by Kris Hui Lee
“And by ‘playing cheap,’ you mean…”
“Their most infamous tactic is having their catcher make crude comments at the batter to make him lose focus.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a page out of The Sandlot.”
“Immature,” Jiro says, “but effective. They’re also fond of body checking.”
“There’s no such thing as body checking in baseball,” I insist.
“There is when Charing East plays,” Jiro says.
“Well, I’m a girl,” I say. “They can’t hit me.”
“You better hope so,” Jiro says.
At first I think he’s joking, but he’s not smiling.
As Charing East walks past us like drones, Joey shouts, “Left! Left! Left, right, left!”
Cody backhands his shoulder. “Dude, do you want to get your ass kicked?”
As he says this, a guy in the middle of the Charing East lineup looks back at us, trying to find the offender.
“Don’t break formation!” Joey shouts at him.
“Dude, shut up,” Carrot hisses, but there’s a distinct laughter behind his words.
The Charing East team slows their pace, sizing us up. Their gazes end on me.
“Hot mascot,” says a guy with really bushy eyebrows.
Cody tenses beside me. “Say that again, asshole.”
Bushy Eyebrows stalks right up to us, towering over my head by at least four inches. If Harold Mathers was Ray on steroids, this guy is Harold Mathers plus Ray on super steroids. “I said, you’ve got a hot mascot,” he restates emphatically, his eyes level with Cody’s. “Where’d you pick her up? Walmart?”
The other team has now come to a standstill too, and I’m legitimately concerned that with all this testosterone in the air, a brawl will break out in next five seconds.
Before anyone starts throwing punches, I tell Bushy Eyebrows, “Your fly’s open.”
He looks down.
Just like that, our whole team busts up. They are that easy to entertain.
“Did you really fall for that?!” Joey shouts, doubled over in laughter.
Bushy Eyebrows narrows his eyes at me. Damn, he really is Ray and Harold’s triplet. “Cute trick. Hope your pitching is as good as your insults.”
He walks away, the rest of his team in tow. He must be their despot.
We all stand there for a moment, watching them settle into their dugout.
After a moment, Cody says to me, “‘Your fly’s open’? That’s the best you could come up with?”
“Shut up.”
He playfully bumps my shoulder with his as we make our way to our dugout. Normally I’d nudge him back, but any intent I have of joking around gets quashed when I catch Bushy Eyebrows watching us. Watching me.
This must be how Cody feels every time he’s about to play a game against Santino.
21
Dad, Nick, Sara, and even Santino, Neha, Abram, and Geanna are in the stands. I don’t point this out to Cody, but I’m sure he notices anyway.
My mom isn’t here. We had pretty much the same conversation as before the last game, but it escalated. She said she would try and come, but I knew she was only saying it. Instead of letting it be, I said, “You don’t have to lie. Just say you don’t want to go.”
“Marnie, I said I would try and come, and I will try.”
“Convenient. There’s no way for me to know if you tried or not.”
“Marnie, look at these stacks of papers, ” she said, her voice getting terse. “I’m days behind. I have phone calls to make, and I have to wait for these people to get off from their day jobs. I said I would try, so don’t call me a liar.”
“At least tell me straight up that you wish I wasn’t such a tomboy and liked to get mani-pedis with you and wear dresses for no reason. You hate it. Just say it. You think I’m a total failure.”
She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”
“You don’t have time for me, you mean.”
“Marnie!”
“I’m leaving. Bye.”
I regretted what I said the moment I left her office. I hated how sarcastic I was, how angsty, how teenager. I know my mom is busy. I know she deals with bitchy clients all day. She doesn’t need me to be one too.
All day at school, in between worrying about pitching, I kept wondering why I wanted my mom’s approval so much about pitching—for a guys’ team nonetheless. I wouldn’t have thought I did. I’ve made peace with our many differences a long time ago. How could my subconscious have something so stupid buried inside it?
As I wave to Nick and Dad, I try not to let that the morning’s argument work its way back under my skin. I try not to think that maybe if I hadn’t been such an asshole, Mom would be here.
Armstrong High has a huge bleacher section for their baseball field, and it’s a full house this evening. They wrap around the entire outfield, almost like a professional baseball stadium—but only one level and not nearly as many seats. And instead of a fence designating the end of the field, there’s a concrete wall—also like the pros. They’ve got lush green mowed grass, comfortable dugouts with new benches, and humongous digital scoreboards above both dugouts. They even serve Chicago-style hot dogs at their concession stands—all the works sans the ketchup.
Might as well make this the home of the Cubs. No pressure.
“How you feeling?” Chizz asks me as I adjust my hair tie.
“Pretty good, actually.”
He grins. “Let’s make that really fucking awesome,” he says, “and then we’ll be in good shape.” He hands me a baseball. “We’re batting first, so you’ve got some time before you’re on.” He nods at the bullpen, which is also like a hotel suite compared to the one back home. “Get warmed up. Remember the other team is watching you closely, so don’t show them your best moves.”
I nod. Wrapping my fingers around the baseball triggers a rush of adrenaline.
Game time: T minus ten minutes.
