I find myself wilting like a flower in the Florida heat on this sweltering Saturday afternoon. I find myself standing in the middle of a diamond-shaped desert. The terrain around me, a mixture. The burnt orange clay of the basepaths, browning under the sun; and the dying grass of the infield, also browning, its once greenness quickly becoming a memory. The sun turns all things brown eventually. Maybe one day that powerful, bright orb will devour the earth and turn all things that brown color. Maybe today that sun is out to devour me.
I sigh deeply and remove my blue and orange cap to wipe my brow. My brown hair is matted and damp. Maybe my hair started out a different color and the sun turned it brown some time ago. It is certainly possible. I watch as three large droplets of sweat fall off the bill of my cap and parachute towards the desert below. I am distracted. My eyes drift towards the scoreboard. Home: 0 Visitors : 5. Inning 1. I silently utter a word I've heard my father say before that I know I'm not allowed to say "Damn." I look at the desert floor below me in search of those three sweat droplets. They are nowhere to be found. The sun must have gotten to them, vaporizing them upon impact. I sneak a peek up to the stands to see if my mother saw me mouth the forbidden word. No sign of trouble. Not from her anyway. In this game that I love that I am playing I'm in big trouble. I think again of the score. Good Guys: 0 Bad Guys: 5. Two more Bad Guys on the basepaths. "Get your head in the game!" My father is pacing and yells at me from the dugout. He is my teacher, my trainer, my general manager, my agent, and my coach. The game I am playing is a passion we both share. Passed down from his father to him and now from him to me. We are a family of ballplayers. My little brother Danny joins my father in the dugout, our beloved bat boy and team spirit. My four beautiful sisters join my mother in the stands. My own personal cheering section in this diamond-shaped desert in this run-down facility
"Get your head in the game!" Right. The game. I can feel the ground shake as big bad Miles Lesnar approaches the batter's box in front of me. Hercules with a metal bat. Miles is so big and strong it hurts. I imagine him picking me up with one hand, holding me in front of him, and choking me out like a bad guy in one of my father's action movies. I imagine Miles ending my life right here on this diamond-shaped desert. He surely could if he wanted to. Hopefully someone will stop him if he tries. If this kid is twelve I must be six or seven. His turn to bat? Again? I already faced him once this inning. His gargantuan size and titanic strength spooked me and I walked him. Right away. On four pitches. I shake my head. I saw the look on my father's face when I chickened out and gave Miles the free pass to first. He has always taught me to go right after 'em. Especially when facing these bigger stronger kids. Especially when facing these gods among men. Miles steps into the batter's box. I stare at our catcher's glove to avoid Miles' hulking frame. Our catcher flashes signs and says something loud and obnoxious and encouraging. I ignore him. I need to focus. I tape somewhere deep inside and find the motivation to lock horns with this titan. Miles my friend, good luck catching up to this. I rear back and unleash my four-seam fastball. I come right after him. Of the four pitches in my arsenal, my four-seamer is my fastest, but perhaps my least effective pitch. This one comes out flat and straight.
A godly energy flows through Miles as he connects bat with baseball. He is Benjamin Franklin flying the kite with the metal key. Lightning strikes. Contact. I feel my beating heart sink into my stomach. My head whips around to follow the comet's trajectory. Miles obliterated this one. It whizzes over the head of our left fielder before he can even move. This comet strikes a plywood sign, hanging on our chain-link outfield fence. The ball falls to the ground. Everything moves in slow motion. Our left-fielder finally runs down the ball. "Move your ass Miles!" Miles' coach scolds him from the 1st base box. I laugh on the inside, tickled instantly by the swear word. Miles is still standing at home plate, the fear of his coach's voice compels him to begin his journey on the basepaths. This god among men reduced to an oversized boy lazy in the eyes of his coach. Miles certainly hit that ball hard enough for it to be a homerun. A few inches higher and Miles could have waltzed around the bases at a speed of his own choosing. Big Hercules pulls into 2nd base with a double. Both runners score. 7-0 Bad Guys. Our offense hasn't even gotten the ball yet and I've already spotted the opposition a touchdown. I will myself through the next batter and retire him on a popup to third. I had to tap into my reserve tank just to get out of the first inning. I may not need the rest of that reserve tank anyway. I doubt I'll finish this game on the mound.
Two days prior I caught a stomach bug and threw up on six separate occasions. One day prior I was held out of school to recover my health and prepare myself for today's game. "I need you to take the ball on Saturday son. Can you do this?" My dad asked. "You bet I can dad." I was invigorated by the challenge. Mom bought me chicken soup and children's Tylenol and I spent the day preparing mentally. Today was supposed to be the ultimate test of my grit and toughness. The two attributes my father values most. I look at the scoreboard on more time on my way to the dugout. As if staring at the score will somehow change it. Bad guys still have 7. Good guys still have 0. My father looks on from the dugout with the eyes of a loving father. He is stationed right at the door, eagerly anticipating my arrival. He places his massive, weathered hands on my shoulders. We are both fiery competitors. The undying flame of a fighter, a through line that connects our souls. I am disappointed in myself. I feel shame. I haven't been up to the challenge today. I am not tough. He is gonna take the ball from me and ask someone else to pitch the rest of this one. I practically want him to. Just put me out of my misery already. I turn away and escape his grasp. "Hey! Come back here kid." He looks me in the eyes. He sees the turmoil within me and expertly cultivates it into motivation. "Hang in there kid. Lot of game left."
