Swoosh! “Steeeerike.” Okay, wow. That one really got past me. Just play it cool, act you didn’t swing at the first pitch on purpose. Good idea, lots of pros do that. Man, I really need to get a hit; I have been the runt of the team, the loser, all season long. All I need to do is get a hit, then maybe the team will accept me as a valuable member. “Steeeerike two!”

My dad down the line at first is starting to frown a little. His large, brown eyebrows are pushing close together, and a small wrinkle forms on his forehead. He really wants me to succeed, and so do I. “You got this Russell,” he calls down to me, “just keep your eye on the ball.” I wish I were more like him. He played on the Arizona Diamondbacks, and was pretty good too.

“Safe,” the pitcher tried to pick off Levi at three. Fat chance at that. He knows what to do on the base paths, which makes up for the stocky build he possesses as the all-time team catcher. And if his bat so much as touches the ball it soars through the sky, normally going over the fence. But should it fall short, which it almost never does, the ball will land right in the middle of two outfielders, impossible to catch. He is clearly the best player on the team, best in the league. Maybe even in the state.


This time I am ready to hit the ball. But it goes too far outside to be anywhere near a strike. He is messing with me, trying to make me swing at junk, but I know better than to do that. I glance up at the scoreboard.


My hometown’s name, ‘The Cottonwood Killers,’ is written across it in blood red paint with large, loopy letters. We are down two in the ninth to Levi’s dismay. With runners on one and two, it is to my dismay that there are two outs. That means it is up to me to get on base to at least give us a shot at winning.

I begged and begged Coach Mike to give a yet another chance to prove myself before this game. I did everything but sell my soul to the devil to get this chance. The next pitch comes zooming in right at my eye level, but I know better than to swing at that. The likelihood of me doing anything other than swinging and missing on that pitch is miniscule. And even on the off chance that I do hit it, it would be a routine fly ball and we would lose the game.

This game is very important; if we win we go to the championship game. We probably end up playing our biggest rivals, the Sedona Stealers. Last time we played them, we lost--because I dropped a routine fly ball in right.

I was on the bench for the next three games. Everyone was mad at me, even I was. Accept my dad, he was just disappointed. Sometimes I feel like I owe it to him to do well because he cares so much about me. I want to impress him. But I also want to know that I can contribute to the team. Prove it to myself that I am not a useless sack of flesh to this team. A team that only took me because they wanted my dad as the coach. But, to be fair, he is rather good at coaching.

I inhale and the cool spring air rushes into my lungs, nice and refreshing. This time I am ready, ready for the pitch. I feel it, I know this pitch will be mine. The pitcher winds up, everything is happening in slow motion for me.

The sun casts my shadow across home, a large dark bird glides over the field, saying goodbye with a weak squawk. The pitch comes to me, meatball, right up the middle. I go for it and take my swing. “STRIKE THREE, batters out!”


And the other team starts to line up on the first base side to say good game. I get pushed out of the front of the line to the back. The anger at me is heavy in the air. In front of me, Jared is kicking the powdered sugar like dirt up into my face. Some of the players on the other team give me looks of sympathy, or worse, pity. But the sad thing is, this isn’t new for me,. It is a daily thing. Or at least a phenomenon that occurs after every game I play in.

“Okay guys,” Coach Mike grumbles after the handshakes, “let’s go to left field and talk about what we did wrong.” A circle of boys forms around coach. I am pushed out to a second ring, forced to sit alone in front of Philip and Levi.

“I am not going to lie, you guys sucked,” states Coach Mike, drawing out the word ‘sucked.’ “Levi, you were the only kid who did not make an error. Max,” he starts to read off his playbook, “two pop fly outs.” “Dave three, three errors at short.” He continues to go on, reprimanding everyone’s mistakes, “Jared, you got out every time you got up, oh for four.”

Dave looks down and starts to play with the grass, ashamed, as coach puts in playbook in his red and green backpack, team colors. “I am…” Coach Mike starts.

“Wait, coach,” Jared interrupts, “what about Russell? Why didn’t you read off what he did wrong?”
“Like we have the time though,” Levi whispers to Philip, only so the three of us can hear. They snicker.
Coach Mike responds, “I expect more from you guys than I do from Russell. He’s just not as good as you guys. Its like comparing McDonald's to a five star restaurant, its just not fair.” The team looks at coach with wide eyes, in shock that he could say such a thing. It is one thing to be put down by peers, but someone I look up to. The adult that coaches me!
A bump rises in my throat, and I struggle to blink away tears. Come on, Russell, don’t start crying, the last thing I need is these guys thinking you are a crybaby.


