that. So when he threw again, I tried real hard to stay still. Then, at the last moment, I realized I hadn’t raised my glove. I barely got it up in time to deflect it away from my mouth.
He laughed again, that mole shaking as his mouth moved. “I mean, it won’t hurt you as long as you catch it in the glove.”
I had to laugh. I mean, I’m not an idiot, but this throwing and catching thing was like a muscle I hadn’t used before. I ran over, picked up the ball, which had landed about ten feet away, and threw it back to him, sidearm. It felt good.
“You’ve got a good arm,” Robinson said. “I guess you haven’t played much softball, huh?”
“We were more into, like, skiing,” I said.
“Cool.”
As we warmed up, I saw Ben and Bryce deep in conversation. I almost went over to say hey but decided not to because they looked serious. When Steve called us all in to announce the lineup, Ben cuffed Bryce on the shoulder. Bryce’s face looked pained. I thought back to how he seemed at the party, and I wondered what could make a kid look that upset at a softball game.
We were up first as the away team. Right before we sent our firsthitter up, Bryce called everyone over. As he spoke to us, he looked down at the dirt.
“I’m having a hard day,” he said, almost a mumble. “Just take it easy on me, okay?”
The guys all looked at one another, as if needing a cue on how to react. I felt like nodding and saying, Sure, of course , but I didn’t want to stand out. I looked over at Ben, and it seemed to me that he probably could have said something supportive. But I guess I wasn’t the only one afraid of standing out.
“Oh-kay …” Steve said, as if Bryce were a crazy person. “Sure thing, buddy.” And it amazed me, how the words were all Natick positive, like all for one, and one for all , which was the kind of team-first mentality I was so used to hearing from the guys. But his tone was a lot of things, and none of them was positive at all.
Bryce kicked the ground in the same way I would have if someone had said something that hurt my feelings. And then Zack went up to the plate, and it was like none of that conversation ever happened.
My turn to bat came up in the first inning. The guys were all pretty good, hitting the ball into the outfield every time. As I stood on the dirt circle where I could take warm-up swings, I thought back to probably the last time that I had swung a bat … again, third-grade T-ball? Joey, our catcher, was batting before me. He stayed back on his right leg, watched the arc of the ball, and then swung hard, shifting his weight with a big step forward. I was a lefty, so I figured I would just reverse everything. Joey made an out by hitting a high ball to the first baseman, and I came forward.
“Hey, you need to get in the box,” said the senior team’s catcher.
My face flushed. “I know,” I said, looking down in front of me. There was a crudely drawn rectangle in the dirt surrounding home plate. I stepped into the box and extended the bat to make sure it would reach over the plate. It would.
Then the kid on the mound lofted an underarm pitch. As it started to come down, I thought about swinging, but I would have had to swing up over my head, which didn’t feel right. It landed in the catcher’s glove, right about waist high.
“Ball one!” the umpire shouted.
“Cool,” I mumbled.
Then the guy threw one that was a little lower. I was about to swing, but then I didn’t.
“Strike one!”
The third pitch came in a lot like the second one, and I just put all my weight into it, stepping forward and taking a huge swing.
Contact! The ball jumped off my bat and went toward the third baseman. I watched for a second, saw the third baseman put his glove down because it was a low shot, and then remembered I was supposed to run. I sprinted as fast as I could. I focused on first base, figuring the ball would probably get there before I did, and I’d be out.
It
He laughed again, that mole shaking as his mouth moved. “I mean, it won’t hurt you as long as you catch it in the glove.”
I had to laugh. I mean, I’m not an idiot, but this throwing and catching thing was like a muscle I hadn’t used before. I ran over, picked up the ball, which had landed about ten feet away, and threw it back to him, sidearm. It felt good.
“You’ve got a good arm,” Robinson said. “I guess you haven’t played much softball, huh?”
“We were more into, like, skiing,” I said.
“Cool.”
As we warmed up, I saw Ben and Bryce deep in conversation. I almost went over to say hey but decided not to because they looked serious. When Steve called us all in to announce the lineup, Ben cuffed Bryce on the shoulder. Bryce’s face looked pained. I thought back to how he seemed at the party, and I wondered what could make a kid look that upset at a softball game.
We were up first as the away team. Right before we sent our firsthitter up, Bryce called everyone over. As he spoke to us, he looked down at the dirt.
“I’m having a hard day,” he said, almost a mumble. “Just take it easy on me, okay?”
The guys all looked at one another, as if needing a cue on how to react. I felt like nodding and saying, Sure, of course , but I didn’t want to stand out. I looked over at Ben, and it seemed to me that he probably could have said something supportive. But I guess I wasn’t the only one afraid of standing out.
“Oh-kay …” Steve said, as if Bryce were a crazy person. “Sure thing, buddy.” And it amazed me, how the words were all Natick positive, like all for one, and one for all , which was the kind of team-first mentality I was so used to hearing from the guys. But his tone was a lot of things, and none of them was positive at all.
Bryce kicked the ground in the same way I would have if someone had said something that hurt my feelings. And then Zack went up to the plate, and it was like none of that conversation ever happened.
My turn to bat came up in the first inning. The guys were all pretty good, hitting the ball into the outfield every time. As I stood on the dirt circle where I could take warm-up swings, I thought back to probably the last time that I had swung a bat … again, third-grade T-ball? Joey, our catcher, was batting before me. He stayed back on his right leg, watched the arc of the ball, and then swung hard, shifting his weight with a big step forward. I was a lefty, so I figured I would just reverse everything. Joey made an out by hitting a high ball to the first baseman, and I came forward.
“Hey, you need to get in the box,” said the senior team’s catcher.
My face flushed. “I know,” I said, looking down in front of me. There was a crudely drawn rectangle in the dirt surrounding home plate. I stepped into the box and extended the bat to make sure it would reach over the plate. It would.
Then the kid on the mound lofted an underarm pitch. As it started to come down, I thought about swinging, but I would have had to swing up over my head, which didn’t feel right. It landed in the catcher’s glove, right about waist high.
“Ball one!” the umpire shouted.
“Cool,” I mumbled.
Then the guy threw one that was a little lower. I was about to swing, but then I didn’t.
“Strike one!”
The third pitch came in a lot like the second one, and I just put all my weight into it, stepping forward and taking a huge swing.
Contact! The ball jumped off my bat and went toward the third baseman. I watched for a second, saw the third baseman put his glove down because it was a low shot, and then remembered I was supposed to run. I sprinted as fast as I could. I focused on first base, figuring the ball would probably get there before I did, and I’d be out.
It
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