We find ourselves in the bottom of inning number five. The second to last frame. The score: Bad Guys: 7 Good Guys: 6. As my dad would say; 1-0. The once insurmountable deficit shaved all the way down to a skinny, solitary 1. I drove in a run on a bullet up the middle and came around to score in the previous frame. My late game resurgence on the mound coinciding with a big day at the plate. Our dugout is alive with belief. Our masks of fatigue and defeat traded in for a lively confidence and bravado. The Bad Guys are wearing the masks of defeat now. All of the momentum is ours. Instead of sitting alone and seething as I did earlier, I join my teammates standing with anticipatory energy in the dugout.
"We've got 'em now!" Russell slaps me on the back with so much enthusiasm it stings. I playfully sock him in the arm. I hold my index finger up to my closed mouth. "Shhhhhh." I silence Russell, squashing the threat to our rally like a bug. The others look on in the dugout knowingly. Everyone is thinking about it. No one is talking about it. It is bad luck to talk about a comeback before it is over. Russell and I chit chat to fill the time. Burning off some of our ancy energy. "Did I miss anything at school yesterday?" Now that I seem to be over it, I wear my sickness and absence from school like a badge of honor. "Pssshh as if." Russell grimaces dramatically. "I'm still jelly you got to play hooky." "I didn't play hooky Russell, I was up all night yaking all over the place." "Ya right whatever." Russell jokes. "I told my Mom I was throwing up but she made me go anyway. It's not fair." "Are you kidding me? It is fair Russell. I was really sick." "Sureee, sure you were mhmm." Russell drags out the r in sure for emphasis. Sarcastic little jokester. Russell just won't give me the satisfaction. The teasing is all in good fun. Russell's the funniest kid I know.
I turn my attention back to the game. Two outs and our worst two batters are up next. Esteban and Anthony. I look at my father across the diamond-shaped desert and can see the wheels of strategy turning in his mind. They are turning in my mind too. My father and I discuss our Little League business constantly, only pausing for dinner or to chat briefly with another family member. We discuss everything from lineup options, to player by player development analysis, to the strengths and weaknesses of the opposing teams in our league. We literally eat, breathe, in, and sleep baseball together. We both love every second of it. I know what he is thinking in this situation. Get Esteban on, anyway we can. Allow Anthony to make the last out. Clearing the bottom of the order and allowing us to start the 6th and final inning with the top of the lineup. I see my father give Esteban the sign to lay down a bunt. Good idea. Esteban can't hit a lick. Esteban drops down a beauty. The Bad Guy's catcher fumbles with his mask and trips over his own feet on the way to the ball. Esteban is safe at first. I pump my fist in the dugout, already eyeing the rally in our final frame. Now Anthony can strike out as he often does, with minimal damage. Anthony begins his turn at-bat and I see my father whisper something to Esteban down at 1st base. What's that all about? The pitcher delivers and Esteban takes off for second base! My father told him to steal. What on earth? Esteban is not fleet of foot and my father knows this! Why risk advancing with our worst batter at the plate? I watch the play unfold in slow motion. I know the conclusion before it even happens. Esteban is only halfway to second base when the throw beats him there. He is out by what seems like a literal mile. Inning over. Anthony, still looking for his first hit of the season, will bat again and leadoff our final frame.
My father's face falls. An unforced error. A potentially critical error. I can feel some of the momentum leaking out of our dugout, like someone letting helium out of a balloon. I meet my Dad again on the mound on his way into our dugout. He's kicking himself in silence. Even coaches make mistakes. Even fathers make errors. "We've got this dad." I slap him on the back with my glove. "Lot of game left." There isn't. But my Dad knows what I mean. I pick him up just as he picked me up. I say nothing about the mental error just as he said nothing about the seven run opening frame. Bad Guys: 7. Good Guys: 6. The final frame. Lot of game left.