God bless my dad, he changes the subject, “okay, we will have the game for third place tomorrow. We will play the Stealers or the Hydan Hounds, depending on who loses. All of you need to get a good night’s rest and be ready to crush a team tomorrow! Let’s get a break!”


The team stands up with their hands in the middle, “ONE, TWO, THREE, TEAM!” We all shout and run off to the dugout to pack our bags.


When I finish packing I jog out to left field where Coach Mike and my dad are still talking. “Hey kid, why don’t you go hang out with some of your teammates and watch the Stealers vs. Hounds game!” He says too excitedly
“But...” I start.
“Go, you can help the team by figuring out their weakness!”

There is no point arguing with him, they are probably going to go on for ages about who to but where, and the best batting order for the game. I kick up some dust as I shuffle back to the dugout. I step down into cool shade, only Levi and Philip are still in the dugout.

“Hey guys, want to go watch the other game with me?” I ask, hoping for a no so I don’t have to spend more time with them. I don’t know why my dad wants me to spend more time with my team and try to be “friends” with them. It’s pointless, they hate me, and I don’t like them because they are rude.
Levi laughs to my face, I look down and turn to go to the game without them. “Russell!” I stop look up, it’s Levi, and he is livid. “Why are you such a loser? Why can’t you just hit the ball? You know why we lost this game? Because you sucked,” he spits at me.
Come on man, it’s not like I want to do badly. “I know, coach already told me that in left field--remember? I’m sorry, I know you don’t like losing, nobody really does. And I tried really hard too,” I quickly stumble out, hoping my apology will allow me to avoid most of his wrath.
He takes an overly large step over to me. “Nobody wants you on this team,” his eye piercing into mine, “the only reason why you made it is because your dad is a decent coach. But you?” He scoffed, “you have no talent.”

“I doubt you have ever even made contact with the ball before,” Jared, the left-fielder jeered. He is so fast to side with Levi, the little butt kisser. He’s not even that amazing, I guess he’s just glad there is someone worse than him. That way he isn’t the one being picked on day in and day out.

“Maybe you would have better luck playing softball with the girls,” Levi teases, laughing at his own hilarious joke.

“Yaaaaah,” Jared says. And in that moment I hated him. His bowl cut red hair, his buck teeth, trying to act soooooo cool. I am done. Done taking the criticism by saying sorry. Done being teased and backing down. I didn’t choose to be bad! I am going to do something about them thinking I did!

“Okay guys,” I timidly started, “I know you are not happy with me for losing the game, but you guys could have done better too. Jared, today you went oh for four,” I said a matter-of-factly. They started to back off.
I am proud of myself, I finally stood up to them. Not the most confident, but it got the job done. I start to leave, but my ego gets in the way and I have to add, “Maybe you should try playing softball with the girls.”
Immediately I turn and run for my dad’s car, not even stopping to look at Jared’s face he comprehends my insult. I do not want to be there for him to unleash his wrath on me. Sprinting through the parking lot, I arrived at my dad’s black Mercedes, use the keyless entry, and sit in the passenger seat. Then I lock the door for good measure.
I look back to the field, dad is still talking to coach. Hopefully they aren’t talking about me. What if Coach Mike wants to kick me off the team?! I mean sure, I don’t get the most playing time, and people don’t like me. But when you look at the alternatives it is not really that bad. I wouldn’t be on a starting line up anywhere, and that’s if I even make the team. Plus, I get to practice with this team daily, and because they are so good, it makes me better. I just need to be optimistic about things, not get too down on myself.
I unzip my bat bag in my lap, take out my glove, and set it in my dad’s seat. Its black, dusty, and well worn. Someone might wonder how I get it so dirty and worn in if I don’t play. But I practice all the time, whenever I can. I got this glove for my twelfth birthday last year and it is already more broken in than most of the gloves my teammates have had for a couple of years.
I toss my red, team-issued bag into the back seat and open up the glove compartment. Staring back at me are three brand-new, matte white baseballs. My dad and I always have a few baseballs laying around. I take one and and start throwing it into my glove, staring off into space, not really thinking about anything in particular.

