𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲 | 𝐛. 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐳

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 - 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 | 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧

I STAND IN CENTER FIELD, watching as Joe Kelly pitches to Ray Carson, a renowned batter with the San Francisco Giants. The controversy of Kelly's suspension was all that filled my entire social media feed for days until he eventually returned. I shake out my hands and lean down, prepping to watch Ray's swing. Kelly looks around at everyone in the field with him, nodding. A runner on first and a world-renowned batter with an amazing batting average. The odds are stacked against us in this moment. However, it's only inning two—they'd only be ahead by two. We could catch up. Kelly's eyes glance in my direction and he nods slowly. I narrow my eyes and watch him. He faces the batter and preps his pitch. He raises his leg and twists his torso. He throws the ball, releasing it. It's fast, hot, and dangerous. A loud crack echoes back to my ears and the ball soars into the sky. It soars over the infield, into the outfield. It's dead center, headed straight for me—no, straight behind me. He's going to hit a home run. I run for the foam mats behind me, sprinting to catch the ball. I leap into the air, my hand pushing off of the mats to stretch for the ball. The thud of the ball colliding with my glove reassured me as I fall back towards the ground. I roll in the dirt, climbing back up onto my feet. I throw the ball to Hernández who throws it to Turner. Justin snags the ball out of the air and tags the runner, smiling when he successfully makes this into a double play. The inning ends and we run for the dugout. I smile, nodding to Daniel as I get to the dugout and grab my gloves. I dust myself off, nodding to Seager and Cal.
"Hell of a catch, man. What are you, some baseball prodigy?" Cal asks, an eyebrow raised.
I laugh and shake my head, smiling at him. Over his shoulder, Lennon watches us as she leans against the stairs with the roster.
"Nah, just a lot of practice trying to save a ball. The neighbor back when I was a kid had one hell of a dog." I say.

* * * * *

Grains of dirt crunch beneath my cleats as I warm up my shoulder. It's been two weeks and that shoulder still hurts like a bitch. I shrug, swing the bat. The natural, instinctual yearn for the desire to hit a ball starts to tingle in my arms and chest, all the way down through my fingertips. Corey Seager bats before me, a wide smile on his face as he gets into the zone. A beautiful pitch, perfect, outside, low, flies towards him. A crack of the bat against the ball and he soars. Four to Six goes to Five to Sox. Down one in the fifth inning. Close. Seager runs slowly, savoring the moment as the Giants watch him with narrow eyes while he runs around the diamond. He runs past home towards the dugout where I high-five him, nodding to him. I secure my helmet and approach the plate.
"I used to crowd the plate so the strike-zine almost disappeared. Pitchers hate when you do that. That's the way I played, baseball was life." Me Mertle's words crowd my mind.
I could crowd the plate, make the strike-zone virtually impossible. I crowd the plate, remembering how he taught me to do it, although I was never sure if I was entirely accurate or not, seeing as Mr. Mertle was blind. The pitcher, Tyler Rodgers, scrunches you his nose and pitches. I jump out of the zone, avoiding a pitch that would have hit my ribs. I crowd the plate again, nodding.
"I was good at it, real good. 100% all the time." Mr. Mertle said, telling us the story of his career.
Rodgers lifts his leg and twists his torso. The ball flies towards me, high, inside, and fast. It's coming too close.
"And then, one day, a high, fast one and pow, the lights went out." He said.
I can't jump out fast enough so I twist. I twist, my back facing the pitch now, my face facing the crowd. The ball hits my left shoulder, the injured shoulder, with a loud thud. The bat slips from my hand, colliding with the ground with a clunk. My back throbs and the air escapes my lungs momentarily from shock. I wheeze as I inhale, trying to catch my breath. The umpire raises an eyebrow and watches me.
"Are you okay, Son?" He asks with a thick southern accent.
I nod slowly and wheeze again, trying to breathe and continue the game.
"Go ahead and take a base," He says, jutting his thumb in that direction.
      I nod, running in that direction, a wheeze escaping my lips. I step onto first, watching Tyler Rodgers and the next batter, Max Muncy. One of the most iconic moments in Dodgers vs Giants history was when Max Muncy hit a homer right out of the park into the bay. Madison Bumgarner threw a royal fit, telling Muncy to, quote, "run, f***ing run." By the time Muncy got back to home, he had something to tell Bumgarner. "Go get it out of the ocean." Muncy swings his bat, launching the ball into the outfield. I sprint to second, then straight onto third, sliding into the plate. I stand, exhaling sharply. Lennon stands at the stairs of the dugout, eyebrows furrowed, a from on her lips. She wears a black cropped spaghetti strap tank top and a graying jean skirt. Over top of her top, she wears an unbuttoned white and light blue button down. She wears a pair of black and cork wedge sandals and her hair is curled, pulled back into a low ponytail so her hair can go through the back of her Dodgers cap. She looks away from me at the batter. He swings and the crack of the ball and the bat rings to my ears. I run to home, sprinting across the plate. The audience screams with applause as I pass the plate and Muncy sprints past second, towards third, sliding into the plate. Betts, the batter who hit the ball, sprints to first and stops. I return to the Dugout, smiling t my teammates.
      "Were you trying to end your career?" Lennon asks.
      I spin around and raise an eyebrow, watching her.
      "What?" I ask. "What are you talking about, Lennon?"
      "You saw how fast that first pitch was, how close that first pitch came and you were lucky to jump out of the way in time." She says. "Then you crowded the plate again. You know what happened to Mr. Mertle. You know how he went blind. You can't do this, Benny."
      I imagine the tragedy I would feel if the ball had hit me in the head and when I opened my eyes again, I was blind. I imagine the anguish I would feel and the loss of direction I would feel now that my one passion was impossible without sight.
      "Why the Hell do you care anyways, Lennon?" I ask, angry with her.
      "I'm trying to save your damned career, Benny!" She exclaims.
      "Well I don't need your help!" I exclaim. "I've done this all on my own for three years now. I know what I'm doing."
      The tension is thick and palpable. Where did we go so wrong?