The next pitch is high and inside, brushing me off the plate. The crowd surrounding me has a few choice words for the pitcher, who is stoic. It’s the way he should be, no emotion. Maybe he felt like I was crowding the plate and is sending me a subtle reminder that this is his territory right now. What he’s forgetting is that I own him with a count of three and zero. As far as I’m concerned, I’m about to take a walk to first base, loading the bases for Singleton.
The pitch is delivered, and the ball is the fucking meatball I’ve been waiting for all night. This is that moment when I can either stand here and take the strike, because that is what’s expected of me and I’ll still be ahead in the count, or I can swing for the fences.
If I swing, it has to be full on through the hips with a follow through so hard that the bat is smacking against my shoulder blades. I need to make him pay for giving me the fastball I love so much, the one right down the middle.
The motion of my bat is automatic, as if it knows it wants a piece of that white-leather-red-stitched ball flying toward us. My eyes follow the ball as it smacks hard against the grain of my Louisville. The deafening crack has the catcher saying, “Oh shit.” I let out a battle cry as the bat hits my shoulders before it slowly comes back around and hangs to my side as I watch the ball fly to dead center. The Oriole outfielders are running back, both left and center, wondering which one is going to catch it. Meyers and Bainbridge are tagged and ready to run on the catch; Bainbridge will score easily.
The crowd is hushed as we all watch the ball sail through the air, no doubt each of us wondering if it has enough height to clear the wall. The centerfielder crashes into the wall just as the ball clears the boundaries. Everyone erupts as I drop the bat and take my required run around the bases, slapping hands with our first and third base coaches when I run by them.
After a homerun, stepping on home plate is something different. Your team is there to meet you, to celebrate with you. When you turn to see the scoreboard, what was just a zero now reads three. We’re now only down one run and we need to hold them so we can come back and win this thing.
We’re pumped when we return to the dugout, cheering Singleton on. When he takes the first pitch and hits it out of the park into right field the announcer is yelling, “BACK-TO-BACK HOMERUNS!” and now we’re meeting him at home plate. That’s when I glance at Daisy and John who are both cheering, right along with everyone else in the stadium. She doesn’t see me staring, giving me a brief moment to just look at her.
There’s a soft glow about her, which could be the overhead lights, but I don’t think it is. I think she looks happy and I hope it’s because of me.
We lose.
Singleton’s homerun was as close as we got. We gave up two more runs, losing four to six. And now I’m sitting at a long table, dirty and sweaty, waiting for a press conference to start. Right now I’d like to go back to the time when I didn’t have press access so I could be in the shower or resting in the whirlpool instead of here.
My name gets called, and I take a drink of water, waiting for their question.
“How did the homerun feel tonight?”
Who comes up with these questions?
“Uh… I guess it felt good. I mean it brought in some runs and built some momentum.”
The next question goes to Bainbridge and the following question to Manager Diamond. I sit there, wondering why the hell I’m here. I can’t provide an eloquent answer and honestly, all the cameras make me slightly nervous.
“Ethan, are you looking forward to the All-Star break?”
“Yes,” I say into the microphone. “It’s a good time for us to regroup and have a little fun.”
Diamond excuses Bainbridge and me from the press conference while he stays to finish up. Surely, they’re going to attack him more than they will us. They know if they’re not nice, we’ll stop speaking. Diamond, on the other hand, doesn’t have a choice. It’s his job, whether he likes it or not.