"Annnndddd noooooow, pinch hitting for pitcher and #13 Ezra Standish –
Number twennnnnttttty seeeeeeeven, Naaaathan! Jaaackson!"
Number 27 felt the wave of applause wash over him as he made his way to the
batter's box. He licked his lips and tightened his hands around the lumber right
at the knob, working and digging with his feet into the cultivated dirt
surrounding home plate. He could feel the hope and excitement from the fans,
could taste the expectancy in the air. In his prime he'd been one of the most
feared home run dingers around, the command over pitchers and their deliveries
lulling the fans he played in front of season after season into complacency that
hitting the long ball was a simple matter, that it could happen nearly every
time he swung the stick – but this was his last season, and it was starting to
show. More and more the skipper had played him from the bench, more and more he
needed the rubdowns before and after the games just to stay moving. He sighed
sharply. A few more kicks with his spikes and Nathan felt he was ready. He
hitched the pants of his front leg a little, and settled in. #27 was staring at
the opposing pitcher from the left side – not his strongest but that's why
Larabee had sent him in, because he was a switch hitter and this is what he was
supposed to do. Switch and hit.
It was game seven of the World Series. The series was in a dead heat, each
team with 3 wins tallied. This game was it, and something had to give. The game
itself was mired in a 2-2 tie, the whole of it a pitching duel. Thank god for
homefield advantage. Some sparkling defense on both sides had helped keep the
score low – Tanner's instinctive, incredible range at shortstop; Wilmington's
neat pickups of balls in the dirt at first base. The rookie catcher Dunne was
credited with two unassisted outs in the same inning – gunning down a would-be
base stealer at second, and making a great dive over the wrapped tarpaulin to
snare a foul ball by one of the opponents most dangerous hitters. Up and down
the batters came and went, back and forth they challenged one another, neither
side giving an inch.
Nathan dug in and jerked the bat a few times. He was ready. He lowered his
lids and squinted at the pitcher – a loose armed righty who could hurl
fireballs. That's why he was there, manager Larabee using the odds and sending a
lefty up for the better matchup. And Jackson had always been able to catch that
high heat, had an eye and the bat speed to warp that little red stitched ball
right back around and over the green to plunk in the bullpen. Larabee had made
it clear – just make contact, Nate. Get something going, that's all I ask. #27
knew his manager meant it. But he also knew they were all hoping for him to just
go yard, start those fireworks popping and sending this fanatic crowd home in a
jubilant haze. He focused in on the pitcher's hand, watching the dot of white,
zeroing in on it as it sped towards him.
"TTTTHHHOOOOWWWSSSSSHHHH"
Nathan grunted when he heard the umpire call strike one. He stepped back out
of the box, leaning and twisting, working to buy some time. Absently he knocked
the dirt from his shoes with the lumber. It was the bottom of the ninth, and he
was the last hope to win the game, or else this baby was going long…extra
innings. More than anything he wanted to win for his team, The Seveners, wanted
that last good hit before he retired after this season. Larabee had played
another odd – bringing in Standish, the team's unbeatable closer, to pitch out
the top of the ninth. And now the crafty ‘conman' [as the media had taken to
calling him] was out of the game, Nathan standing in his place. If his at bat
ended in yet another out, the bullpen was down its best reliever. #27 didn't
want to see that happen. Jackson flipped open the velcro on his batting gloves
and tightened them again, then stepped back into the box. He hunkered down, the
bat turning in his hold until he found ‘that spot' to hold, right hand pressed
hard against the knob. Again he watched the pitcher start into his windup,
followed the gyrations in the long body, tracked the white dot as it lasered
towards the catcher's mitt. His eyes bugged as he maintained focus, and he swung
from his heels.
"TTTTHHHOOOOWWWSSSSSHHHH"
"S-tttttt-rike T-woo!"
The crowd groaned. They were still on their feet, willing their aging hero to
come through one last time, 56, 710 individuals urging and wishing as a single
entity. Nathan exhaled sharply and stepped back out of the box, raising his left
hand just in time for the umpire to call the pitcher off. He brought the bat to
parallel him in front, staring at the wood, studying it, talking to it mentally.
Just one more time old dog. Then we finally get it – the team gets their
rings, the boys get the win they deserve…you pick up Standish for pitching his
guts out there in the 8th, coming in with only one out and the bases loaded,
coming in cause the starter was just finally too tired…you prove everyone wrong
who said this damn start-up expansion team here would never work, that the
talent assembled would never win a game, much less the whole enchilada. A bunch
of has-beens and never-will-bes…this would sure show them. One more good swing
old boy, and you get to lie down, for good and for keeps. That's a promise.
