Stepping Up To The Plate

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Stepping Up To The Plate

He really didn't want to be here. He hated the feeling of hundreds of eyes on him, everyone waiting to see what would happen; waiting to see if he would screw it up like he always did. Charlie could already see the apprehension and fear on his teammates' faces, and the smug, triumphant grins on the faces of their opponents. Everyone knew what was going to happen once he stepped up to the plate.

Charlie was only on the team because it was important to his dad. His father had made it all the way to the college level before an injury had cut his baseball career short, and now he was living vicariously through Charlie, convinced that his son could succeed where he had failed, despite his son's disappointing batting average and error-prone fielding ability. But Charlie's father was oblivious, and told his son – after every game and every practice – how proud he was of Charlie, and how he was sure that Charlie wouldn't let him down and would one day play in the big leagues.

What made the whole thing particularly difficult was that Charlie's father was a good man. He was patient, even-tempered, supportive, and understanding. In fact, if not for the whole baseball obsession, Charlie would be hard-pressed to find anything about his father that he disliked; which, of course, only made the baseball thing worse. Wasn't his father entitled to have dreams for his son? Didn't he deserve to have a son that would live up to his expectations?

Charlie's only hope was for the batter ahead of him to get a solid hit. It was the bottom of the ninth and they had players on second and third, and only one out. They were only down by one. If that batter could get a hit, there would still only be one out, and it wouldn't matter if Charlie screwed it all up again. Even better, if his teammate could get a solid hit and bring home either of the other runners, the game would be over and he wouldn't have to step up to the plate at all.

It wasn't an unfamiliar position. Charlie spent most of his time each game praying that he wouldn't have to go up to bat, or that the ball wouldn't come to him while he was standing deep in center field. He had been afraid of the ball for years, ever since a large and particularly thuggish pitcher on an opposing Little League team had hit him with a pitch on purpose. The physical bruise on his shoulder had only lasted a week or so, but the emotional bruising had remained much longer; he had never quite been able to stare down the ball without worrying about being hit since.

He took a few nervous practice swings from his position on deck, watching with disappointment as the batter swung once, twice, three times, missing the ball on each occasion and returning back to the dugout with his head down. Another strikeout for the opposing team's intimidating pitcher, and another out on the board. Now it was all up to Charlie. The retiring batter seemed to realize this as he passed Charlie on his way to the dugout, his expression going from disappointment to despair.

"Try not to screw it up like you always do," his teammate hissed as the two passed one another and Charlie made his way to the plate.

This was the last thing he wanted; to have everyone depending on him for a win. If he didn't get a hit, it would be over. His team would lose and he'd have to take that walk of shame back to the dugout, his entire team and all of the fans in the stands glowering at him.

He caught sight of his father in the stands as he walked, and instantly wished he hadn't. His father was beaming, giving him a big thumbs up. His father had always thrived on pressure situations, probably because he actually came through once in a while. The pit of Charlie's stomach seemed to drop out as he took his place in the batter's box.

The pitcher smirked at Charlie. He knew Charlie's reputation just like everyone else on the field and was probably even more confident knowing that Charlie hadn't connected with a single pitch all night.

Charlie tightened his grip on the bat and hoisted it over his shoulder. The pitcher wound up and released... and Charlie dropped to the ground as an eighty mile-per-hour fastball whistled by where his head was a split-second earlier. The umpire shouted a warning at the pitcher who laughed and leered at Charlie as he picked himself up off ground, trying to brush the dirt off his uniform and stop from shaking.

Resuming his position at the plate, Charlie trembled all over in anticipation of the next pitch. When it came, he flinched away at the last minute and the ball went right into the catcher's mitt.

"Strike!" Yelled the umpire, holding up one finger of each hand to indicate the count was 1-1.

Only two more chances left. Charlie was starting to sweat profusely. The batting helmet was pulled too far over his head and he couldn't reach his forehead with his sleeve, helpless as the beads ran down his face. Some of them caught in the corners of his eyes, making them sting as his vision blurred. Another pitch came down the pipeline and between his quivering muscles and his bleary vision, Charlie gave a mighty swing that didn't come anywhere close to the ball. He heard it slap into the catcher's mitt as the umpire called out again.

"Strike Two!"

