Page 125 of Wild Hit
While I watch Logan bait the pitcher with balls and fouls, I practice some breathing exercises and kind affirmations to myself.
“Your daughter’s gonna be so embarrassed if you swing and miss like a pee wee,” I mutter to myself. “Audrey’s gonna reconsider giving the time of the day to such a loser. The internet will rip you apart. The team’s gonna trade you to the worst one in the majors. Or even send you down to minors.SPORTYis definitely not gonna air that ad where you act like a big shot.”
I know what’s gonna happen the second the ball leaves from the pitcher’s hand. I rise back on my feet. Logan’s front foot stomps the dirt hard. The voices in the crowd get louder. I give the bat with the doughnut one last warmup swing.
Clank!
“Damn.” I watch the ball launch like a rocket from Logan’s bat, and it’s so beautiful that I can’t help copying the Lucky grin. “What a reliable jerk. Anxiety,” I say to myself, “I can’t let you make these guys lose.”
Tossing the heavy bat, I pick up the regulation one and wait.
Logan reaches the base before the fielders can make sense of his hit. Our other two runners have advanced.
“How the turns table,” I mumble in my dad joke voice. My walk up song starts playing and I no longer see the look of disappointment in my mind’s Marty version. She’s telling me that I better not hold back. “I won’t,” I tell her. Reaching for thechain at my neck, I lift up the pendants and bring them to my lips.
The fate of the whole team isn’t on my shoulders. There are three runners on base hungry for glory, who will do whatever it takes to achieve it. Dozens of men are in the dugout and in the clubhouse, sending me all their fighting spirit. There’s one in particular who is probably doing the same, via quite a few strong words in a strong Boricua accent. My parents and the rest of my family back home are watching on TV, which might or not be hooked to the family car if this catches them in the middle of a blackout. They, too, sacrificed everything so that I could have this moment.
And my girls are in the stands. I know that no matter what happens, they’re going to be my soft landing place. This is all for them.
The first pitch curves inside, far out of the strike zone. The umpire calls for one anyway, but I’m not bothered. Life gives you more chances than you realize.
Next, the pitcher shakes his head. And again. Running down the pitch clock. Finally he throws. I can practically see the trajectory of the pitch in the air.
“Ball!”
People start booing, but my blood roars even stronger in my ears. I check my stance—and move a little closer to the catcher.
Okay, a lot.
“Don’t blame me if you get hit,” the guy says before crouching down.
It would suck if I get beanballed again. One run is not enough to win. The baserunners would have to work even harder. The Riders will only be too happy. Ben Williams would feel like the king of the world.
Ain’t no way.
I’m going big so that everyone can come home, even if I break in the process.
The hairs at the back of my neck stand up. My arms flex. My hips start rotating as the ball launches. My brain zeroes in. It’s like everything else fades away—except for the ball. I can see each red seam. The spin changes. A cutter. As if I didn’t practice with Cade Starr everyday. Every part of my body acts. I twist in tune with the violent centrifuge. The percussion point of the ball has never sounded clearer. It’s the only sound that filters through.
The ball explodes out of the bat. The wood stick keeps going into an arch. So does the ball—into the night sky.
“Eso es,” I tell myself with complete chill, as if I was watching the play from the comfort of my living room.
I drop the bat, and the thud snaps me awake.
The stadium is going down. Thousands of voices screaming. Blowing whistles. Vuvuzelas? Damn, that was a pretty wild hit, huh?
I start making my way to first base as the ball disappears behind the stadium screen. The Riders outfielder closest to it melts against the wall in defeat.
So, a grand slam… Surely this makes up for how bad I played tonight.
The base coaches follow me as I circle the diamond, stepping on each base like this is just a drill. The Orlando Wild dugout empties, a gaggle of men turning into children as I approach the home plate—and jump firmly on it.
We win, five to three.
And as someone douses me with icy sports drink, I realize that I have earned the biggest reward of my life.
I get to ask Audrey out now.
