Strikes

        The ninth inning started ten minutes before ten o’clock and it was past the elderly umpire’s bedtime.  He stared at the spectators with his drooping eyes and his face was engraved by the language of time.  With his deep yet piercingly loud voice - due to his hard of hearing - he announced the status of the game: tied, bases loaded, two outs, no strikes, and three balls.

Strike one.  The coach shouted what seemed to be anything but encouraging from the dugout and as usual it was an incoherent jumble of words.  Even if the coach had regularly spoken with immaculate articulation, his players would still not know what he was saying because the crowd could not have been hushed, it was full of excitement.  A cloud of condensation from every utterance of the crowd appeared in front of the stands during the raw night.  Every bang, howl, and voice rumbled into one massive sound that seemed to unsettle just about every player on the field.  Their knees, where their tight grey pants bunched, shook as they froze in unseasonably cold weather and as they fell under the immense pressure.  The batter anxiously waited for the pitcher to choke and throw him a fast ball right in the center strike zone.  Then, with his biceps which he had incessantly worked out during the off season in order to “get big,” would swing the bat with enough momentum to rip that ball over the right field fence.

Strike two.  The pitcher stood on the mound.  The fans for his team chanted his name, “Come on, Anthony!  You got this!”  While the fans against his team shouted nasty comments that blurt out of frustrated parents mouths when they attend their children’s sporting events, “Kill it!  Kill that ball!  Show ‘em what your mama gave ya!”  In the middle of the frenzy, the obnoxious 50-50 ticket lady with the nasally voice squeezed through the crowd, deafening everyone around her - including the third baseman.  The announcer was explaining to the masses of people how vital the next pitch would be which made the left outfielder’s stomach squeamish.  And the relentless lights!  Those lights intensely beamed on the field.  The second baseman was looking up to the night sky to separate his thoughts from the game for a few seconds when he felt blinded by the lights and fainted - that was in the third inning.

Yet, the pitcher stood on the mound.  In the middle of all the madness, he heard nothing.  He saw nothing but the catcher’s mitt floating above home plate.  He felt nothing, but perhaps the “ice in his veins” that his dad claimed runs through his veins while he is pitching.  He did however, smell hot dogs being grilled, he could practically taste the meat sizzle in his mouth, but that only motivated him to end the game.  He was spared from the bitter tension that surrounded the mound.  All he knew was that he had a baseball in his hand and that he needed to trick the batter who was inevitably ready to hit that ball into tomorrow.

He was not anxious; pitching calmed his mind, it was his escape.  Nothing could phase him because his love for the game cancelled any feelings of tension.

Silence.  He knew what he had to do.  Under complete control, he wound up, stretched his aching arm, flicked his wrist, and released the baseball.  It headed straight for the center of the strike zone when at the last moment, just as the batter swung, the baseball dropped and fell into the dirt.

Strike three.