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!”

We Don’t Care

Rural junior high basketball. We’re an average team. But those Catholics. They usually beat us by thirty plus. Forty-three when we visited their place.

At our gym, I tell the guys, “We’ve got a chance. Go fast, don’t sub. Okay?”

No one protests. The game starts.

Halftime, we’re up seven. Their coach is livid. They have no idea how to play from behind.

Three point lead after the third, our shooter fouls out.

One minute left and it’s tied. Our guys are exhausted. Their coach is red-faced and screaming. We’re laughing.

They win by one in overtime. We don’t care.

Let me go

It was brutal. Rec league for guys under six feet. Ball-hogging little guards with egos bigger than Wilt.

Game’s bleeding to an end. The foul-fest has us playing four on three. We have them outnumbered, we’re gonna lose.

I’d give anything to be on the bench at the end of this slaughter. One more foul and I’m out. Screw the ball, I dive going for an opponent’s body. He slams to the floor. I dance, giddy, waiting for the blessed whistle.

Ref back-peddles by me laughing, “Nice try buddy. You’re in ‘til it's over.”

I stayed, we lost.