A loud knock scares me, “Ah!” I cry out as I jump up and hit my head on the ceiling of the car.
“Hey kid, can you unlock the door? I don’t know the code,” Dad says through the window. He gets the keys from the black leather council, and we start our ten minute drive home. I turn the radio on, but my dad immediately turns it back off.
“Why weren’t you watching the game? It was still going on when I left the field,” my dad says, but not in an accusatory manner, it sounds more like he was concerned. “I know how much you love watching other teams and figuring out their weak spots.”
“I don’t know,” I shrug, hoping he will change the subject.
“You know, Coach Mike really likes the reports you type up. He uses them when making his lineups,” continues my dad. I know he is trying to get at something. I look at him with eyes that say aaaaannnddd. “Well, the point is, he wants you to be on the bench in games and do that all the time,” he says with a frown
I just sit there for the rest of the car ride home.
My dad pulls in the garage, turns to me says, “do you want to talk about it?”
No, of course I don’t want to talk about it. But I shrug anyway. I start playing with the strings on my glove, now in my lap. Twisting them, then untwisting them. Untying the knots, then retying the knots.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think this team would be this way. I thought you would get to play more than you do,” my dad explained.
“No dad, I’m sorry, I’m the one who is bad at baseball-even though I try so hard. Its my own fault I do badly not yours. I am a lost cause.”
“Hey!” He said sternly. “Don’t say that about yourself, you are the hardest trying kid on the field...”
“Yah, I know. And I still suck!” I shove open the car door and slam it shut in his face. I kick off my cleats at the garage door, run up to my room and lock the door. Even if my parents have a key, I don’t care; it just feels right. I just need to be alone for a bit, that will make me feel better, I hope.
Somehow my stupid glove is still in my stupid, useless hands. I chuck it at the wall, making a hollow thump noise before falling to the floor. It was not very satisfying. I sit down in the afternoon sunlight coming through my window. I take a deep breath and look around my baseball-seam red room. The walls are covered in posters of Arizona Diamondback players. My baseball ceiling light projects seam shaped shadows across my brown wood floor.
What am I doing with my life? I’ve done everything, my whole life, based around a sport that I am not even good at. Then an idea hits me. I push open my window, back up a few steps, pick up my glove, and hurl it out the window.
In clear contrast to the bright blue sky and neon green grass, I can see it lands somewhere deep in the backyard wooded-area. I slowly push down on my window and lock. I crawl into my bed, uniform still on, and take a nap.

I awake, startled, when my dad opens my door and turns on the light. It is dark out, so I must have slept awhile, but not through morning. My dad told me, “hey, your mom made some spaghetti for dinner if you want some.”
“Dad, I am sorry for yelling at you and slamming doors. I don’t know why I did it. I was frustrated, and confused, and just, just, just in a really crappy mood,” I quickly uttered out.
“It’s okay, I understand how you feel. When I was about your age I was one a baseball team that did not appreciate me,” my dad explained.
“Really?!” I burst out

“Yup, just like you,” he confirms. Wow! My dad was just like me, overlooked and disliked. And he turned into a professional baseball player. Wow. I do not even know how to respond to this, maybe there's hope for me after all
“So I was thinking,” starts my dad, “Maybe after this game, we both quit, maybe take the season off, or look for a new team to take us.”
“Oh,” I am taken aback, “well, didn’t I make a commitment to the team to play with them throughout the season?”
“Baseball is supposed to be fun, not whatever this is.” He has a point, I haven’t really had fun in a while. People mainly just tease me. It would be the healthy decision for me not to be on this team.

“Okay,” I declare, knowing it is the right choice for me. My dad smiles and leaves me.

My dad and I pull up into the parking lot. He puts the car into park and turns it off. “Just so you know, I am very proud of you.”
“Thanks!” I say, happier than I have been in a while. Maybe the stress from this team is gone, freeing me. I walk down to our home field taking everything in. I immediately notice the Stealers are in the third base dugout.

Why are we playing them? And why are they in our dugout? I run up to Coach Mike, the only one here from our side. “Why are the Stealers here? Weren’t they supposed to win and go to the championship?”

“Well,” Coach Mike says with an eye roll, “there was a massive upset in the Hydan Hounds vs. Stealers game. The Stealers played very badly, errors all over the place. And they are ‘here’ in our dug out because they scored more runs than us,” Coach Mike says bitterly.
I guess we both won an equal amount of games, which means that neither one of us is technically the better or home team. The rules in the tournament must say that runs scored is the next determining factor.

Coach looks at his watch, “where is everyone? More people should be here by now!” He barks.

