Page 63 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
I nod in solemn agreement. Itispainful.
Every Cordero fan is on the edge of their seats as the game heads into the ninth, and final, inning. I’m chewing solemnly on a chicken tender and Isabella’s downing her inhumanely large cup of Diet Dr Pepper. Tension hangs over the crowd as storm clouds start to rumble above us. Even the threat of a downpour can’t pull eyes off the field. Either the game’s gonna get rained out or Cordero is going to lose its first shot at a championship title in a century. Both would be equally catastrophic.
We all release a quiet breath of relief as the away team earns a swift three outs, maintaining their one-point lead. Whatever went down in the Cordero dugout between innings, it worked. There’s a sureness in their movements when they step back onto the field, running and leaping and catching with an intensity I didn’t see in the innings before this one. If the pressure is this stifling in the stands, I can’t imagine what it must be like on the field. They know this is their last chance to save their asses.
It’s too much to ask for the miracle of a home run. Joaquin’s one of their most promising hitters, and even that’s not really his strong suit. DeShawn manages a decent enough hit to make it to first base, but when their second hitter lands them a swift three strikes and first out, dread layers the crowd like fog. No one inour row dares move a muscle as we watch each pitch and swing like our lives depend on it.
“Let’s go, that’s what I’m talking about!” Isabella shouts as Danny manages another hit, him and DeShawn now holding down second and third base. It’s the first time I’ve felt grateful for Danny in years.
We follow the crowds lead and leap out of our seats to cheer and stomp our feet in excitement. Everyone around us goes wild as the next batter steps up to the plate, a lump lodging in my throat as I lean onto my tiptoes and spot Joaquin.
A cheer breaks out among the stands, the same one from the pep rally—a cry of his name, breaking it out into two syllables. Growing louder and louder with every step he takes toward home plate, breaking out into a full-on frenzy when he turns and gives the crowd a sheepish wave. Hope. Joaquin’s given them—us—hope.
My heart swells with a deadly combination of pride and panic. The lone chicken tender sitting in the pit of my stomach threatens to make a reappearance as a hush falls over the field when Joaquin takes his place. It’s not on him to bring home the win, but it is on him to keep them in the game. Three wrong moves and he’s out, and they can kiss the championship trophy goodbye.
Isabella’s hand reaches for mine. I swallow hard, squeeze her hand, and pray for that miracle.
You can hear the popcorn machine whirring in the parking lot as the pitcher winds up, the ball moving through the air in slow motion.
Joaquin swings.
And he misses.
“Strike!” the umpire calls over the roar of groans in the stands.
The same rowdy group that spilled their hot dog on me starts heckling Joaquin at the top of their lungs, calling him a punk and telling him to get his head out of his ass.
Isabella seethes with rage, vibrating with annoyance as she glares at the boys like she’s trying to make them burst into flames. “Only I’m allowed to say that shit,” she grumbles under her breath as the guy closest to me calls Joaquin a loser.
If we weren’t surrounded by our classmates, this guy would have his ass kicked into the next millennium.
Instead, I commit his face to memory and tuck it into the back of my mind for whenever I can extract my more setting-appropriate revenge. Once I figure out who he is, an expired hot dog will find its way into his locker.
Back on the field, Joaquin jumps in place before resuming his stance. Again, the world goes silent, so silent I can only hear the creaking of the bleachers and the pounding of my heart.
Everything happens in a fraction of a second. My eyes water from the stress of forcing them open long enough not to miss a single moment. The pitch. The swing. The crack of the bat making contact. The ball flying through the air.
The shortstop makes a dash for the ball, confidently extending his arm where the arc should land, right in the middle of his glove.
Except it doesn’t.
The ball goes flying past the shortstop and tumbling into thegrass of the outfield. The world becomes a blur of screams—mine and Isabella’s bleeding together with those around us into one deafening cry. Hands tremble and voices crack as DeShawn and Danny sprint as far as their legs can take them. A fresh wave of cheers break out as DeShawn clears home. In the mad dash of watching the runners make their way around the bases, I forgot to pay attention to what’s going on in the outfield. My throat tightens as the ball comes flying back through the air toward home. Danny makes a break for it, sliding down onto the dirt to avoid getting clocked in the head and skidding the last of the way to home plate.
And he’s…
“Safe!” the umpire shouts into the stands.
The roar of the crowd leading up to this moment is white noise in comparison to the absolute pandemonium that takes over after the umpire’s final call. Popcorn and hats and pom-poms are thrown into the air in celebration, tears streaking red-painted cheeks, jerseys being waved like flags.
Because of Joaquin.
Every member of the Cordero team comes rushing onto the field to surround him. It’s the kind of moment you see in sports documentaries—sans a jug of Gatorade to dump over his head. His freckled brown skin glistens with sweat in the glow of the sunset, his glossy white uniform stained with streaks of dirt and grass. I spend an embarrassing amount of time gazing at him like the marvel he is, wishing he’d turn and see me.
But I have a mission to complete.
“C’mon. Coach Mills said we could meet down by the dugout,”I shout over the screaming crowd to Isabella. I had the foresight to email him before leaving to pick her up, and thankfully he was open to the idea of letting her onto the field to congratulate Joaquin—assuming they won, of course.
Isabella nods, and we carefully head out of the stands. As promised, Coach Mills appears at the field entrance in an energized flurry, dripping with sweat and wearing a smile I didn’t even think he was capable of.
