While releasing the last of four balls to the batter, I felt a sharp ting in my arm. I had grown weak over the few hours of playing in the hot sun on a dusty field, and my mind wandered to the air conditioned home that was only minutes away from where I was currently. As I slugged back up the pitchers mound while the batter took his base, I glanced up at the hazy field. My eyes blurred for a minute and then readjusted to the sun glaring back at me behind the field. Three runners filled up the bases, all eager to make a run for home to win the tied game. My arm weak and strength failing, I also realized that their best hitter was up next. Knowing this could be our last playoff game, failure had already permeated into my entire team. The outfielders shifted uncomfortably, and the catcher supported his mitt with the top of his thigh. Most of the other team was celebrating their win, having faith in their best hitter, who purposely did not swing at my first two strenuous pitches. An eternity passed as I shuffled up the mound, once again, now with two strikes on the league’s best hitter. I knew that it would take more than just another fastball to strike him out.
My mind racing, I gripped the baseball with two fingers, awkwardly wrapping around the side of the ball’s seam, setting myself up for a special type of curve ball. I had taken the entire season to perfect this pitch. But suddenly it seemed so natural to use it in this situation, as I hid the grip in the dirty pocket of my glove. My leg lifted, and I lunged forward with only three fingers on the ball, and at the very last second with my torso now accelerating as fast as the ball itself, I flicked my wrist. The seams of the ball instantaneously spun sideways, as it rocketed towards home plate. My arm screamed at me, and flopped limply down towards the ground after the follow through. Every single player, coach, and spectator was suddenly more attentive than any other time during the game. As the elite batter’s sparkling bat rotated around his body, the entire stadium exhaled an indescribable breath of air, which held silent for minutes, as the ball, slowly but surely, dipped below his three hundred dollar chunk of metal alloy.
After the thump of the catcher’s mitt erupted, the batter continued to swing, until confusedly returning back into gametime focus with the realization that the ball had not made contact with the bat. He paused, examining the mushroom cloud of dust that had ejected from the catcher’s mitt, positively lower than where he had swung the bat. Inside the dugout, every player’s jaw unconsciously hung low. My eyes flicked to the umpire, dumbfounded, who barely could utter “strike!” as his breath returned.
I looked, unknowingly smiling, back at my team, and a deafening silence jolted through the moment we were all in. With a sudden return of energy and brainpower, my coach’s hands flew ecstatically into the dusty air. A yell of both awe and fantastic happiness surged throughout the entire field as the batter now slugged over to the dugout, past the hanging jaw of his coaches, and the wide eyes of the umpire. It was at this moment that I turned around to march towards the dugout with my parading team and realized that the exact moment then was what I played baseball for. It was not a simple game, but an elaborate test of wits and endurance through some of the most depressing situations. Yet when all hope seems to be lost, the practice and dedication comes through to create the moment that proved my worth on the team, and proved to me why I continued to play, year after year.
This one is from the archives! I wrote this in Sept. 2015 as a candidate for a college application essay. My English teacher gave me an ‘A’. :)