The American Dream

Hoe…ley…crap. I was living every little kid’s dream. It was the 2011 World Series, my Red Sox against the Dodgers. We were in Game 7, the last one. It was the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs, we were down by three. A homer here would win it. Anything else…I won’t go there. Sox fans are renowned for their ability to make players want to kill themselves. I had already failed in two clutch situations this postseason—once in the third game of the Division Series against the Angels, and again in the Championship Series against the Twins. Both times, we had been down by a run with two outs and two runners on. I popped out to first the first time and look like an idiot, striking out swinging wildly at three terrible pitches the next time. Frankly, I was shocked I was getting the chance to hit here, considering my past failures and the fact that I had gotten zero hits this season in fourteen at-bats, including eleven strikeouts, against Dodgers closer Jorge Zambrano, who had led the league in strikeouts despite only pitching an inning or two a game. But I was absolutely psyched this time. I knew I was going to come through. I was due, man. Someone owes this to me. No one worked harder to make the team in spring training. I played better than all the other bench players during the season and scrapped the whole time to make the playoff roster. I deserved this chance. I had spent years earning it, and I was going to deliver.
I stepped outside the batter’s box and blessed myself. I didn’t believe it would do anything, but hey, it couldn’t hurt. I stepped back into the box and looked back up at Zambrano. I realized suddenly just how freakin’ huge he was. I barely had time to register this thought before he was winding to throw. I saw his arm come down, but I didn’t see the ball come out. Had he just held onto it and balked in a run? I couldn’t believe my luck! But then I noticed that nobody else was moving and the scoreboard said the last pitch had been 103 mph. He had pitched it so fast I hadn’t even seen it! I was suddenly terrified. I tried to call for time, but it was too late; Zambrano was already throwing. I was expecting another comet to head for me, but this one seemed to float on a cloud to the plate. Changeup, outside. The next two pitches, both curveballs, missed low. The count was 3-1! I stood an excellent chance of simply being walked. I waited for the next pitch. Good Lord, it was another fastball! This one was right down the middle. This time I started to swing. Here it was! I was going to win the World Series with the first ever walkoff grand slam! Could you believe it!? “Man, I hope Mom is watching,” I thought crazily. Then I felt myself finish my swing…without connecting with anything. I missed completely! Gaaah! Now the count was full. I called for time and spent a good three minutes calming myself down until I felt confident I could smack that little piece of cork onto Lansdowne Street, over the Green Monster. I stepped back in and waited on the pitch, trying to muster as menacing a look as possible. Apparently I just looked stupid, as Zambrano seemed to smile to himself as he threw. Uh-oh—it was a third fastball. This one looked even harder than the others, but maybe in a great spot. It was hard to tell with the speed. I loaded up and prepared to unleash years of waiting into that one swing. I was about to validate the hundreds of hours I had spent in the batting cages all those years of toiling in the minors. I was going to instantly become the hero of thousands of people I never knew…in half a second.
As soon as all this was about to happen, I saw a flash of white and felt a surge of pain in my arm. I had just been hit in the forearm by the pitch that was supposed to make me a hero.
Oh well…at least I got an RBI.