The Numbers of Baseball

We could use a 6-3. Hell, I’d take a 2-3-4 at this point. 

    I shift in my seat, sweaty. I feel the plastic seat tug at the skin on the back of my legs, but it’s time to let my other leg cook. I move my son’s 12x18 face cut-out carefully. It had been purchased with such high hopes, just like Alicia’s cute red and white outfit, and the leather baseball Keds that are still in the box, being used as a doorstop. I don’t think they’ll have a chance to support the boys this season. 

    On this team, 1 and 2 are the only ones with the traditional baseball nicknames: the Hurler and the Wall. There are other pitchers, but only one gets the name of “Hurler”. There are other boys who can catch, but only one “Wall”. 

     1-The Hurler has been doing a bang-up job. He is getting tired now. I glance over at Alicia, the Hurler’s 12x18 face being held worriedly, as she perches on her hot seat. 

   

     2-This one’s mine- Jerry, the Wall. The Hurler had been making things easy for him, but I know that his primary and secondary positions will become tiring soon, as he will have to block and leap a bit more to keep the Hurler, and the team, safe. 

     

    3-Mateo, with his bleached hair, has been consistently digging out throws. Desiree, all in black as usual, looks cool as a cucumber. Mateo is the youngest of four athletes; she knows the score. There will be other battles on the diamond. 

    

    4-Colin, who two months ago would take the field yelling out, “We’ve got the Hurler and the Wall, we’re going to kill it!” is now getting frustrated. He’s missed some ground balls and is feeling embarrassed, so it’s coming out in anger and recriminations. I choose not to glance at Elyce, knowing her therapist’s brain is cataloguing this for later conversations where she will give him tools for handling those emotions in a more productive fashion. I remind myself of this as he shouts, “Jerry, you should have blocked that!” Regardless, I start to steam in the heat a little. You get back there, wearing all that gear, jumping like a jackrabbit, and running multiple plays through your head so you know exactly where to throw to get an out. My protectiveness adds to my frustration, which is outbalancing my empathy, as I watch my Wall take off his catcher’s mask to wipe sweat out of his eyes with dusty, sticky fingers. 

   

     5-Ray, his long legs standing just ahead and to the side of his bag, is looking over at his dad. He is clearly concerned. The hot corner has been living up to its name, and he knows that if he misses another line drive, his dad will come unglued. Vanessa, holding her cut-out of Ray’s sweet face, is biting her lip. She is tense, and if I were to guess, sending out hectic prayers for good things, so that we can get out of this inning without it going to Ray. 

     

    6-JP. Oh, JP. He’s got the stickiest glove around, and up to this series, has been on the same wavelength as Jerry. Only the brave (or naive, or cocky) try to steal on this pair. They might try it once, just to see if the legends are true, but they won’t try it again. But JP unraveled yesterday — a visible unraveling, manifested by arms thrown up in despair and tears. He didn’t recover from yesterday’s beating, and it shows. I don’t even look for Megan; she knows her mouth gets her in trouble with the Blue, so she has seated herself far, far away. 

   

     7-Jett, all baby-blue eyes set in an adorably mischievous baby face. I heard that one of the coaches wanted to sit him out--easy out, they said. He’s got heart, but he’s still learning the game. Coach stood his ground on this one, though. He can see beyond the easy out to the heart, and so, Jett stays in. 

    

    8-Justin, the smallest of the boys, somehow rivals Jerry in strength. He does finger push-ups for fun and is a pitbull in pursuit of victory. I’m grateful he’s in center today; with his arm and speed, he could be the one to get us out of this inning.

     

    9-Jason… opinion is split on Jason. Does his sweet nature outweigh a loud-mouthed dad who antagonizes each and every umpire we get? I swear, not a Blue has blued, who hasn’t wanted to deck Mario behind the stands after a game. Sometimes, Jason will be put in to pitch, and Jerry silently braces himself for catching him. It’s either strikes right to his glove or time for Jerry-in-the-box. Set, leap, readjust, set, spring to the side, readjust, set. 

 

        It’s 0-2, a pitcher’s count. We might be ok. 

        Ball, 1-2. Still a pitcher’s count. 

        Ball, 2-2. A matching of wits. Neither boy is excited by this. 

        3-2, Hitter’s count. Three moms hold their breaths-Alicia, me, and the batter’s. I don’t look at the men attached to these boys. It’s the moms who have their hearts walking (playing) outside their bodies, I know. 

STRRIIKKKEEEEE. Jerry casually takes the ball out of his glove and flicks it out to the pitcher’s mound. Now it’s our turn with the sticks.