Deep breath. In. Out.
Let’s do this thing.
• • •
So it turns out the Charing East baseball team, in addition to being an intimidating and aggressive group, is also very good at playing baseball.
First of all, their pitcher is ambidextrous, and he frigging knows his shit. With one batter, he’ll throw the first pitch with his right hand, then second with his left, and then the third again with his right. During warm-up, Davis lets it slip that their pitcher has been known to throw at speeds up to ninety-seven miles per hour. That is hardcore Major League shit that not even Santino or Cody could accomplish. (Okay, maybe Cody if he tried hard enough, but this Charing East guy does it like it’s the easiest thing in the world.)
Second of all, Jiro was not wrong about their catcher getting mouthy behind the plate. According to our first four batters in the first inning, they all got some sort of insult thrown at them. Jiro says he was told a very vivid porn story.
It seems like only two seconds go by before the top of the first inning is over. Suddenly Chizz is patting me on the back, our team is pulling on their mitts and running to the outfield, and it’s time for me to take the mound.
Cody squeezes my shoulder and gives me a baseball. “Knock ’em dead.”
A smile is all I can manage.
No one vocally abuses me or tells me erotic stories while I’m on the pitcher’s mound, but the hundreds of eyes on me, especially the dark pair belonging to the batter, are enough to freak me out. It dawns on me, I am playing at semifinals. One game away from state.
Dad, Nick, and Sara cheer for me, but they’re the only ones. The bleachers are oddly quiet, our fans’ doubt permeates the silence. Or maybe I’m projecting my own fears.
The batter is waiting. Davis shoots me the sign for a fastball.
&
nbsp; Distinct snickers reach me from the Charing East dugout. When I make the mistake of glancing their way, Bushy Eyebrows, with a malicious smirk on his face, gives me a thumbs-up.
“Come on, Marnie!” It’s Cody’s voice of encouragement that drowns out the snickers. All his hard work—pitching practically every game this season and pitching five shutouts, including one no-hitter—and here I am, completely unfit to be taking his place.
I rack my brain for all the reassuring things people have told me this week. The first that surfaces is about playing well and playing smart.
Keep your chin up, and soon enough, they’ll see you’ve got a reason to.
I sure hope I have a reason to.
I shake these thoughts out of my head and position the ball in my hand. I stand up straight. I wind up, stride, throw…
“Strike!”
I let out my breath.
Maybe I do have a reason to.
• • •
By the end of the third inning, the score is still zero to zero, but not for lack of trying. There were close calls on both sides. At one point, our team had the bases loaded, but we failed to bring anyone home.
Charing East, realizing their offense isn’t doing so hot, decides to up their defensive strategies by having their catcher amp up his level of asshole. Our team lets it go. We’re too good to let that kind of immature behavior get to us, but then, in the top of the fourth, Joey loses his shit.
He’s batting, and the pitcher is getting ready to throw when Joey suddenly steps away from the plate and shouts at the catcher. “I’ll rip your throat out if you don’t shut up, Lawrence!”
A five-minute holdup follows as both coaches, the ump, the catcher, and Joey hash out their argument behind home plate.
Since I’m not batting this game, I thankfully never have to experience whatever it is the catcher is saying to piss off all our batters, but after Joey manages to bring in one run, I have a feeling the Charing East team is going to up the ante.
In the bottom of the fourth, I strike out the first batter, who stomps off over the fact that he’s been bested by a girl. The second batter hits a grounder to third base. Carrot scoops up the ball and throws it to Mitch at first base. What happens next happens so fast I barely even see it. All I know is there’s a nasty collision, and Mitch and the batter are both knocked off their feet from the impact, sending them sprawling on the ground.
The batter gets to his feet. He looks unscathed. That might even be a smile on his face, the bastard. Mitch, however, is still on the ground.
Never have I seen a runner take a baseman out like that before—especially not in a high school game. It didn’t look intentional, but after Jiro’s warning about them playing cheap, I can’t help but think it was.
Everyone waits expectantly as the first base ref talks to the ump. Chizz and a few other guys huddle around Mitch. Everyone on our team seems ready to bury that runner in the sand.
A few moments later, Mitch is standing. He reclaims his position on first base, but whether he’s actually uninjured or just too proud to take a seat on the bench, I can’t tell.
I wait for the ump to call the batter out on interference, but instead the ump walks back behind home plate. Chizz starts shouting at him—I would be too—but the ump shakes his head: the collision was unintentional.
Unintentional, my ass.
But no amount of shouting will change this umpire’s mind. The batter is safe. No penalty.
And the game continues.
Soon enough, it’s clear that Mitch is not at 100 percent. His throws are a little off. And I can see him cringe at the slightest movement of his arm. The inning isn’t even over before he decides to let Alec, a sophomore, take his place.
Charing East scores a run.
This only seems to encourage their foul play, because in the top of the fifth, the Charing East second baseman tags T. J. out by shoving his mitt into his trachea. T. J. doubles over, hacking.
“I tagged him out,” the baseman says innocently. “It was an accident.”
Again, the ump calls no obstruction. T. J. is out.
