It’s the last inning. I’m standing at the plate, waiting for something to happen, something to keep me from making any eye contact with anyone but her.
And there she is.
Standing big and tall, weighing in at no less than 180 pounds –Mount Vernon’s 3rd hitter in the State. She didn’t come to win – she came for blood. She’s going to lay me out — and drag me across that field – to win this game.
She’s about as big as the rest of her team. All over 6”0’, and twice the size of a normal 14-year-old. But in comparison to just their team, they all look relatively the same size.
It has to be steroids, it has to… But I do know that whoever their mommas’ are, boy… do they feed them well!
But no worries.
Now I’m at least 40 feet away. Yet through the metal frame of my headgear, I can see those eyes.
Yes, I’ve seen pitchers’ eyes plenty of times. But these were different. She glares directly at me. I know what she’s thinking, what she’s headed to do.
My mom would always say, “Those aren’t girls, they’re women! They’re HUGE! That’s why they can hit so hard!”
And it’s true, they can hit. If you ask them to hit a homerun up third base, sure enough, any one of them can do it.
They’re strong.
But kid-you-not, I’m fast.
***
Sweet Jesus, if I don’t get off this field in 5 minutes, I swear…
It’s 1 o’clock, midday, August 18. Haymarket, Virginia.
H     ave you ever been outside in the middle of the day on a Texas summer afternoon? No, you haven’t, because you’d of died of dehydration, or electrolyte imbalance, or heat stroke. Well…try to imagine that feeling on this specific afternoon.
It’s been three hours. Three tiresome, blistering, Virginia hours. And one water break.
It’s all preparation. You see, we’re all about to start our Marine training in Afghanistan soon, so this is our conditioning for the week.
Not really, of course.
But if this man’s trying to kill us, he’s exceedingly well on his way.
“C’mon, run it again, Forest!” the man says.
The nerve!
This man’s at least 50 years old, morbidly obese, with a stash of twinkies in the glove compartment of his 1995 Ford-350. And that is a FACT.
How about YOU go run a mile… see how far YOU get.
“Forest, get ready!” he says.
“Yeah coach!” I respond.
Whatever.
Brittany’s probably 120 pounds, an average sized 16-year-old. She’s our pitcher. I’m their outfielder. And I’m not going to hit this ball.
I want to. But I can’t.
Striking out is my inevitable fate.
It’s the only thing I can’t run away from. (pun intended 🙂 )
***
Back in the game.
I’ve never ran so hard in my life.
You think criminals run fast? I run faster.
You think a mountain lion runs fast? I run faster.
You think Maurice Greene, the world’s fastest man runs fast?
Well… I’m not faster, obviously, but he’s still in my league.
I tell you I ran so far that day – it wasn’t even softball – it became track. I actually hit the ball for once! Even more so, to the outfield. Not even Maurice could run to catch that one.
You see, I’m not a hitter. I usually go for a grounder down to the third base man. That’s all I have to do. Even with a bunt to the pitcher, I could outrun ANY throw. I’m that fast.
But that hit … must’ve been luck, because it never once came again. Had that been a game instead of practice, Coach would of kept me at the beginning of the line-up all the time. I had to prove myself sooner or later that I wasn’t just a pinch runner, that I could hit too.
I had to get ready, because we played the undefeated Mount Vernon High School next week, and everybody knows those girls are a bunch of “Helga’s & Olga’s” who eat their feelings. They’re as scary as it gets. They can hit better than me, and they can field better than me.
But when it comes to running… they’re already set against the odds—they’re against me.
***
To win or to lose. To hit or to strike out. To be prized and respected by your teammates—or be forever exiled and socially outcast for losing the regional championship game.
What a difficult choice to make.
“Batter up!” ref says.
And the pressure sets in.
I walk up to the plate for what feels like an hour, even though it’s about six steps from the dugout. Without the insults and the cursing and the threats and the “cheers,” it probably would have only felt like 30 minutes.
But I’m in my moment. Both of us know what we have to do.
This is personal. It’s no longer Battlefield versus Mount Vernon.      This is I versus their pitcher – this is David versus Goliath.
As she’s winding up the pitch, I’m winding up my bat, interrogating her body language, watching her hands, predicting the flow of a curve ball, a bad pitch, anything at all.
What feels like five minutes is really a split second.
BING!!
I don’t even glance to see where the ball goes. All I know is I’m gone, sprinting down the base line, and I see her out the corner of my eye aiming for my head, not the first base man.
This chick is insane.
I run straight through first baseman. See the curvature of the softball head past the first baseman. Take a leap of faith. Book it to second!
And my prayers are answered!
A cycle of bad throws, misperceived catches, and now I’m well on my way to home base.
And I see the ball is returned to their pitcher.
Do I take the lead-off and risk the winning point, or play it safe and risk not making it at all?
Duty calls.
I take the lead-off.
Watch her decision.
Take a step back to third.
And sprint home.
I can almost feel it, feel the softball gunning behind my head, feel it waiting to take my head out as I slide under their catcher.
“RUN, FOREST, RUN!” I hear my team cheering.
Silence.
I lie there on the ground, crowd erect in the stadium.
Lie there. Lie there waiting for the call.
“SAFE!” Umpire says.
We win. We talk. We go home.
I’m still a runner.
B     ut I’m the best damn runner this team’s ever had – they don’t call me Forest for nothing.