48 minutes

961 words

3 balls, 2 strikes

It was the last day of Don and Charlie Eppes' high school career, and their gym teacher had a special treat for his seniors. "Okay, gentlemen, because this is the last day of classes, I have gotten permission to extend our gym class for the rest of the afternoon. Since we have our two baseball co-captains in this class, I thought you'd enjoy a little friendly rivalry. Eppes and Nicotra! You will take turns picking teams and we will play baseball for the rest of the afternoon."

Don and the rest of the jocks cheered loudly. Charlie and the rest of the geeks groaned. Charlie turned to Tommy and muttered, "The perfect end to the high school career from hell."

Tommy sighed. "At least your brother will pick you, which will leave me the honor of being chosen last. Again."

"Don't be too sure about that. He's too competitive to worry about me. He'll pick the best team, and if I happen to be left when he gets his last pick, he MIGHT choose me. Maybe we'll get lucky and be on the same team."

Charlie decided to try making eye contact with his brother. Just to remind Don of his existence. Don glanced his way and made that "oh crap" face he had perfected through their high school career. Charlie looked down at his feet.

"Looks like you were right," Tommy said. "I guess a jock is a jock, even if he's family."

In a few minutes, the teams were set, except for Charlie and Tommy. Louie Nicotra nudged Don. "Hey, Eppes. You take your baby brother and I'll take the other geek."

Don shrugged. "Okay by me. Come on, Chuck."

Charlie jogged over to join his team as Don was setting his batting order. As he expected, he was dead last, the time honored position of the "easy out." He would be playing right field, the place least likely to see any opportunity to field the ball. Most of the kids were right handed, and most were pull hitters. Therefore, most fly balls went to left field. Donnie knew what he was doing.

Charlie's first at bat, he struck out swinging at three balls out of the strike zone. His last swing was so hard, it spun him around.

In the last inning, with two outs, two men on base, and his team down by two, Charlie came to bat again. "What do you want me to do?" He asked Don.

"Hit a home run?" Don said sarcastically. "Nah, that's not gonna happen. Listen, Billy likes to pitch inside. Lean in and let him hit you. That'll bring me up with the bases loaded."

"You want me to get hit?" Charlie squeaked. "He's throwing hard, Donnie!"

"You got a helmet. Trust me, Billy knows you're my brother. He won't do any permanent damage to you, or he'll have to answer to me."

The teacher, acting as umpire, turned toward the bench. "Little Eppes? You're up!"

Charlie crammed the helmet on his head, picked up a bat and dragged his feet all the way to home plate. He shouldered his bat and leaned over the plate. When Billy released the ball, Charlie closed his eyes. He felt the ball whiz past his head, and heard the teacher yell, "High! Ball one!"

Charlie had watched enough of Donnie's games to know that a walk was as good as a hit. Even better because it forced the pitcher to throw at least four pitches. He also realized that, as the smallest kid in the class, he had the smallest strike zone. So he hunched down as far as he could comfortably, took a half a step back away from the plate, and waited for the next pitch. Strike!

He hunched even further down. The next pitch whizzed past him. Ball! Charlie stifled a smile. This just might work. The next pitch was a ball. Three balls and one strike. Definitely a hitter's count. The next pitch whizzed right through the middle of the strike zone. Full count. The next pitch would decide it.

Charlie risked a glance at Donnie. His brother was gnawing his lower lip nervously, but he gave Charlie a little nod. That barely perceptible nod could be the green light to handle the at-bat his way, or it could have been a reminder of Don's instructions.

He hunched down, and took a step forward until his toes touched the plate. If the ball was a strike, it was going to hit him, and it was going to hurt. Charlie braced himself, determined not to cry. That would be even worse than corkscrewing that last at-bat. He hunched down as small as he could, his elbows nearly touching his knees, and closed his eyes. Even so, he flinched as he heard the pitcher grunt with his release. It whizzed over his head. "Ball four!" the teacher yelled, "Take your base!"

He opened his eyes and gave Don a shaky grin as he jogged to first base. The odds favored the leadoff batter, and the odds were not wrong. Donnie came to bat. In the last game of his high school career, he hit a grand slam homerun. For the first time in his high school career, Charlie crossed the plate and scored a run.

As they walked home, Donnie put his arm over Charlie's shoulders. "Hey, Buddy, you were really going to do it, weren't you?"

"Do what?"

"Let Billy hit you."

"Sure. Why not? It was late in the game, his arm was getting tired. I was wearing a helmet. The chances of me getting seriously injured were a lot less than the chances of getting thrown into the koi pond if I struck out again."