The Hit

On deck.  He spits, he swings.  "Woulda been a homer," he says.  The time has come.  He steps up to the plate and the ritual begins.  He stares down the pitcher as if to say, "I dare you to throw the heater."  He taps the dirt from his cleats with the grip of the bat.  This adds grit to the handle and salt to his soul.  Wide stance, left foot slightly askew, he waits for the perfect pitch.  "STEEE-RIKE ONE," yells the umpire. His confidence stands firm in expectation of the next pitch.  "STEEE-RIKE TWO!" He blinks his eyes as a lone bead of sweat slowly makes its way from forehead to eye, eye to cheek, cheek to ground. He wipes his palms, smiles at his precarious situation, and breathes a simple prayer.  The pitch is thrown.  It hangs in the air like smoke from an early morning campfire.  The crowd, in one grand collective, holds its breath.  The catcher places his glove low and to the right.  "Crack," goes the sound as bat and ball collide.  Safe at first base, he looks up and sees that God is smiling.