Batter Up!

“Batter up!” yelled the umpire.

I looked down the third baseline at my coach as I thought about the situation. It was the second round of sectional play my senior year, and I was leading off the top of the seventh inning, with my team down 6-2.

“Find a way, John,” my coach yelled. “We just need a baserunner.”

I took a deep breath as I began my pre-pitch routine. I stared out at the pitcher and tried to think of what he was likely to throw. Our team had been getting fastballs inside all day, and I expected more of the same.

The pitch comes in, curveball, low and away.

“Stttrrriiiiikkkkeeee one!” the umpire yells.

That’s ok , I think to myself. You didn’t want that pitch anyway. Wait him out, he’ll give you something you can hit and then jump on it.

The pitcher followed with another curve in the dirt, and I let it go to even the count at 1-1. Not wanting to get behind, the pitcher threw a fastball low and inside, my sweet spot.

I swung was hard as I could as my hips flew open, ripping the bat through the zone. As I felt the ball make contact, I knew I had hit this one well. The ball took off, soaring through the night sky down the left field line. As I rounded first, I heard the crash of the ball hitting the fence.

“Foul ball!!”

Disappointed, but now more determined than ever, I walked back to the plate, picked up my bat, and dug in.

Knowing he had gotten lucky, the pitcher refused to give me anything else good to hit. Mixing up curveballs low and away, fastballs up and in, and the occasional nasty slider, he managed to keep me off balance. I kept battling, however, and, six pitches later, the count was 2-2.

Having already fouled off seven pitches I was beginning to tire. I stepped out of the box to catch my breath and regain my composure.

“Keep battling, John!” I heard my coach yell down from the third base coaching box.

I straightened my helmet as I dug in once again. The pitch came in right down the middle, just as I’d been waiting for.

As I started my swing, I suddenly had a horrible realization. This pitch floating down the middle was not the fastball I had thought it to be, but rather an agonizingly slow knuckle ball.

Somehow managing to slow down my swing, I nicked the ball with the end of my bat, the barely audible ping being the only indicator I had not just struck out.

Backing out of the box, I took a few slow practice swings.

 I’m going to get a hit, I thought. No other thoughts crossed my mind, except the simple fact that I was going to get a hit.

The next pitch was a fastball in on my hands. Not surprisingly, I simply fouled it off yet again. The at-bat now totaled 12 pitches, including nine foul balls.

I was now almost exhausted from the physical and mental strain of such a long battle.

The thirteenth pitch came sailing in, a hanging curveball on the outside half of the plate. Straining, I reached out and managed to poke the ball over the shortstop’s head for a single.

We went on to lose the game, although it was filled with personal success as I went 3-3 in my final high school game.

After the season, during the awards banquet, my coach brought up this at-bat. “This at-bat was the epitome of John’s career,” he said. “It wasn’t the prettiest, but he kept battling and eventually got the job done.”