𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲 | 𝐛. 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐳

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 - 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 | 𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧

"TONIGHT'S GAME AGAINST THE ARIZONA DIAMONDBACKS IS JUST GETTING INTERESTING. Usually, the Diamondbacks don't have the strength to fight the Dodgers as intensely, but tonight, they're giving their all and fight with heart. In fact, they're up by one as the seventh inning stretch comes to a close. We have to stay positive and hope the Dodgers can pull ahead." I say.
I put away the microphone and return to the dugout, sitting beside Cal.
"What you did today, warning Benny, was not legal. You stole confidential property owned by another team. If this gets back to the Yankees' big guys, your job is toast." He says.
I exhale sharply and nod, taking a hand full of sunflower seeds from his bag.
"I know," I say, groaning. "It was wrong and I shouldn't have done it—"
"Lennon, I'm not punishing you. I'm praising you. Even though it was wrong, illegal on so many levels, it shouldn't be. You were warning your friend. If you hadn't warned him, he would already be halfway to NYC by now. It shouldn't be illegal to warn a friend." He says.
I smile and look up at the game. Six to five. Come on. Just one run. Tie the game. Or two and get ahead. Please.
In my conversation with Cal, I hadn't noticed that Benny was up to bat. Bases are loaded. I stand from my seat and run to the stairs. The audience chants something—Clean up. Benny was placed in this position of the Roster for that one specific job, clean up duty. He cleans up the stragglers on base. He'll swing, the pitch with be something he hits, he gets those boys back in the dugout, but this time with a few more runs under the belt. Benny grabs his cross and squeezes it firmly, exhaling. He returns his hand to the neck of the bat and licks his lip. I watch the Umpire's hands... Three and Two, a full count. The situation reminds me of the game two years ago against the Nationals. The one that led Benny to be chosen as Rookie of the Year, unanimously. Benny looks back at me and nods. He looks back at the pitcher, prepping for the pitch. The pitch flies towards him, an obvious heater. Low, outside, a perfect target. Benny narrows his eyes and swings the bat. The bat connects with the ball, sending it flying. It's not a home run, however. It's far out there, stretching to the lengths of the outfield, but isn't strong enough to reach the stands. Benny's feet move quickly, hence the nickname, and he runs for first base. When he passes first, he continues to second. The first two men from second and third make it home, Benny urges the third to run too. The third runs quickly, making it home in a blind rush, trying his damndest to avoid an out. Three runs in one play. Beautiful, absolutely stunning. If Benny can secure a fourth, the win is secure. Benny looks over at me, a smirk on his face. He rubs his foot in the dirt, his cheek twitching. He's in the zone. He watches the pitcher, then looks at Gregory, the next batter. They nod and Benny exhales. He steps off of the base, inching a little closer to the home plate. He has a suicide lead. He runs, the dirt kicking up as his cleats tear up the ground behind him. He sprints for home. Benjamin Rodriguez is attempting a dangerous steal—he plans to steal home. He runs even faster and the pitch flies out towards the catcher's glove. He slides, under the catcher's mitt, Gregory stepping to the side. The dust picks up and I desperately watch the Umpire. Safe. Safe! The crowd is on their feet, practically screaming with joy. Benny jumps up, running to the dugout. He removes his helmet, tossing it into the dugout. He smiles at me, wrapping his arms around her tightly is a huge hug. He backs away, furrowing his brows slightly.
      "You're covered in dirt now, sorry Lennon." He says.
       I shrug, laughing as I dust myself off. Dirt is how we prove our speed.
      "You just stole home!" I exclaim, hugging his even tighter. "You actually stole home! No wonder the Yankees want you."
      I grab my cellphone, dialing the news station in NYC.

      "This is Lennon Davis with an urgent request to speak to Michelle Brooks and Clark Harris."
"This is Michelle and Clark. Talk to us, Lennon, what's going on there?" Michelle asks.
"Well, guys, if you remember, as the seventh inning stretch was coming to a close, the Diamondbacks were leading Six to Five. I am happy to announce that the score is now Nine, Six, Dodgers."
"What a change! What has happened to secure such a change in the score?"
"The Dodgers brought in a clean-up batter. Bases were loaded, full count. Made it to third base, three more runs scored securing eight to six. As the next batter was about to bat, the clean-up batter, with a suicide lead, ran for home! He stole home base and secured Nine to Six."
"He stole home? May I ask which player accomplished this miraculous feat tonight?"
"Benjamin 'The Jet' Rodriguez."
"We should have known. Congrats, but the game is far from over. Keep us updated, talk to you soon."

I hang up and smile over at Benny. His dimple pokes out again, a perfect dot in his cheek just below his smile line. Cal sits beside him, sharing his sunflower seeds with him. I don't want to sop talking to Benny. We have good moments, like this, where I can talk to him and we can feel like ourselves. But, other times, it's like world war three is about to break loose. What am I to do?