It’s 2:37 and I’ve been on the field longer than usual since we began earlier. Mr. Panufnik started the class with a strict “Play Ball” right after the tardy bell. I love baseball so I don’t care but the infield is weary. A jay in the conifers at the edge of the track jeers at the current batter. Frogner swings crookedly at a painfully easy pitch. He misses. Strike one. I sigh heavily at this kid’s ineptness. What intramural team rejected him? I stoop to tighten my right shoelace and notice that one of the cleats is bent and muddied then peer to the left and dash off. It takes two kicks against the spectator’s bench at the perimeter of the right field to loosen caked-on mud. Mr. Panufnik yells at me to get back on the field and I hustle into position.
Frogner swings again and misses. From right field I can see his left elbow dangling in bad form. He looks away from the field at the jay. Aschenbrenner yells, “Can I pitch already?” Frogner grimaces and refocuses on Aschenbrenner. A fast ball whizzes towards Frogner who swings with no discernable energy. A loud crack. Frogner freezes, shoulders hunched up and eyes widened. The Bombers, his team, shouts “Run!” Broyles points towards first and Frogner is off. Scrawny elbows pump and sinewy legs beat a path to first. On the way he notices that Lewis misses the catch and so Frogner careens left and charges through second. Way to go, Doofus.
Dreschler’s up now. He grins at Aschenbrenner with a dare. Aschenbrenner throws a curve. Dreschler swings wildly, knocking himself off balance. Strike one. Broyles chuckles and tosses the ball back to Aschenbrenner, and slaps his mitt against his knee, creating puffs of dust. Slowly Dreschler climbs to his feet, heavy limbs dragging as he reaches to pick up the bat flung aside as he fell. With a sharp whap of his thick hand he brushes a layer of grit from his crumpled jeans. Aschenbrenner hurls another one. Dreschler leans back a little and swings too low. The ball grazes the upper neck of the bat. Strike two. At least this time he didn’t fall over.
Dreschler squints and Aschenbrenner gives him a knuckle ball. Dreschler’s form improves dramatically from the first two swings, and ball and bat make direct contact. I hold my breath but the hit is foul. I glance over at Frogner and realize that he should be teasing for third but he’s not too sharp on the uptake and misses the opportunity. Dreschler is trying too hard. He tips the bat on the plate and takes a couple of practice swings. Then he steps forward, Aschenbrenner sizes him up and pitches shoulder height about thirty miles an hour. Dreschler swings and misses. Guess Frogner has a little foresight after all by not chancing it. As if he even knows the strategy. Ha! Strike three.
It’s been four minutes since Frogner made his hit. He’s now staring over his shoulder at some airplane in the distance. I bet he wonders what he’s supposed to do next. Is it too much to ask that I be allowed to play with people who know this game for once? I notice that each time Dreschler swings, Frogner jerks and edges off to the right. Wrong direction, buddy, if you’re going to third.
Lincock hikes toward the base. He tips forward with the weight of the bat and with difficulty picks it up with both hands. It’s almost as tall as his small frame. Lincock waits for Aschenbrenner’s move. The pitch is strong and hard and the ball sails over Lincock’s head. Ball one. Lincock looks relieved. Aschenbrenner throws a fast ball. It, too, sails past the plate, well over Lincock’s head. Ball two. Two more balls and the kid has got a free base walk. The Bombers’ anticipate the next pitch. They solemnly look on from the dugout. Lincock raises the bat. His forearm brushes sweat and a lock of frizzy blonde hair out of his eyes. Whip. I can almost hear the speed of the ball. Strike one.
Lincock slouches over the plate, discouraged. The Bombers have squeaked out a win only once in the last week and Lincock senses his fate. Another pitch. The ball whizzes past the bat. Strike two. Out on second, Frogner grows restless and kicks the plate in boredom. Seconds tick by. I can already feel Lincock shrinking under the pressure of the moment. Another pitch. Another strike. The Bombers are true to their name.
Garnette, sensing Lincock’s impending doom, has already been warming up behind Broyles. Garnette struts forward. He’s the best man on the team and a formidable foe when he’s hitting his stride. Agile, cagey, and relaxed, his cap is askew but still deflects mid-afternoon sun and keeps his hair out of his face. Beads of sweat are forming on his forehead. All of us are sweating by now. With a merited sense of confidence, since he practices outside of school at a club, Garnette grabs the bat. Aschenbrenner pitches ferociously. The two don’t get along. Garnette strikes back with equal intensity, and hits a line drive straight towards me. I scramble but easily scoop it up before Garnette reaches first. I race to first, but miss him as he turns towards second. Frogner hasn’t moved. The Bombers are beside themselves yelling to Frogner. Aschenbrenner spins to see both Frogner and Garnette strangely sharing second base. Frogner throws a bear hug at Garnette and says “Finally, I have a friend out here!” while the Bombers stare in disbelief. This is the dumbest class ever. It would be a good time for the bell to ring.
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