𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲 | 𝐛. 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐳

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 | 𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧

I STAND IN THE DUGOUT, next to Daniel. He bites his thumbnail. Tony Marshall, the first batter made it to first, then second, and now sits at third, waiting for the run of a lifetime. The second batter, Mark Smith, hit a beautiful pop-fly... right into the center-field-man's glove. He's the first out of this half of the inning. The third batter, Gregory Thompson, made it to first, then second. The batter after him, number four, Thomas Grey, made a sprint to first base and made it by the skin of his teeth. Cal steps out of the on-deck circle, approaching the Batter's box. I watch as he inhales slowly and exhales sharply. He taps the bat on his cleats, his 'trademarked' good luck symbol. He raises the bat, taking his stance over the plate. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat as bile threatens to spill out of my mouth. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. It pounds so loud I can barely focus. I watch as the pitch flies forward. Cal swings, his bat connecting with the ball. It flies to the right towards first. No. Not good. He drops the bat, running quickly towards the plate. But the Astros are quicker today. He doesn't make it. He runs back, shaking his head as he grabs his bat.
     "Dammit, Lennon! Your plan didn't work! We're screwed now!" He shouts, his cheeks red.
     I furrow my brows and shake my head. He doesn't get to be mad at me. We still have a shot.
     "Benny still has a shot at getting this. Benny could help us!" I shout.
     He shakes his head, looking over at Benny as he tosses his helmet onto the bench.
     "If I couldn't hit that pitch, there's no way Benny will." He says.
     I glare at him and shake my head. I hope he understands that the look on my face is in pure disgust. I approach Benny before he goes to the Batter's box.
     "Benny!" I say. "You've got this. We're all rooting for you. Just keep calm, stay grounded. You're gonna do great."
     He nods and approaches the Batter's box. He won't talk to me. Not even a simple thanks or anything like that. He's angry at me. He steps to the plate, spreading his feet apart, about shoulder-width. He steadies himself and assumes the position, raising his arms. I watch the catcher signal a pitch to the pitcher. He nods, raises his arm, then his leg and pitches. The ball flies fast, directly to the left of the strike zone. Benny's bat doesn't move. The umpire nods, putting up one finger on his left hand—a ball.
     "Ball!" He shouts, his voice carrying low and deep into my ears.
     Benny licks his lips and reaches up to his collar, quickly. A thin gold chain sits around his neck, a small cross linked to the chain. He squeezes it and returns to his bat. He raises it, eyeing the pitcher. The pitcher looks to the catcher, nods, shakes his head, nods again. He raises the glove, then his leg, and then pitches. The ball soars over the plate, straight through the strike zone. Benny moves this time, his bat swinging sharply. The ball, however, soars over the top of the bat. He recoils and exhales, shaking out his hands. The umpire raises one finger on his right hand—a strike.
     "Strike!" The umpire shouts, the words hitting me like a ton of bricks.
     Benny looks over his right shoulder, looking back at us. Daniel steps forward, stepping into the stairs, nodding to Benny. Benny looks back at the pitcher, awaiting the next pitch. The pitch comes, fast and smooth. It flies through the strike zone and another strike makes its way onto the umpires hand. Then, another ball makes it. And another—A full count. Benny shakes his head, biting his lip. I look at Daniel. He looks like he'll puke any second. I look back at Benny, swallowing the bile in my throat. The pitcher nods at the catcher and looks around at his fields-men. He looks back at Benny and raises his glove. He raises his leg and throws the ball. The ball flies forward in slow-motion. The whole stadium goes deadly silent in that moment. Benny narrows his eyes and moves. He swings the bat, the wood connecting with the ball. The ball soars into the sky, flying towards the outfield. Benny drops the bat, sprinting for first. When he makes it to first, he continues to second. Tony Marshall runs to first, cheering as he runs past the home base. Behind him, Gregory Thompson makes a dead sprint for home. He makes it as well, jumping up and down with Tony. Benny sprints from second to third, taking the place of Thomas Grey who now runs over to home. It's not until after Thomas makes it that I notice Benny running in this direction as well. I start to cheer. Benny can do this. He can do this. Suddenly, he's in between third and home. The third-baseman and the catch now throw the ball back and forth, pickling Benny. I look up at Smalls who is obviously on his feet. I watch as Benny runs as fast as he can past the catcher while the third-baseman has the ball. His feet hit the home plate and I can breathe again.
     "Yes, Benny! Way to go!" I cheer, watching him hug his teammates who wait for him at the home plate.
     He looks over at me, a smile on his lips. He nods, returning to his friends. Maybe I broke the mold—maybe I broke the prejudice in him. Either way, I win. Benny acknowledged me. Benny acknowledged me.