My breaths were shallow and stuttered. This is just like practice, I repeated to myself, relax. I felt my heartbeat spike as I walked onto the field with my fellow teammates. I grabbed onto the leg of my uniform forcing myself forward. We were walking onto a battlefield, and I was leading the way. Our gloves, our weapons, snuggly tucked around our hands. Stepping on the pitcher’s mound felt almost as shameful as stepping onto hollow ground. I didn’t deserve to be here.
It was Joe Childer’s mound. My brother was the greatest baseball player our high school team had ever seen. And in the small town of Ridge River, baseball mattered. In fact, it carried so much importance that old Lucky Rodgers would close the diner during all the Sharks’s games. If we won, he would give everyone at the game a free late night burger. Lucky never closed the diner for games anymore. After my brother left the team to play for the Cornhuskers, our baseball team was no longer a free meal ticket.
Now 5 years later, there was a spark of hope for the Ridge River Sharks. A Childer was start pitcher again. My head started to spin as the crowd roared with excitement. The amphitheater was full of goons wearing blue Shark shirts and banging thundersticks. Throughout the stands, I saw people pointing to me with eager eyes. “That’s the little baseball protégé!” they yelled past the chaos. My blood coursed swifter than before as tried to shut them out of my mind.
The ref handed me the ball as he walked onto the field in his armored glory. “Whew Childer, you’re going to need this or maybe a few more to match your brother,” he said wiping the sweat from his upper lip. He and the catcher both looked at me from the batting cage, and I could trace a smile from behind their face guards. I wished I had a face guard; I needed more protection than them. Or maybe I just needed to rip the letters off the back of my shirt. My hand began fumbling around the ball, the object of all this terror. I watched the stadium lights rattle on as the crowd fell silent.
Then, I saw my first opponent released from the den. He wasn’t anything intimidating however much it seemed at the time, a slim 5’ 9’’ with a favored left leg probably resulting from some minor injury during the week. Regardless, Gimp had a confident air. His chin was raised so I could see his stubble growing around his jaw. He held the bat loosely and cocked his helmet back getting into position. The silver aluminum of the bat gleamed in response to the overbearing lights. The strategy was set, fastball down the middle. I wound up focusing on nothing but the dirt path leading straight to the catcher’s mitt. This was my chance. I would either be a part of the Childer legacy or Joe’s little brother through the rest of my high school career.
“Ball 1,” called the ref. Wait, I thought, I didn’t remember letting go! Did I really throw it? I wound up again focusing on technique. “Ball 2”. My stomach started to quickly sink. I wiped my palm on my pant leg grasping the ball tightly, squeezing the toxins out. As Gimp walked to first, I felt the crowd sigh in disappointment. I dared not to even look at their faces. Gimp tossed his bat carelessly then looked back at me and smirked. Then, he sluggishly took his time down to the base emphasizing his leg injury.
The game continued. I managed 2 outs mostly out of eagerness from early swingers, but the Bangles were ahead with 3 runs. Just one more out until I can be officially taken out of this game, I said to myself. The crowd suddenly riled with cheer. I did it. A perfect throw, a curveball to the right, an out. As the game past, I gained more confidence. I hit beautifully and scored twice. My pitch was getting more consistent and the crowd applauded in unison beating their sticks against the seats. The scoreboard flashed numbers higher and higher on the home side. The whites of people’s teeth were the most vivid memory of the night.
From the corner of my eye as I took back to the field, I saw Lucky Rodgers standing by the bleachers (there wasn’t a single empty spot). He must have closed shop once he had heard the Sharks were winning for the first time in five years. During halftime, I went looking to buy a pack of gum. Luckily, there was no line at the concessions. “Double Bubble,” I said running my hand over my hat head.
“Dollar” said the lady tossing my gum over the counter. I slipped her a one, and thanked her with a wave as I turned back for the dugout readily peeling away at the gum wrapper.
“Now don’t go taking all my business away this season,” she chuckled. “Else Ol’ Lucky is sure to give me a run for my money.”
I glanced over at the concession stand admiring at the empty lines for a minute then preceded. Under my breath I smiled and chanted, “Go Sharks”.
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