Little League Men

Child Scene: SGFW Assignments

Bobby pounded his right fist into his glove repeatedly. He stared towards home plate. The view between first and second base showed that the hitter exiting the batter’s circle and advancing to the plate was a leftie. Lefties tended to pull the ball to right. The kid seemed way too tall and bulky for the average Little Leaguer.

He gazed at the stands. His father sat halfway up the bleachers behind the Pirate’s dugout manically hollering along with all the other fathers. He caught a glimpse of his little brother addling over to the concession stand, seemingly without a concern in the world.

‘If it’s mine I can catch it,’ he thought. Psyching himself up, he blocked out his team’s must win situation. Losing entailed that there would be no trophy in June. ‘The Cardinals win it all.’ worry

Bobby concentrated on the lead the runner on second took. Nothing could prevent the man on third from scoring on a hit to the outfield. However this one on second was the one he agonized over. Throwing him out ended the inning and sent the game to extra innings. However, a bad catch or throw on his part ended his team’s season.

He avoided looking for his father again. He did not want his dad’s attention. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck. Seemingly rabid spectator scrutiny prevented him from glancing to the side. Although he knew this was impossible, as all action centered between pitcher and batter, he kept his head down and tried to concentrate on the game.

He gave the grass surrounding him an all encompassing glance. His feet randomly took him in an elliptical path over a small corner of his territory as if they were looking for a safe place..

Tugging down on his cap released the seam of sweat trapped between its lower brim and his forehead. Salt trickled down his eyelids diminishing his ability to see the action.

The first pitch sped towards the slugger. Bobby flinched as the leftie turned with speed and power enough to crush the ball into mulch.

Strike one!

‘Focus, Bobby, focus.’ He heard the words of his coach in practice as Bobby regularly dropped fly balls he would easily catch at recess when playing with his friends. But this was not grade school. This was the real thing.

Leaning hands on knees he joined his teammates, “Hey, batta, batta!” The pitch whizzed past little Albert Pujols without so much as a whimper from the hitter. Bobby smiled.

“One more,” he heard his coach yell. Confidence filled Bobby as things seemed to be looking up.

“Bobby!” he recognized as his coach’s voice.

A surrealistic daydream transformed into instant crisis.

Tag! Tag!” he heard in the distance

Bobby froze. His eyes searched the sky for the small white orb frantically . It was up there somewhere. But the mid-afternoon sun shone right in his face, a fact he knew the fans in the bleachers were not aware of, and he could not pick the ball out of it. In despair he closed his eyes and stuck his glove up as high as he could.

Plunk! Right behind him and over his head. Laughter from the crowd stripped him down to his skivvies. He did not even bother to pick up the ball, running straight to the dugout with his glove covering his face.