On my way to the mound after our three outs, Bushy Eyebrows—whose name I now know is Jonathon Prescott—passes me en route to his dugout. “Rough game today,” he says. “Better watch out.”
I’m not sure if this is considered a threat or not, so I file it under “Dumb Things Jocks Say.”
I manage two strikeouts this inning, thanks to my sidearm tactics. As we planned, it throws the batters for a loop. I can’t help but throw a suck it look at the second guy I strike out, mostly because he throws a hissy fit after the third strike, claiming it was so not a strike, it was a ball!
In a spare moment between batters, I give Santino a nod of thanks.
The fifth inning ends, and the sixth inning passes, and the score remains one to zero.
In the top of the seventh, Carrot exacts revenge on Charing East for injuring our players by belting a home run, tying the game one to one. If we were in the Major Leagues, we’d have two more innings for a comeback, but this is high school, and we only play to seven. We have to get this game into extra innings. Which means I’ve got three batters to keep at bay.
Three batters.
“Come on, Marnie!” Sara and Nick shout.
I shake my arms to loosen my tense muscles. I focus on my breathing.
I have been playing baseball since I was six years old. I’ve been taught by two of the best pitchers in the state.
I pitched at sectionals, and we won.
I’ve only allowed one run in seven innings.
I’ve made it this far without crashing and burning.
I might not be Cody or Nick or Santino, but I belong here—on the mound, mitt on my left hand, baseball in my right.
Davis throws me a sign for a changeup.
We get the first batter out on a fly ball.
The second batter is Prescott. I’ve been trying hard to strike him out all game, but so far, no such luck. This time, he hits a double. Which is about when I start having a mild panic attack. All I can think is, You have one job to do, Marnie.
One out.
Two more.
Two more.
The next batter, a tall, burly guy steps up to the plate. He takes a few practice swings and then winds the bat back over his shoulder. He shoots me a look like, Give it your best, rookie.
I take a deep breath as Davis flashes the sign for a curve ball.
I pitch, and I pray.
“Strike!”
I check Prescott at second. He’s taking a big lead off, but when he sees me about to throw to Jiro, he returns to the base.
Another deep breath.
Davis gives me the sign for a fastball.
I pray and pray and pray. Then I pitch.
There’s a clink! as the bat and ball make contact. I curse under my breath, but the ball lands in T. J.’s glove in center field. Prescott is going home.
T. J. makes an impressive throw all the way from center field to Davis, but it’s a wild throw. Davis is stepping away, so I run to cover home plate. My heart is near to bursting as I leap to catch Davis’s Hail Mary toss to me. The ball is in my mitt, and I make sure I’m not blocking the third baseline. All I have to do is tag Prescott before he reaches home. I’m expecting him to dive out of my reach, but instead, he completely trucks me.
He barrels into me like he’s trying to break through a brick wall instead of a seventeen-year-old girl. He’s a six-foot, two-hundred-pound guy, so there’s no hope of holding on to the ball as I literally fly through the air. I never understood what it meant to have the wind knocked out of you—until now. I imagine this might be what a baseball feels like when it gets smacked with a bat.
I land hard on the ground and flip myself over.
Shouts of everything
from curses to cheers ring out. Suddenly I’m shielded from the bright evening sun by people standing over me.
“Marnie,” a frantic voice says.
Someone lets out a deep groan, and I realize it’s me.
“Marnie, are you okay?” When I open my eyes, Cody is leaning over me. He gently pushes the loose strands of hair out of my face.
“Did we lose?” I manage to croak out.
“It’s okay.” Chizz. That’s his voice.
But it is so not okay.
A blinding rage fills me. This is how we lost? If it had been any of the other guys guarding home plate, they could’ve taken the hit just fine, still holding on to the ball. Instead it was me—no catcher’s gear, no body mass to match a guy like Prescott, no chance of enduring a blow like that.
In the end, it was because I’m a girl—lightweight and unable to stay on my feet.
“Is she okay?” I hear my dad shout.
It’s his voice, the knowledge that I need to get up so he doesn’t have a panic attack of his own, that gives me the motivation and strength to get on my feet.
I sit up as Dad calls, “Marnie!” and he and Nick rush over.
“Careful,” Chizz says. “She might have a concussion.”
He starts asking me questions about how I feel, if I’m dizzy, if my vision is blurred, and so on. But all I can think about is how we lost. And it wasn’t even because I’m a sucky pitcher. It was because I got blindsided on the very last play.
As I dwell on this, both teams line up for the good sportsmanship handshakes.
It sickens me that I have to do this, but that’s how these things work. You’re nice even when the other team doesn’t deserve it. I stick myself at the end of the line behind Joey.
A couple of guys on the other team mumble, “Good game,” as they half-heartedly high-five me. Then I get to Prescott at the end of the Charing East line. He squeezes my hand really hard and mumbles in a faux baby voice, loud enough for only me to hear, “Did the big, mean baseball player hurt your tiny ass?” He lets go of my hand and says in his normal deep voice, “Do yourself a favor and stick to being the mascot.”
I just about punch him in the face right there, but out of the corner of my eye, I see my dad and brother waiting for me.