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Authors: Rachel Hawthorne
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off the Backyard Mania billboard. Several local businesses paid to advertise on the boards that fenced in the outfield. Of course, my dadâs business had the biggest.
Tonight we were playing the McKinney Marshals. We watched their left fielder scramble for the ball while Mac made it safely to first base. The score was three to two, our favor, but we could use another run. Narrow leads made me nervous.
The pitcher walked Tyler, almost like it was intentional. Maybe it was. I knew they did that sometimes when a powerful hitter came up to bat, especially if they knew they might be able to get a double play off the next batter.
And the next batter was Jason.
He was a lefty. With the bat held in place beneath his left arm, he lifted the Velcro on his left batting glove, tightened it, lifted the Velcroon his right batting glove, tightened it, took the bat, and stepped into the batting box. From where I was sitting, I could see his face clearly, the concentration, his grip on the bat.
Like so many other spectators, Bird and I waved our rattles. Our show of support. Then everyone quieted while the pitcher wound upâ¦.
Jason just stood there as the ball whizzed past.
A perfect strike.
Come on, come on, come on. Donât strike out.
Jason went through the whole tightening his batting gloves routine again. He stepped into the batterâs box.
The pitcher wound upâ¦.
Jason swung at the ball and missed.
I knew even the best hitters sometimes struck out. I mean, if hitting the ball was a sure thing, it wouldnât be a sport, but stillâ
âStrike three!â the umpire yelled after the next ball crossed the plate.
I groaned. Jasonâs jaw clenched like he really wanted to hit somethingâthe ball would have been nice.
Brandon stepped up to the plate next. With the end of his bat, he touched each corner of the plate, stepped back, stepped forward, touched the center of the plate. Took his stance. The first ball went past.
A ball.
Brandon stepped back, stepped forward, touched each corner of the plate, stepped back, forward, touched the center of the plate. He went into his stance.
I was suddenly aware of Bird gripping my arm.
Crack!
The bat hit the ball and sent it out over left field, out of the ballpark. Another home run. Another home run!
Bird was on her feet, jumping up and down, yelling, hugging me, shaking her rattle. I was yelling and hugging her back. Nothing was more exciting than a home run, even if it wasnât my guy who hit it.
When had I started thinking of Jason as my guy? He wasnât supposed to be my guy. He was just the guy living in my house.
Still, I couldnât deny that I wished Jasonhadnât struck out. I was a little embarrassed for him, which was totally silly. Guys struck out all the time. It was part of the game.
Besides, baseball was more than smacking a little ball over a fence. The other team had only two runs, which meant Jason must have done some impressive pitching, which I was certain to get a look at firsthand at the top of the fifth.
The next guy at bat struck out, which ended the fourth inning. Bird and I did another round of frantically waving our rattles to make them clack, the wooden slats imitating the sound of an angry rattler.
âGo, Rattlers! Woo! Woo!â we yelled.
I was excited because I was about to see Jason in action.
Only he wasnât the one walking out to the mound. He wasnât the one winding up and pitching the ball to the catcher. I was totally bummed.
âLooks like Jason is finished for the night,â Bird said.
I bit back a nasty comment, like that her powers of observation astounded me. I knew Ihad no reason to take my frustrations out on her, so I simply said, âYeah.â
âHey, youâll see him pitch against the Coppell Copperheads tomorrow night.â
âRight. Iâm totally cool.â
Even though I knew starting pitchers didnât usually pitch two games in a row.
And
Tonight we were playing the McKinney Marshals. We watched their left fielder scramble for the ball while Mac made it safely to first base. The score was three to two, our favor, but we could use another run. Narrow leads made me nervous.
The pitcher walked Tyler, almost like it was intentional. Maybe it was. I knew they did that sometimes when a powerful hitter came up to bat, especially if they knew they might be able to get a double play off the next batter.
And the next batter was Jason.
He was a lefty. With the bat held in place beneath his left arm, he lifted the Velcro on his left batting glove, tightened it, lifted the Velcroon his right batting glove, tightened it, took the bat, and stepped into the batting box. From where I was sitting, I could see his face clearly, the concentration, his grip on the bat.
Like so many other spectators, Bird and I waved our rattles. Our show of support. Then everyone quieted while the pitcher wound upâ¦.
Jason just stood there as the ball whizzed past.
A perfect strike.
Come on, come on, come on. Donât strike out.
Jason went through the whole tightening his batting gloves routine again. He stepped into the batterâs box.
The pitcher wound upâ¦.
Jason swung at the ball and missed.
I knew even the best hitters sometimes struck out. I mean, if hitting the ball was a sure thing, it wouldnât be a sport, but stillâ
âStrike three!â the umpire yelled after the next ball crossed the plate.
I groaned. Jasonâs jaw clenched like he really wanted to hit somethingâthe ball would have been nice.
Brandon stepped up to the plate next. With the end of his bat, he touched each corner of the plate, stepped back, stepped forward, touched the center of the plate. Took his stance. The first ball went past.
A ball.
Brandon stepped back, stepped forward, touched each corner of the plate, stepped back, forward, touched the center of the plate. He went into his stance.
I was suddenly aware of Bird gripping my arm.
Crack!
The bat hit the ball and sent it out over left field, out of the ballpark. Another home run. Another home run!
Bird was on her feet, jumping up and down, yelling, hugging me, shaking her rattle. I was yelling and hugging her back. Nothing was more exciting than a home run, even if it wasnât my guy who hit it.
When had I started thinking of Jason as my guy? He wasnât supposed to be my guy. He was just the guy living in my house.
Still, I couldnât deny that I wished Jasonhadnât struck out. I was a little embarrassed for him, which was totally silly. Guys struck out all the time. It was part of the game.
Besides, baseball was more than smacking a little ball over a fence. The other team had only two runs, which meant Jason must have done some impressive pitching, which I was certain to get a look at firsthand at the top of the fifth.
The next guy at bat struck out, which ended the fourth inning. Bird and I did another round of frantically waving our rattles to make them clack, the wooden slats imitating the sound of an angry rattler.
âGo, Rattlers! Woo! Woo!â we yelled.
I was excited because I was about to see Jason in action.
Only he wasnât the one walking out to the mound. He wasnât the one winding up and pitching the ball to the catcher. I was totally bummed.
âLooks like Jason is finished for the night,â Bird said.
I bit back a nasty comment, like that her powers of observation astounded me. I knew Ihad no reason to take my frustrations out on her, so I simply said, âYeah.â
âHey, youâll see him pitch against the Coppell Copperheads tomorrow night.â
âRight. Iâm totally cool.â
Even though I knew starting pitchers didnât usually pitch two games in a row.
And
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