At the start of batting practice only nine players were here. The rest got food poisoning from the hot dogs at the concession stand. But of course my two biggest critics, Levi and Jared, didn’t get sick. Just my luck, I have to deal with these buffoons for the day. But hey, it is the last day I ever have to see them.
I am sitting in the dugout, writing out the lineup into the scorebook, when Coach Mike comes up too. “I didn’t want you to warm up, but since the numbers are odd I guess you have to throw with whoever is left over,” Coach Mike grumbles with an eye roll.
“Okay Coach, let me just get my glove!” I say with a displaced enthusiasm. MY GLOVE!!! Its still in the woods behind my house! What do I say? What do I say? “Ummmm, Coach I,” brain, come up with an excuse...now, “left my glove at home.” stupid, stupid, stupid.
Levi shouts from across the field, “Ha, loser can't even come prepared!” I don’t even give him the attention he wants, I just keep on copying the line up.
“Just make a triangle and throw that way,” Coach yells back with a nasty glare to me. I see dad walking up with all of the gear the team uses, he always gets it out of the storage shed for the team. I wonder who will get it when we are gone. Coach Mike? No, he will probably have Jared do it like he is a lackey. The thought makes me smile.

The first seven and a half innings go by fine, the score is zero-zero, and the high noon sun is in the sky. There are two outs and it looks like we are going to get out of this inning with no runs against us.

Our pitcher winds up and throws his pitch. The batter swings and makes weak contact. A short fly ball to right field. The right fielder is sprinting in, glove up to catch it. The sun most have gotten in his eyes, because the ball dropped on his head.

There was silence as he crumples up on the ground. The runner on third scores, and the batter advances to two. The center fielder runs up to the ball and throws it in to stop any further damage.

“Time out!” The ump calls, as we all go see if Jimmy is okay. He stands up, wobbles a little, then goes onto his knees. His parents were out in a flash, taking him to the hospital. We are all quietly standing in right field, feeling worried for our teammate. Even me.

Coach looks at me and says, “you are not going in this game. This team already knows you cannot play right field from last time we played them. They would just hit the ball to right field and watch the runs roll in. The last thing we need is more runs scored against us,” Coach theorized. My dad and I make eye contact, know that at this point there was no point in arguing, so I smiled and sat on the bench. And so we got out of the inning with a strikeout, and two outfielders.

The next inning looks for us, just like how the last inning was for them. Runner on third, two outs. Only this time, because we were down one in the top of the ninth, we needed to score or we would lose.

That is when we hit a bump in the road. It was Jimmy’s turn to bat. “Can’t we just skip him, he got hurt real bad,” coach bargains with the ump.

“Sorry coach, you either need to put a new player in his spot, or get your third out, your choice,” the ump responds professionally.
Coach looks over at me with dead eyes, “get your helmet, maybe we can score on a pass ball, or wild pitch.”

I get in the box, ready to hit. This time I am not as nervous as before, this time I am ready to crush the first thing that comes my way. The pitch comes in, right up the middle, this one is mine, I got it. I swing, and I miss. “STRIKE ONE!” Class out the ump.

That’s okay, that’s why you get three strikes, you get more than one chance. I can feel the hot noon sun on the back on my neck as the next pitch comes in. Low and in the dirt, “ball,” the ump states.

The next pitch is too far inside, following an outside pitch. Both are balls. Okay, three-one, hitters count, you got this. Just keep your head down. Here we go. The ball comes in high, but I swing anyway. I cringe, that was horrible. Now the count is full, with two outs, and your team is down in the ninth, the most stressful thing a baseball player ever has to face.

Down at first my dad yells, “You got is slugger!” Slugger? What am I a four year old playing tee-ball? Whatever, just focus on the game.
My small shadow is slightly over home plate. I glance up and happen to see that most of my team is packing up. Whatever, just focus on the game.

A drop of cold sweat runs from my head, and down my spine, making me shudder. Whatever, just focus on the game.

The pitcher winds up and throws the ball to the catcher. I didn’t swing, and the catcher didn’t drop it, so no drop third strike. I take a step to my dug out, but then I realize that the ump has not made a call yet.

A defining silence has fallen over the bleachers, seconds feel like days. The ump takes a long, deep breath before saying, “ball four, take your base.”

And in that moment, I was the happiest kid alive. Because I proved to myself that I could do something, and it wasn’t to prove my team wrong, that I am helpful. Or to help them win, I couldn’t care less if they even in again. Or even for my dad. This was for me.