The Forest

The Ball Field

It was top of the ninth, the diamond was loaded and standing nervously on the pitcher's mound was Jack, about to throw his first pitch ever in the game of baseball. His teammates stood yelling and chanting from the dugout. Their fingers woven together, clutching the metal wires tightly, uniting in song.

"Hey batter, batter, batter..."

The score: 7-9. The opposing team was ahead by two. Jack was feeling the uncomfortable glory of a win within reach just minutes before his coach asked him to step up.

"Jack," he yelled, waving his arms, running onto the field. The crowd, questioning the intermission as the coach knelt down in front of Jack at second base.

"I need to ask you something buddy. How would you feel about stepping in and pitching for me, for the team...right now? We need to put in a replacement and I think you might be the guy for the job."

Jack stood there quietly, fidgeting with a loose string on his glove.

"I've seen you pitch before Jack. You and your mom pitched at that practice field over on Elm Ave. a few weeks ago. I watched you. I thought you were pretty good at it. And I think you'd make a good pitcher," he said tapping Jack's good arm in a display of reassurance.

"What do you say we get you warmed up?"

Jack, flushed by all the attention, looked up and convincingly agreed.

"Alright Coach. I'll do it."

"That's what I want to hear kid. Awesome. Now let's get you in there."

Jack ran off the field with the flickering of lights above making their appearance as the night sky intensified and the stars went out. His coach approached the mound to relieve his pitcher. A few little girls were seen rummaging around the fence outside the dugout, chasing fly balls, entertaining Charlie and a few stray dogs known to visit. The outfield was bored and the rest of the team was smoothing out bits of red clay an effort to look productive. The bases were already leading off in their attempt to steal as the crowd began clapping, watching the team reassemble itself on the field again with the game about to start.

In the audience was a man, sitting on the edge of his seat, hands wrapped firmly around the warped, paint-chipped board he sat on. A glass jar with a message rested next to him. His face soft, but stern, with eyebrows thick enough to catch raindrops and an uneven smile that hinted at concern. It was his grandfather.

"Come on Jack, you can do this!" his mom shouted from the sideline not far away. On the pitch, Jack cradled the ball in his glove, eyes discretely tracing the baseline from one bag to the next before centering back on his batter. Without warning, he let go the ball and watched as it sailed high across home base.

"Ball," the umpire screamed. The batter didn't even flinch and muted cheers were drowned out by a distant but unmistakable sound coming from the bleachers. It was the sound of a single stone rattling from inside a jar. A message of encouragement and mental strength coming from the weathered hands of a man he knew well.

Jack threw another ball that landed short, leaving a fine mist of dirt on the plate in its wake. The batter, now gripping the bat with intention, demanded a better pitch. His weight shifting from side to side as he chomped on a piece of gum, flavoring his mind with ego.

The third pitch was bound to be a strike he thought. If only he could remember everything he practiced and repeat it with the consistency he knew he had. Feeling the pressure of his opponents taunting him from every angle on the loaded bases behind him, he launched an attack over the plate.

His mom, now pacing alongside the fence of little girls huddled together, tried to keep warm. And Charlie, curled up atop a patch of grass seemed to be working on a plan to chew through the leash that tied him to the fence pole. The opposing team, excited with optimism, rallied as another call from the man behind the plate was starting a pattern.

"Ball 3!" he shouted.

"That's ok Jack, it's alright. Concentrate." He could still hear the whispers from his mom in his head.

His pitch curved inside the base, narrowly missing the batter's left leg and leaving him with one last chance to prove himself. Jack retreated in defeat, his heart heavy, dragging elements of shame back to the mound of dirt he felt he didn't deserve. His thoughts of greatness were slowly smoldering in the midst of cheers from the crowd, all of which were a confusing mix of sounds. His mind felt like a punching bag, and it didn't take long to lose the battle of hope he held as he struggled to regain a sense of self-worth.

"Why did coach put me in, I'm not good enough to pitch," he said under his breath. The tower lights above began to flicker and fight with that unmistakable rattle he heard again, confirming he was right. Those vaguely recognized sounds of encouragement and strength were competing and trying to survive in the center of his world.

His coach had been silent up to this point. But a well-timed call and backing of confidence ordered a roaring bullet that cut through the air with a scent of rage. The ball landed perfectly in the hands of his pitcher. The batter swung around with the weight of his bat and the conviction of his goal.

And Jack threw his first strike.

Just like the rough and torn knuckles of humility graced a glass jar in the middle of a baseball field, in the middle of a town, in the middle of the mountains, Jack went on to pitch a no hitter.

His team would lose the game but they never gave up.

Jack, his mom, dog Charlie, and grandfather all walked out of the park together. His grandad, walking by his side, braised his arm with a little "love punch" and a few words as he handed him the message heard rattling in the jar.

"Jack, remember this.  That one person alone cannot always change the game, but sometimes the game can change just one person."

The field, leaving a raw and lasting impression of wild beauty and resilience, insisted it be known.

And a kid noticed.