by Thomas L. Traband III
The sun beat down on Charlie. It seemed especially hot today. Sweat made his shirt stick to his back. He had to keep pulling it away. He removed his cap, ran his fingers through long, wet hair, then replaced the cap. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.
The pitcher settled into his stance. He watched the catcher for the sign that told him which pitch to throw. He glanced over his shoulder at Charlie, checking on Charlie's lead at second. Not that he would try to pick him off, Charlie knew. They had two outs and a weak hitter at the plate. Besides, the pitcher had a poor pick-off move.
Charlie met the pitcher's eyes and held his ground. If the pitcher threw to second, Charlie would get back in time. The pitcher smiled, contemptuously, thought Charlie. He noticed that the pitcher's face was dry and wondered how he stayed so cool out here, as hot as it was.
“Throw the goddamned ball, already. What are you waiting for, Christmas?” yelled a balding, middle-aged man from the bleachers. “Joey's gonna hit a homer off you, anyway.”
“Oh, no he's not. Joey couldn't hit his way out of a wet paper bag,” responded another man from the other end of the bleachers. He took a big swig of his beer, spilling some on himself.
“Oh, yeah?”
Charlie watched Joey take his practice swings. The pitcher took one last look at Charlie and went into his wind-up. Joey settled in and watched for the pitch.
“Strike him out, Kenny,” screamed the woman sitting next to the beer-drinking fan.
The pitcher threw the ball with all his might – a fast ball. It rocketed toward the plate at 70 miles per hour. Joey watched it; watched it as it raced toward him.
Charlie watched it too, but to him, it seemed to move much more slowly. In fact, everything seemed to have slowed down: the pitcher, the batter, the parents in the stands and the kids in the dugouts.
It also got quiet. Charlie could only hear his amplified breathing and heartbeat. He felt like he was in a dream.
Charlie followed the ball toward the plate and watched Joey take a big, slow-motion cut. Joey missed.
The catcher missed it, too. Charlie saw the ball drop ever so slowly from the catcher's glove. Charlie took a couple steps toward third base as he kept his eyes on the ball. He saw the catcher pull his mask off, tossing it behind him as he searched for the ball.
Charlie took off. He dragged his leaden feet. Third base looked a mile away. He dug in and plodded down the base line.
If he could just make it, he would be a hero. Everyone would be talking about his bold base stealing in school on Monday. Joey and the team would forget about his poor hitting for a while. All he had to do was run another thirty feet, but each step was like running in wet cement.
The third base coach waved his arms back and forth for Charlie to go back to second. Charlie ignored him, all his concentration on that bag.
‘A few more feet,’ he thought. ‘A few more feet and I'm a hero.’
After an eternity, Charlie went into his slide. It was not a perfect slide, but a workable one nonetheless. He heard the crack of the third baseman's glove as the ball made contact. He felt the tag on his bent knee as his outstretched leg slammed into the third baseman's shin.
“Shit!” yelled the third base coach.
“You're outta there!”