“Bum Pitch”

“HEYYYYYBATTTTAHBATTTTAH SWINNNG!”

A Greek chorus of high pitched voices from little kids urge me to swing. Swing at a leather grenade that soars sixty miles an hour directly towards my head. 

I duck.

STREEAAAIIIIKKKE ONE! yells the Umpire.

A group of parents and fellow Cub teammates voice their outraged disapproval. “NOO! BOOO! THAT BALL ALMOST HIT HIM! BAD CALL UMP!”

Wiping the sweat from my brow I shift my grip on my bat and swing it energetically a few times over the plate to stay warm. 

The Wildcats pitcher looks around and licks his lips nervously. The bases are full, there are three balls and two outs. He winds up, rears back and releases another screamer towards the home plate.

I take a lumberjack swing that would have made Paul Bunyan proud.

I miss.

STREEEAAAIIIKKE TWO!!!

“CMON CHARLIE!” yells my Old Man.

Pounding the home plate in frustration with my bat, my right eye begins to water and throb. It’s been sore since I got struck in the face last month by a bum pitch. 

The doctors assured my Mom there had been no damage to the cornea or retina. But the memory of the blinding pain lingers.

The Pitcher winds up again and releases his best pitch of the game.

I close my eyes tightly…

And swing.