Charlie stepped back from the plate so he could lift up his helmet and wipe his soaking forehead. As his vision cleared slightly, he looked around and saw everyone's faces, as if in slow motion: the other team in the field, leaning in and eagerly awaiting that third strike; his own team, heads in their hands, watching on with helplessness; his father, still rooting him on from the stands, willing him to connect with the ball.

He just wanted it to be over. He didn't care about letting anyone down anymore; he just wanted the stupid game to be over so he could go home and do something that he actually enjoyed, like playing his guitar or writing a song. Music was what he really cared about anyway, not baseball. He turned away from the dull roar of the crowd, still cheering in slow motion as he walked back to the plate.

Taking his place in the batter's box again, Charlie raised the bat one last time. He was calmer now. He wasn't shaking and he didn't feel the pressure. If he struck out, he struck out. It would be no different than any of the other games he had lost for the team, and the reaction would be no different than any of the other times where he was ignored and pushed away from everyone else on the team, if not outright ostracized. He was going to swing the bat one last time and that would be it.

When the next pitch came, Charlie gritted his teeth and tried to keep an eye on the ball as it traveled the distance between the pitcher's mound and home plate. Everything was still moving so slowly; it felt like a dream.

He felt the bat leave his shoulder and swing across the plate in front of him.

His eyes closed as the ball neared him.

He prepared for the familiar feel of the centrifugal forces pulling the bat out of the swing and around his opposite shoulder, but something was different this time. There was a resounding smack that sent reverberations through the wooden bat.

Charlie opened his eyes and saw an unfamiliar object; something small and white traveling through the sky toward the outfield.

It was the ball!

Charlie stood there for a moment in disbelief, watching as the ball dropped into the field dead center between the second baseman and the center fielder.

To his left, he saw one teammate bearing down on him and the other heading toward third base at full speed, preparing to round it and head for home plate.

In the dugout, his teammates were on their feet yelling and hollering, gesturing for him to run toward first base.

Time suddenly sped up again and Charlie knew that he had to run. He dropped the bat and sprinted for the first base, his cleated foot hitting the canvas well before the other team's center fielder even got to the ball, and just as a gigantic roar erupted from the crowd. Turning around, Charlie saw their runner cross home plate and the rest of his teammates pour out of the dugout.

They were all rushing toward him. The next thing he knew, they were lifting him up, carrying him on their shoulders as the crowd cheered. Charlie looked around and smiled at first, savored the feeling of being appreciated, of having done something right. But then he realized that these were the same people who had ridiculed him when he lost games for them. The same people who wouldn't speak to him in the locker room and ignored him whenever they were in public, because nobody wanted to be seen with the kid who messed everything up all the time. Now that he had actually done something right he was in their good graces.

When the celebration on the field had ended, the team invited Charlie to their traditional post-game get-together. Instead, Charlie finished packing up his bag and walked out of the locker room without a word to anyone.

His father was waiting out in the parking lot.

"What a hit!" He exclaimed. "That was amazing. I'm so proud of you, Charlie!"

Charlie let his father give him a big bear hug before taking a step back and drawing in a deep breath.

"Dad, I'm going to quit the team."

He father looked at him funny, as if he hadn't heard him correctly.

"I'm quitting the team," Charlie said again. "I know you want me to be a great baseball player, but I'm not. I'm never going to be. Tonight I was lucky, but it's not even about winning or losing. I just don't want to play the game."

"But..." his father stammered. "I thought you loved baseball."

"I loved making you happy. But this isn't making me happy anymore. I don't like this game, and I don't like these teams who only like you when you're winning. I want you to be the supportive and proud dad that you are; but I want you to be support me because it's me, and not because it's baseball. I want you to be proud of me because I'm doing something that's important to me."

For a long time his father didn't say anything. Charlie could see the hurt on his face, could tell that his dream was being crushed right then and there. But Charlie couldn't keep living his life for someone else. If tonight taught him anything, it wasn't the results that mattered. He had cared about winning and losing the baseball games because he wasn't passionate about the game. When he played his music at open mic nights, he didn't care if he was cheered or jeered; all that mattered was that he enjoyed playing.

The funny thing was, he had spent so long being jeered for playing baseball, that it took him actually winning something to realize how little the sport really meant to him. Charlie hoped that his father could eventually come to terms with his disappointment and accept the fact that Charlie wanted to be a musician rather than an athlete. But even if he couldn't, at least Charlie knew what he really wanted, maybe for the first time in his life.

(1,990 words)

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