The Hit

The Hit
by Ron Butera

As he glares at me from under his cap, he spits a huge wad of tobacco onto the dirt. The remnants of his spit are dripping from his chin onto his uniform. The game is tied and the bases are loaded. It’s the bottom of the ninth and there are two outs. I step into the batters box and knock the bat against my cleats. The entire stadium is standing on their feet. I can either be the hero or the scum of the city. The chants of my name are bouncing throughout the stadium. This is what I have been waiting for my entire life.
The pitcher agrees on a signal and throws his fastball. Before I even thought about swinging the bat, the umpire calls the first strike. I look up at the score board where it shows the radar gun reading, and the number ninety eight was staring back at me. That ball was so fast, I didn’t even see it. This duel between the pitcher and I is nothing new. This entire year we have been feeding off of each other. There have been a number of times where he has hit me at the plate or I have crushed some homeruns off of him. He hates me and I hate him. He throws another pitch.
This time the ball almost hits me in the head. That was typical of this guy. Always trying to back me off the plate but, I can’t believe that he is trying it with the bases loaded. I look at the third base coach and he gives me my sign. The next pitch I just miss and end up sending it to the seats behind me. I look at the pitcher with a smirk on my face which is basically telling him to give me the same pitch and I won’t miss this time. His eyes are telling me to fuck off. The count is now one ball and two strikes. The fans are going insane. Pete, the pitcher, tries to plop a breaking ball in the catcher’s glove but I react just in time and foul the ball off. It seems as if this asshole of a pitcher and I are the only two in the world right now. I can sense that there are people around us but everything is in slow motion and quiet. I really want to send one over the centerfield wall.
The humidity for September is unbelievable. The sweat just gushes out of every pore in my body. I feel like I have lost ten pounds since the last pitch. My hands are slippery and they can barely hold the bat. Pete Markowitz starts his delivery and zings one off the plate. The count is two- two.
Fuck him, I tell myself. He’s the one in trouble, not me.
I tighten my grip. I lift my front leg as he delivers, and crush his fastball towards leftfield. This is it. This is the dream of every boy in America. Everyone is screaming and I’m praying that it stays fair. The ball just seems to hang in the air, barely moving at all. It finally lands in the seats. Foul fucking ball. Another two inches and it would have fallen in fair. Fuck. I get ready for the next pitch and it is way outside. The count is three-two. There is a small stare down between the pitcher and I.
As the pitcher stares at me and I at him, I think back to the days of when my Father and I would practice in our backyard. My Father would bring out a bucket of baseballs and throw me decent fastballs that I would knock over the creek behind our house into the field 200 feet away. My Father would never let me win at anything; I would always have to earn wins, especially baseball. That is why I have succeeded into the majors, because my Father taught me from an early age to give everything my all. The pitcher agrees on the sign from his catcher.
I’m looking for a pitch down the middle of the plate. He throws the pitch. I have no time to react. Before I know it I am on the ground grabbing my swollen ass. That idiot of a pitcher sunk a fastball into my left butt cheek and now I can barely move a muscle. When Jordie, my teammate who was on third, crossed home plate he told me,
“At least you won the game.”
Yeah, I won the game but, I didn’t want to win it like this. By me being on the ground next to home plate, grabbing my throbbing ass is not the way anyone thought that this game was going to end. I wanted to go down in history but, not like this.

The end.