The Boy Who Swung the Bat

“You’re up, seven,” said the hefty umpire who had been behind the plate of the local ballpark in Kennebunk, Maine for a few decades now.

“Thank you,” the boy responded as he stepped into the batter’s box.

It was a bright spring day in northern New England, and the mighty lobsters of Kennebunk little league needed a run, at least one, to keep their championship dreams alive. The boy at-bat was more than capable of knocking in the runner on third, but it would require staying calm under pressure.

“Steeerike,” the burly umpire bellowed.

The boy always took a pitch or two before he even thought about swinging. He had to feel out the pitcher first, you know, size him up.

“Ball,” the umpire quickly shouted and moved on.

It was a 1-1 count now, so the boy choked up a smidge on his bat. He swayed ever so slightly back and forth in his stance.

“Time?” The boy asked the umpire, raising the palm of his hand in the direction of the seasoned veteran behind him in the deep blue polo shirt.

“Time!” The umpire said with emphasis as his arms flailed above his head.

The boy stepped out of the box and tipped his helmet up so he could wipe the sweat off his brow before it dripped into the eye-black sitting high on his cheekbones.

“Let’s go, son,” the umpire said.

The boy returned to the box and stared down his familiar foe standing on the mound. The boy’s eyes locked in on the red stitching that kept the horsehide together.

Crack!

The ball popped off the aluminum. It sailed high, far, and foul.

The boy heard ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the crowd but received no advice from the lobster faithful. Unlike his teammates, no one in the stands had his number pinned to their cap.

With two strikes now, the boy dug his ‘hand me down’ cleats that had been worn by one of the other boys last season, and probably someone else the season before that.

“Ball,” the ump said as he flashed two fingers on each side of his husky frame.

“Deuces wild?” The boy asked the umpire.

“You got it, son,” confirming there were indeed two balls, two strikes, and two outs.

The boy nodded his head and returned to the box like a roman entering the colosseum. As the pitcher’s arm appeared through the sunbeams bouncing off the infield grass, the boy quickly tracked those red laces as they whizzed towards the inside corner of the plate.

Clink.

The boy fought off the pitch. Dribbling it foul in order to live to see another one, preferably one he could send back up the middle.

The boy shook his hands that were bare and ringing from the last swing.

“Need a minute?” Asked the ump, who remembered that stinging feeling from when he was a boy.

“No, I’m okay,” the boy answered. The shock to his hands was the least of the boy’s worries.

The next pitch probably isn’t even worth mentioning since it was nowhere close to the plate and almost eluded the catcher enough that the runner on third could have tied the game himself, but the base coach didn’t want to risk it.

“3-2,” the ump alerted the crowd.

“2 down!” The shrimp at shortstop squealed for what must have been the 10th time.

Our gladiator stepped back into the arena with cruel intentions. He was ready to put the game away, and to his delight, the twelve-year-old pitcher hung a curveball right over the plate.

Crack!

The boy turned on the pitch early, antsy to take his aggression out on the ball he spent every spare moment holding. The ball barely stayed in the atmosphere, and the boy prayed it would also barely stay fair.

“Foul ball! Foul ball!” The umpire repeated as he bumbled down the baseline.

There would have been a base ump in a standard league to alert the veteran of what the boy and the lobster coach believed wholeheartedly was an error. But this league could only afford one ump.

After two minutes of bickering, the ump escorted the boy’s coach back to his dugout. The boy stayed out of the whole ordeal because this particular ump hadn’t changed a call in years. That’s what the coaches told the boys before the game, at least. The head coach had apparently forgotten his own advice.

The boy took the conference as an opportunity to get in a few practice swings. Although frustrated with the call, he knew he still had an at-bat to see through. The crowd hushed as soon as the umpire gave the order to resume. The boy knocked the weighted donut off his sword and returned to the action.

The pitcher shook off two signs from his catcher before rocking back out of his wind-up to deliver another strike. The boy read the pitch with maturity beyond his years, immediately identifying the fastball approaching the outside of the plate.

Whoosh!

His swing was powerful yet controlled. It kept a level plane as it broke over the plate with almost major-league velocity. It was a beautiful swing but lacked the most critical element - contact with the baseball.

Hats, helmets, and mitts flew throughout both dugouts as soon as the boy’s bat slapped his back.

The boy, for his part, was stoic. He walked off the field with his eyes still focused on what was in front of him.

As teammates sulked into their parents’ minivans with tears swelling in their eyes. The boy instead hopped on his ten-speed and hit the pavement back towards the foster home he was staying at for the current season. As the boy rode, he did his best to keep his own cheeks dry as not to smear his eye black. This was easier said than done for the boy who had a long list of tragedies on his mind, not included on which was losing a ball game.

The boy had a few tears sneak out, but his vision didn’t drop off the road ahead. He knew better than all his teammates and their parents that everything was going to be just fine as long as he never stops swinging that bat.