Page 75 of The Way We Swing

Start me off with a fastball, he did. I loaded my hands and swung through the ball, and it went flying to right center. I heard the crowd erupt behind me, but knew I had gotten under it. The ball hung in the air a second too long, and I saw the center fielder glide under it as I rounded first base.

Easton saw a couple more pitches than I did and lined a hit to right center. Silas drew a five-pitch walk, but Maddux rolled over a ground ball and hit into a rally-killing double play.

The next three innings went much the same way. St. Ed’s had multiple runners on each inning, but Silas kept them off balance just enough to not let them score. He had five strikeouts through four innings, none bigger than when he struck out their leadoff hitter in the top of the fourth with the bases loaded and two outs.

The score was still 1-0 St. Ed’s when I came to bat for the third time in the bottom of the fifth. I’d struck out on a curveball in the dirt my previous at bat, and I hoped for some vengeance here. Ricky had been hit by a pitch with two outs and stolen second on the first pitch of my at bat. I had a chance to drive him in now but was looking at a 0-1 count.

I sat fastball like I had the first pitch of the game, and he threw me another one almost in the same spot. I took nearly an identical swing to my first at bat, and I felt the same way about it as I had during the first hit—I missed the sweet spot by less than a millimeter. This time, the right fielder settled under the ball, and St. Ed’s went into the last two innings up a run.

I tossed my helmet into the dugout when I got near it, disgusted that I had missed that pitch for a second time.Easton handed me my glove and hat, but Silas called everybody to him before we ran onto the field.

“ I don’t care what that scoreboard says—we’re still the better team. Keep playing defense like this, they’re not scoring again. No way this guy shuts us out. Keep your heads up—we’re winning this game. ”

We broke the huddle and sprinted to our positions. The dugout noise faded behind me. I kept tugging my glove tighter, like that would hold me together. One run, I told myself. One swing. But the unease sat low in my gut, impossible to ignore.

Good on his promise, Silas shut down St. Ed’s in the top of the sixth. He struck out their cleanup hitter on the most disgusting curveball I’d ever seen him throw, completely locking up the batter. Silas gave a fist pump on the mound that would have made Tiger Woods blush.

Easton started off the bottom of the sixth with a four-pitch walk. It seemed like after the first two at bats that the St. Ed’s pitcher wanted nothing to do with him.

Silas only took one pitch to line a fastball to left field, and we were in business.

Maddux strode up to the plate next. Like Easton, Maddux stepped into the left-handed batter’s box. He took the first two pitches for balls. The crowd on our side stood up, willing him to do something magical one last time. The St. Ed’s pitcher looked the runners back before throwing a fastball.

Maddux swung the same swing he had from the time he was ten. The ball exploded off his bat, making the sound you only hear from elite batters. The ball soared into the sky toward right field, and I jumped into the air, fully expecting to take the lead.

Everyone in the stadium watched as the ball rose higher and higher. I glanced at the right fielder; he was sprinting toward the fence in right center. Easton stood on second, ready to advance if caught and score if not. I crouched, ready to explode into the air if the ball went out.

Fortunately for St. Ed’s, the ball wasn’t hit out of the park, as much as we’d all thought it had been. Right centermeasured at three hundred eighty feet, and Maddux only hit the ball three hundred seventy-eight.

The right fielder left his feet when he got to the warning track, and he went parallel to the ground. The ball smacked the center of his glove less than three feet above the dirt and less than three feet away from the outfield wall. I watched as he tumbled around, upset that we hadn’t even managed to tie up the game with that swing.

Then I looked at Easton, who clearly had different plans. From the moment the right fielder caught the ball, he was at full speed. He had the same look on his face he had during every workout since I’d met him. He was going to score from second on a fly out to tie up the state title.

I started yelling at Easton to go harder, not that he could hear me. Coach’s hands went up in the third-base coach’s box, but there was no use in trying to slow him down. Easton’s mind was made up—he was scoring.

Against almost any other high school team in the country, he would’ve scored. But there was a reason that St. Ed’s right fielder had been offered a scholarship to half the schools in the Big Twelve. He got up off the ground quickly and fired the ball, on a line, into the second-base bag. The shortstop fired a perfect relay home, and the ball beat Easton by two steps. Easton tried sliding around the tag, but it was no use.

He was out, and we were four outs from losing this game.

We managed to get another runner on, but it wasn’t enough.

Silas set them down in order again in the top of the seventh, the last inning of the game, but the fire in his eyes had faded. He’d pitched the game of his life, and we were still three outs from losing. He deserved better.

I knew what had to be said. So, before the bottom half, I called the team together. This speech was on me. The coaches stayed back, knowing it wasn’t their moment. I started talking—and didn’t stop for a full minute.

“Silas just pitched his ass off. All we need is one run. Get me to the plate. We’ve worked too damn hard for this to be the end. Ricky, Zach, Bobby. One of you needs to geton, and we will win this game. Get me to the plate, and I’ll finish what we started.”

We broke the huddle. I’d said everything I could. This wasn’t how our season was supposed to end—and we couldn’t let it.

I walked back to the dugout, making sure every player was up on the fence screaming their heads off. As I made my second lap, doubt crept in. I was zero for three on the day. Even if I got to the plate, there was no guarantee I would get a hit.

But this was it, the moment to prove I was capable. If I failed, our season might end with me. I pushed the thought away as the inning began.

Bobby walked to the plate, his batting gloves hanging out of his back pocket unused. I balled up my own batting gloves, hoping I’d get to use them and needing something to do with my nervous energy.

The first pitch came in, and he tried to steal a hit—he laid down a perfect bunt, but St. Ed’s third baseman barehanded it and got him by five steps. We were down to two outs.

I watched my younger brother walk to the plate. All season, I’d felt more nervous watching Zach bat than stepping in myself. At least when I hit, I had control. I tried to steady myself and dropped to a knee just inside the fence, where Gavin knelt beside me.