1Batter Up
We have to win this game….
Like gotta win. No other option.
I’ve been playing base-related ball—first tee, now soft—since the minute I could hold up a bat. Just like my daddy. And his daddy before him. And his daddy before him. It’s in my blood. And I learned the meaning of “love/hate relationship” in a game situation like this one.
It’s the bottom of the sixth and we’re up by three, but the opposing team is at bat. Bases are loaded, two strikes, two outs. Any time I say something is stressful, my mama rolls her eyes and says, “You’re twelve, Shenice. You have no idea what that word means.” But this? Is stressful.
As I drop back into my squat behind home plate, my eyes scan the field, and I inhale deep. Impossible to notnotice—for me at least—how different our two teams look. While every player on mine, the Fulton Firebirds, has some shade of brown skin, all of the Stockwood Sharks girls are white.
Which is the case for most teams in the 12U division of the Dixie Youth Softball Association. DYSA, if you’re feeling fancy.
Not only are we Fulton Firebirds the first all-Black team in this league—which even considering the name is a huge deal—we’re the only team in the entire DYSA with more than three Black players on the roster.
Across eight states. All of which were on the pro-slavery side during the Civil War. Something my daddy reminds me of every time he sees “DYSA.”
“It’s a weight no one your age should have to carry, but can’t ignore,” he says. And he’s right: Every win feels…historical.
I hate it…but also love it.
Victory is almost ours.
I hear the ump—a short dude whose middle is shaped like the highlighter-hued ball that gives this game I love so much its name—hock a loogie above my head. It slams into the dirt on my right with the force of a slimy bullet.
So gross.
I breathe in again, though it definitely makes me feel like the hot dog I ate earlier is going to join ump guy’s blob of mucus beside me. The air has to be full of phlegm germs right now.
I gotta get my head back in the game. Yes, we’re up, but I’d be lying if I said the Sharks aren’t good.
They’re real good, in fact.
But so are we.
We have to win this game.
Their best batter is at the plate—Steph Mahoney. I know her name because of her rep as a home-run hitter. Not surprising once you see the latest Louisville Slugger LXT choke-gripped between her half-covered hands. Her batting gloves are fingerless, which I’ve never seen in our league. But considering that bat costs 350 buckaroos, it’s clear good ol’ Steph is serious about this sport.
I lock gazes with our pitcher, Cala “Quickfire” Kennedy. My “teammate” since the days of rolling one of Daddy’s baseballs back and forth in our shared playpen (though we haven’t always played on the same actual team). She’s the best, most epic fast-pitch heat thrower in the state. Likely even in all of Dixie, and maybe the whole country.
All she’s gotta do is throw one more strike.
In my peripheral vision, I see the blond, freckly-faced girl on third base take a quick peek at her coach, who tugs at his right earlobe, and then brushes a finger beneath his nose. After a slight nod, she subtly steps one foot off the slightly raised white square, and shifts into a ready-to-run stance, eyes on Cala, like a little lion cub who has decided home plate is her prey.
Steal a run? Not on my watch.
We HAVE to win this game.
I “adjust” my face mask with my left hand—my signal to Hennessey Lane, our go-to third-base girl (and a robotics champion to boot), that the ball is coming at her fast so she can pick the runner off, which would win us the game—and within a second, Quickfire has thrown a pitch. It’s wide, and Steph rightly doesn’t swing. But I was right about blondie: she takes off from third.
Good thing they don’t call me Lightning Lockwood for nothing. Before the ump can shout, “Ball two!” I’ve fired the yellow sphere at Hennessey, and the golden-haired Shark is diving back toward the base, her fingertips reaching the edge a mere breath before Hennessey tags her side, ball in glove.
“SAFE!” the third-base ump says, slashing his arms out to his sides.
Hennessey lobs the ball back to Cala, and as the LXT batter repositions herself, I use my fingers to signal my suggested pitch: rising curve, outside edge. Cala stands, centers, and whips her arm around quick as a camera flash. It hits my glove before I can blink—
“BALL THREE!” Loogie Ump barks behind me. His voice is a little phlegmy. It’s like I can feel the germs raining down on my back now.
“All good, Cay!” Cala’s mom shouts from the stands. “Head in the game, baby!”
As I remove the ball from my glove to toss it back to Cala, it feels like it’s on fire. Not literally, of course. But I have no doubt Cala feels it, too: this pitch could decide the game. All she’s gotta do is throw one more strike.
I signal for a fastball, straight up the middle.
Cala lets it rip, and I position my glove and await the telltale thunk and slight throb of my palm inside my glove.
There’s a THWACK instead. Followed by a different thunk: that of the Louisville Slugger hitting the ground. Steph takes off running, her orangey-red braid swinging as cheering explodes from the visitor stands.
I shoot to my feet and yank my helmet off. Watch, unable to breathe, as our center fielder, Britt-Marie Hogan—my best girl friend—runs with everything she’s got to keep up with the soaring yellow ball…
She jumps, but to no avail. It flies over the fence, and the Shark fans yell even louder.
“HOME RUN!” the ump shouts behind me.
I turn away from the plate. There’s no way I can watchus lose.
—
The ride home is super uncomfortable, largely because no one is saying a word inside the Firebus. Usually we all love being in Coach Nat’s giant van—the whole team rides together to and from games, and the Firebus has space for all of us: thirteen players, plus Coach Nat and her wife, Ms. Erica, who never misses anything we do as a team. ...
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