The umpire looked at him and Nathan nodded, knowing he'd been languishing in
the dirt. In the on-deck circle he could see Dunne – fast for a catcher, so he
was their leadoff man. He was a pesky, tough out, peppering foul balls to wear
down the pitcher, and with an impossibly small strike zone with that compact
body hunched over the plate. Nathan had spent the best part of the season
cultivating the talent he saw here with his teammates, aided by the
philosophical pitching coach Sanchez. That man had worked wonders with
Standish…turning a supposed wild child bad seed who had been outright released
from the Atlanta club into the most feared man to step on the rubber. He knew
clubhouse leadership would be picked up neatly by Tanner and Wilmington – the
hard hitting first baseman the best candidate for the job, while Tanner would
just keep on breaking them all up and helping everyone to stay loose with his
practical jokes, most of them aided by the mischievous green-eyed man with the
nasty splitter, high cheese and disappearing 12-6 curve. The rest of the team
was young – young and hungry, like he remembered being in his days. And Larabee
– the youngest manager in NL history…a hard man who'd played hard in his days,
and now managed hard. One last look at the bat and Nathan set his jaw, planted
his foot, tightened his grip.
This one's for you boys. Let's get it on…
The pitcher started into his windup, the long body hitching just slightly to
the side before the arm came over the top. Nathan caught his breath. He'd
watched the tapes. He'd discussed it with Wilmington. They'd both agreed. That
little movement was a give – this guy was going to try to get a fastball, high
and hard – right past him. He'd been setup for it too, what with the first pitch
strike and the squealing curve that followed. But he knew it now, knew it was
coming. Brown eyes watched the ball with unerring intensity, long muscled frame
tensed, coiled – ready to strike. Nathan adjusted his own body position,
readying himself for the high speeder he knew was being served up. The white dot
grew and grew, and at the last moment he wrenched the bat head around as hard as
he could.
"C-CCCRRRAAAAACCKKKK!"
Without even having to watch the ball #27 knew what he had done. He felt it
in the way his hands rung solidly – not buzzing bees like when the ball goes
wonky off the handle, but that good, real ‘uungh' that tells you you've hit it a
ton, right from the sweet spot, right off the barrel. The crowd surged even
more, somehow becoming taller, greater, even though they were already on their
feet. In undulating waves they moved, noise and cheering and exultation carrying
them all along with the riptide. Nathan bent his head and made a fast trot
around the bases, not wanting to show up the pitcher, but celebrating in his
heart all the same. The first base coach pummeled him excitedly as he rounded,
then it was on to second. He looked up and couldn't help grinning. The tubby
little guy who used to be a whiz catcher and was now their third base coach was
jumping up and down higher than he probably had in ten years. More thumps on his
back and then Nathan rounded the last corner, grin growing until his face hurt –
the whole team had raced from the dugout, throwing their caps and gloves into
the air, waiting in a snarled cluster around homeplate. Larabee was there,
pointing at the white pad, that hard face broken in a grin, hazel eyes dancing
with life. His foot planted on it and the crowd grew incredibly, amazingly
louder.
The mob struck, the whole of the team jumping and bounding as one being, with
Nathan as its heart. Congratulations and ribbings came his way, and #27 knew the
locker room was all plastic wrapped and taped up, the champagne ready to uncork.
Dunne passed by, whooping it up, locked in a tangle with Tanner and Standish.
Nathan laughed aloud. He didn't think he'd ever seen the two men quite that
unrestrained before. Good for them – they all deserved it. Sanchez was standing
to the side, the only one who hadn't joined in the mob scene – arms crossed,
that all-knowing placid smile on that grizzled face. The pitching coach had
probably been told in some damn dream this was how it was to end. Nathan didn't
care – they'd won. And he'd been able to contribute, and contribute when it
counted most.
When the media came after the initial celebrations had ebbed for the moment
he'd tell them it wasn't all his doing – they'd all gotten here, as a team, and
his homerun would have meant nothing if they hadn't always clawed and fought as
a unit the whole damn season long, if the pitching hadn't been there, if Larabee
didn't know all the right shots to call no matter how ludicrous they seemed – if
during this season of being the perpetual underdogs hadn't turned them into a
family, a family ready to fight for itself and win. Somehow Wilmington found him
and they embraced, the lanky man grinning, blue eyes alive with magic.
"Knew you had it in you old dog! Now you've got that ring to show off to your
grandkids – whenever you get around to getting yourself some!" He just nodded,
overcome – overwhelmed by the neverending line of his fellow players who burst
before him, hugging him close, pounding his back. After awhile they broke back,
and he lifted his batting helmet high in the air, saluting the crowd who hadn't
forgotten this aging superstar, this baseball hero who had been given one last
chance at the greatest moment of all – being able to make and get that one last
shot. After his curtain call he turned back to watch the celebration on the
field, his cavorting teammates rolling around like boys on some summer day gone
by in the neighborhood's biggest front lawn. He grinned.
Yeah... this one's for you, boys… and don't mind if a little of it's for
me too.
The End
