Out in Left Field
The year my Phillies won the championship.
It had been the absolute worst season of little league that I’d ever experienced. I later learned that my coach benched me because my parents couldn’t afford the uniforms. It turns out that the coach owned the uniform shop, and wanted our team to look like the real life Philadelphia Phillies with their candy cane pinstriped fitted pants, thick long socks with stirrups flaring out at the ankles, finely lettered jerseys with buttons heavy as nickels and, of course, fitted caps with thick stitched logos. For just five hundred dollars we could be Darren Daulton and our coach could be as rich as William Giles.
Thornydale Little League required coaches to play all players at least one inning a game. The previous year I was the best pitcher in the league, flame throwing past all the poor little boys who choked up on their bats and stood in the back of the box to no avail. But this year, I played one inning a game in left field as my coach coaxed my parents to pay their dues.
We were good. We made it to the championship game, and stayed one run ahead into the bottom of the ninth inning. Coach put in his son Connor to save the game, of course. Connor, the naturally built catcher who did everything half-heartedly. He strode mechanically to the mound to face the heart of the Dodgers order. The coach glanced over my way. He had no choice. “Left field Littleton.” he sighed.
A one run lead is paper thin, and the anxiety pulsed through the ballpark. I wanted it all to be over. I’d already decided I was done. No more dreams of the big show, the roar of the crowd as the batter swings late and under the high heat. Taking my place in the outfield grass, I stood meaningless and disposable. My perfect uniform unmarred due to lack of use, with the only signs of wear being the sweaty crumpled folds of the fabric under my skinny rear end. The first batter struck out on purported fastballs, presenting as changeups. The second hit a hard grounder to short, and Billy threw him out easily at first. The last batter was Ryan Dunner, the best hitter in the league, who I’d pitched past many times.
As I stood in the sweltering heat of that summer day in left field, I had a sinking feeling. Hard hitters pull the ball against mediocre pitchers, and Ryan batted righty. All signs pointed my direction, and I was done. Connor flung the ball right down the middle high. Ryan cocked back like a loaded revolved and unleashed on the ball, launching it like a space shuttle headed directly into the spotlight sun we all stood sweltering under, in my direction…of course. As the ball hung, invisible in the blazing sky, I felt it again; the rush of the competitor. The urge to dominate, to taste the spoils of victory, the terror of imminent demoralization. And then my body responded like the bench warmer I’d become, as if frozen under the incessant spotlight.
In a split second the ball reappeared from amidst the blinding orb. My body released and thrust forward and slightly to the right. The ball plummeted into the pristine pocket of my faded red Rawlings infielders glove.
We had won the game, and I was the hero. Coach, with much fanfare, dragged me up in front of all the parents and presented me with the game ball. It was everything I’d ever dreamed of. And I quit playing baseball the next year.
