Meyers hits a blooper over the short stop’s head, putting him on first. Those hits are bitches and hard to catch. Infielders can’t back pedal fast enough and the outfielders can’t get there in time. I hate them. My name is called as my walkout song plays, Down and Out by Tantric. My picture, along with my stats, is plastered all over the Jumbo Tron and cheers ring out across the stadium. After one year, I feel like this is home…like Boston is home. The fans of Boston treat you as if you’re part of their family. I love walking the streets downtown and running into fans, especially the little ones.
I’m trying not to look, but my eyes seek her out anyway. She’s looking in my direction, leaning her arms on the dugout in front of her. With one last glance, I step into the batter’s box with one foot, keeping my left out until I’m ready to take the pitch. I adjust my batter’s gloves, step in fully and then adjust the sleeve on my shirt before settling the bat at my shoulder, ready to swing. The first pitch is a ball. I step out, clear the dirt in front of me and readjust my batting gloves. I’m consciously trying not to adjust my cup right now even though it’s sitting slightly awkward. As it is, I’ll be all over the BoRe’s page tomorrow since I gave the third base cutie the ball. I don’t want to read how many times I touched myself too.
I know I’m swinging as soon as I see the ball. My lower half starts to swing as I keep my eye on the center of the ball. The fast ball is spinning its way to the plate and as soon as I feel my bat connect with the white leather, I’m pushing my swing out. I drop the bat and watch the ball fly deep over left field. Meyers is holding at first, waiting for our first base coach, Shawn Smith, to give him the okay. I’m half way to first when I hear Smith yell, “Home-run!” and the fireworks go off. It doesn’t matter how many times I hear them, I still jump when the first boom happens.
Smith gives me a high-five as I touch first. My pace is a slow jog as I round each base, getting another high-five when I get to third. I want to look over, but I don’t. Not this time.
I look at the scoreboard from the on-deck circle. It’s the bottom of the ninth with two outs. Unless we go on some miraculous run, the game is over and we’ve lost, giving us our second loss in a row.
The Orioles coach calls for a time-out and approaches the mound. This gives Meyers, our right fielder, the opportunity for us to talk. Actually, it gives me the ability to stare at the girl that has held my attention all night. After my home-run, I thought I could focus on the game, but each time I came up to bat, or went out to the field, I was looking to see if she was staring… and she was, which really stroked my ego.
I meet Meyers half way between the on-deck circle and home plate. Usually, we’d stand back or talk to the third base coach, but there’s no coming back from this defeat. When I reach him I can tell he’s frustrated; we all are. We’re a far better team than what our record shows. Even though it’s still very early, our expectations are much higher and with the road trip coming up, we have got to get out of this funk, fast… before it’s too late.
“This ump is calling shit.” Meyers kicks the dirt around his feet.
“Has been all night.” On any given night it’s either in your favor or not. Some umpires come into a game with a chip on their shoulder. They remember everything and they don’t let you forget it. They say once the game is over, it’s over. Umpires don’t feel that way.
“Play ball!” the umpire yells.
Meyers goes back to home plate and settles in for what could be his last pitch. If he gets on base, I’m up. If he strikes out, my night is over. I rest my bat on my shoulder and watch - not Meyers, but the girl in the hat. She’s leaning forward, resting her elbows on the dugout. I had every intention of finding an usher during the seventh inning, but lost my nerve. I don’t know how that’d be received if Diamond was to find out, and short of going into the stands the second the game is over, I’m running out of options.
It’s a swing and foul ball for Meyers, still giving me hope. The girl hasn’t moved and something tells me that she’s focused on me. I should be focused on the game, but I’m not.