If only I could...

“Come on, Baxter! Do you really think that you can hit my heater?” Timmy taunted, digging his cleat into the mound. He was ahead in the count 1-2.
Baxter closed one eye, aiming his bat at the left field fence. “I’ll smack this next pitch as hard as I did your miom last night!” The whole field erupted in laughter; Baxter’s sense of humor was as crisp as Timmy’s fastball.
Sitting in the shade of the dugout, I contributed to the summer day ruckus by pounding away on the wooden bench I routinely watched these neighborhood games from. There was absolutely no other place in the world that I would rather be.
Timmy scowled, tugging down on his blue Brooklyn Dodgers cap. “Alright, Baxter, we all know that you can talk, but let’s see if you can hit my stuff.” A cloud of dust exploded from his worn glove as he popped the ball into it.
Baxter shot a glob of spit toward Timmy. “Try me.” The gangly red-headed flamethrower nodded, pulling his glove up to his sweaty, freckled face. The glove hid his grip on the ball- although, everyone knew he was going to rely on his four-seam fastball- along with all of his face save the look of determination that burned in his eyes.
It was the bottom of the 9th, bases juiced, two outs. The score had been knotted at 3-3 since the 5th, and because everyone had to be home for dinner by six o’ clock, the outcome of this heated neighborhood battle rested solely on the broad shoulders of Mikey Baxter. His maple brown bat waved confidently above his shaggy head, just waiting to crack the ball to where it had pointed earlier. 
Each moment of wait pulled me closer and closer to the edge of my seat as though the tension of the game was beckoning me to join my friends on the field. Every fiber of my being wanted me to explode to my feet and claim my rightful position on that field before this decisive moment had passed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that.
Timmy began his windup, sending all of the defenders into a synchronized crouch. I couldn’t imagine how anxious they must have been, actually being a part of the game. It must have been exhilarating.
With his arms and glove tucked in toward his chest, Timmy finally hiked up his leg after what seemed like an eternity and fired that fateful pitch. I sucked in a gulp of suspense.
The ball whizzed like a firework, dodging Baxter’s titanic swing, and exploded into the catcher’s glove. Timmy had struck Baxter out.
“Gosh Dangit!” Baxter slammed his bat down and crumbled to his knees under the weight of the humiliation.
Timmy bolted off the mound toward centerfield with his screaming teammates converging. They all met a few feet shy of the fence, jumping on Timmy. After a couple of seconds all that was left of him was a triumphant arm poking through a hole in the dogpile.
Overtaken by a wave of adrenaline and the hype of the moment I just had to join the celebration. Yet, as soon as I had planted my hands to propel myself off the bench I was thrown back down, remembering something I had desperately longed to forget all my life: I couldn’t be out there with those guys. I was a cripple.