Right over the plate

The baby-faced rookie wipes sweat from his forehead. Looks straight into the eyes of his childhood hero. His mind races, split-seconds before the action.

Last game of the season, my first year in the bigs. Neither team’s going anywhere. He was playing when I was in little league. Never faced him before. Sounds like he’s done after today. Full count. One chance to put him down… or make his day. Why not? Throw him a fat one, let him go out with a dinger.

The ball heads toward home, maybe going seventy-five, right over the plate. He swings high.

“Strike three!”

Tradition

Dad made it happen. June 26 every year. Don’t think he told anyone why, not even Mom. Said it was because I was born the day after Christmas. Usually my birthday felt like something of an afterthought, parental obligation.

We’d go to a game, majors if possible, minors when necessary. If needed he’d take the day off and sometimes we traveled. Even made sure his death didn’t break the rhythm. Got sick in August and was gone by Thanksgiving. Almost twenty years since.

I go each year with my kids. Never told them why. Maybe it’s more for him than me.

Striking Out

Porter was a mean somabitch, made Cobb look like a choir boy. Put two in the hospital, one ‘bout died. Prison and 12 Steps, maybe got religion. Commissioner said one last chance.

Vegas had a line on how long he’d last. Late August, he’s flirting with .400. It’s baseball, the world of redemption and miracles.

Blazing, sweaty mid-west game. He was one for three and up in the eighth. Swung early at first and low at the next. Ump calls the third and was attacked by a flailing bat. Benches froze. Cops wrestled Porter off the field, for the last time.

Watching Luis

Luis was a sub-par pitcher but the luck of being left-handed kept him in the bigs. He had retired twenty-six batters. Some swinging, some watching, three pitches each. No bat touched the ball. All walked away, none argued a call. The crowd had begun to wonder if this might be the first true perfect game in baseball history. The twenty-seventh batter waited behind 0-2. Luis's heart raced between giddiness and terror. The sun and sweat mixed to burn his eyes. He released the ball early. It hung briefly before disappearing in the catcher's glove. The crowd froze awaiting the umpire's call.