selected someone with a sub-300 average. Certainly not someone who was dependable only for a double off the wall and not a long shot (even after lifting, I still was smaller in stature). Yet, being one of the league's best in terms of extra-base hits and steals, I knew that I could win the honor with just two hits this game. 

We pulled into the driveway with half an hour to go until gametime. An even amount of players were tossing to each other, meaning I had to join in with Richie and Chase. The two players were only 16, and were our 7th and 8th hole hitters. Good to get on base but their numbers were not too impressive.

“I think this team's light," Chase boasted. “I mean they're out of it right, I don’t even think they're putting in their normal starter.”

Good to know. A third-string pitcher may leave a lot hanging over the plate.

“Yeah, I mean as long as you're not in the lineup we’ll be fine,” Richie jested.

“Shut up, it’s a righty I haven’t seen you hit a righty in weeks.” 

This type of banter continued for a few minutes. I however was trying to eye up their pitcher, seeing what stuff he could have.

Finally Chase called, “Hey what about it Chuck, you gonna carry us over the finish line?”, clearly out of a sense of gesture.

“Yeah we’ll see,” I deflected, keeping my attention solely on the pitcher. Fastball and changeup was all I could make out from deep right field where we were throwing. “Sit fastball”, I muttered to myself. I knew I could catch up to it.

Warmups broke and I checked the lineup board. I had to crack a smile. Hitting 2nd, Charles Kline. 

The coach gathered us together and we all got on one knee. Coach was an old timer, and gave a speech that in essence I had heard constantly over the past four seasons. 

“Alright team it all goes down to this. At this point nothing is personal. All that matters is the guy to your right, and the guy to your left. I don’t need to remind you guys we have one shot. And I know the team in front of us aint playing for much, but that also means they don’t have a lot to lose. If we stick to our game we can all meet together next week. Alright boys Freddy, Chuck, and Bryce will lead off after we take the field. Let’s make it happen!”

After a 1-2-3 inning, Freddy got up to the plate and belted the first pitch he saw into shallow right field for a single. He turned around first and did his salute to the cheering dugout beside me. “I really wanted to see one Freddy,” I muttered to myself as I dropped my bat's weight.

I walked up to the box and tapped the edges of the plate, crouching down slightly as I raised my hands over my head. I took a deep breath. “Let's get this settled,” I whispered. The pitcher raised his knee above his hip, tilting slightly to the third baseman, and hurled.

“Strike one!”

“Time!”, I called to the ump. Not expecting that. A heater I expected, but on the outside corner with that type of juice I did not see coming. However, one thing I learned from all my years was that when a pitcher gets someone that good, they’ll tap back to that again.

I entered the plate and moved my hands up on the bat ever so slightly. The pitcher wound up again and threw another heater on the corner. I did a small toe tap forward, and swatted it to right center field. As I ran to first I kept my eye on the ball, worried that it hung a bit more in the air than would be ideal. But sure enough it dropped, touching the wall while I touched 2nd, standing. “Another extra base hit, and an RBI”, I thought. 

The pitcher looked flustered. I egged him on a little bit, taking a long lead. As he looked back to me, I looked him dead in the eyes and moved not an inch. I knew he wouldn’t risk another mistake. Next pitch he threw he spiked into the dirt and I ran into third easily. A sacrifice fly got me home. Adding a stolen base and a run would not hurt, I thought. I walked into the dugout, getting some high fives. As everyone was focusing on the next batter I snuck to my bag, adding an extra base hit toward the total.

Next two innings went without much interest, the opposing pitcher settling down, and our pitcher matching him, only giving up a solo homerun in the bottom of the second. The fact the opponent had only allowed one baserunner resulted in me leading off the bottom of the fourth. 

I took a deep breath as I walked to the plate. This could be it, as long as I kept my focus.

“C’mon Chucky! Little insurance, a little insurance!”

The pitcher wound up and threw. I swung at the ball eating inside. Change up. Every so slightly out in front. “Strike one!”

Ok. He’s got me thinking slow, I bet he’s gonna heat it up. The next pitch came. I swung. 

“Strike two!” Change up again. Now he thought he had me all figured out, that he’d throw another change up, figuring I’d assume he’d mix it up and throw a fastball. The pitch came.

“Strike three!” It was slow, as expected, but with some movement, a slider that just shook hands with the outside corner. “Dang”, I muttered as I slunk back into the dugout.

“Alright Brycey, pick him up!”, coach hollered.

The next three innings were tense for everyone involved, myself included. No offense had been generated at all as their pitcher found his groove. Our pitcher managed to grind out innings as well, although allowing more baserunners than his opponent. As for me, I was just hoping I’d get the chance to bat again.

And so it was the bottom of the six, the last inning of regulation. We really didn’t have the bullpen fire-power to keep the thing going, and so the growing consensus was that this was it. The 8th, 9th, and leadoff were due. 

Chase, in the eight hole, managed to work a walk, our first base runner since the third. I took a deep breath knowing that I’d have my chance. I walked in the warm up area away from the field. “Just one hit and it’s yours”, I kept telling myself.

However some other voices were drowning the voice of my mind. “One big knock, c’mon!”, “One hit away!”, and the like. It made me think about the other guys for a moment. They were playing to play series more of games together. I was playing to play with none of these guys.

A little scattered, I saw the nine hole kid slip one into left to set two runners on the corners. A walk off hit away. “I may not even get my shot”.

Freddy came up to the plate as the atmosphere grew and grew. Parents, even the quieter and to themselves types were now beginning to get riled up from the suspense. Freddy looked at the first pitch. Strike. Next pitch was at his chest. He swung out of his shoes anyway. Strike two. One more slider on the inside corner looking ensured it was all up to me. 

“Come on Chuckie boy, you the man Chuckie boy!” I began to hear my teammates holler. They continued hollering with phrases of the like, “Just a little hit”, “You got it man,” and so on. Rowdiness that I’m sure the stadium downtown couldn’t emulate. Among them all I heard my Dad, “You got it Chuck, be the hero.”

I dug my heels into the box and took a deep breath. I tapped the plate as had been my ritual. I looked to the runners on the corners who were looking, hoping, right back at me. The pitcher brought his knee to his chest and delivered the ball home.

Candy. Hanger right down broadway.

I rotated my hips and swung at the ball as hard as I could.

I made contact. Not a homerun, not even a sure single, but a dribbler down third.

But I was fast. I raced down the first base line not looking at the ball but towards the first base coach cheering me on. As I was feet from first I saw the ball whiz in front of me. Throwing error. The first baseman ran after the ball but it was too late. I jumped on first and got ready for the rush of my teammates. Hugs and cheers drowned me all around. 

“This is it”, I thought through it all. “This is perhaps what it truly is all about.”

As I walked back I learned from the coach that the play would be scored an error. I frowned for a bit, but in the end continued to embrace the team.