Blood, Sweat, and Black Tears

I wrote this for my English Comp class a couple semesters back, and everyone has loved it. I know it's long, but I'm proud of this one! My first story posted on here, please review and thank you! :)

I can feel sweat running down my face and the back of my neck as I run the softball laces through my fingers, and they are so familiar, it’s almost as if they are part of me. I run my fingers over them again, feeling the rough ridges that have put so many calluses on my fingertips over the past ten years. The crowd is roaring in our stands, cheering us on and jeering at the other team. There are so many people here it’s standing room only. The stands are completely full and people are leaning over the fences and standing in truck beds in the parking lot. We definitely have a full house tonight.

The tendon in my left foot feels as if it’s on fire, burning a path from my toe all the way up my ankle. It’s been hurt almost all year, but I hate sitting on the sidelines. My medicine isn’t working tonight and my foot is protesting loudly. I take a deep breath, calming my racing heart and breathing in the smell of the red dirt. I shudder at the thought of this being my last game, and the fact that we are playing Aledo, our biggest rival, only makes it worse. I don’t want to be knocked out of the playoffs at all, much less by them.

We are tied, and due to some bad calls from the pompous umpires and an error on our shortstop, we have bases loaded. I’ve been here many times before, and I love the adrenaline. This game is within the reach of my outstretched fingertips, and I don’t want it to slip away. My heartbeat is a little faster but in a good way. I’m confident. I’ve struck these girls out countless times; I just have to do it again. The batter from the other team has now stepped in the box, and she blurs the chalk lines with her cleats. As she gets in her stance, I step onto the mound, and dig the right toe of my own cleat into the soft dirt. I look down at the worn, neon green duck tape that I quickly wrapped around that shoe. I had torn a hole in it, making my foot bleed, and needed a quick fix. It was working well enough for now.

 I look at Cat, and can see a look of angst on her face through her catcher’s mask. But she knows me, knows I’m a veteran. I give her a grin that I know is cocky, and see her laugh inaudibly to herself. We just need two outs. Cat flashes a signal, 3-2, with her taped fingers. Curveball, outside corner. My favorite pitch. I find the spot on the laces where my fingers go, and go through my windup, feeling the energy building in my legs. I explode off the mound, and when my left foot hits, pain shoots up my leg and I swing my arm across my body. The ball curves beautifully, and the batter swings and doesn’t even come close to the bright yellow ball. Strike one. I feel my team laughing around me, as they always do when I make a batter look silly. I look around, and sure enough they are doing the “whiff” sign, meaning the girl didn’t even come close and her bat just made a loud “whiff” sound when it cut through the air. I hear their whoops and mocking laughter and the thought crosses my mind again: this can’t be my last game.

I’d had several scholarships lined up to play in college, full rides, if only I would pitch for their schools. It has been my plan since I was eight years old: get good, get attention, get a scholarship for softball, and my college is paid for. And my plan fell into place beautifully. A line drive to my right hand junior year was a minor setback, as it’s rather painful to pitch when your hand is broken, but I recovered and came back with a vengeance. And now, our senior year, we have gone undefeated in district and are in the second round of playoffs. We had been handpicked in the statewide coaches’ poll as the favorites to win state, and we would do anything for a state ring.

That anything now consisted of holding off Aledo in the eighth inning. We have already gone into extra innings, and have come too far to go down now. The batter is set in the box again, and I once again take my position in the mound, my feet sliding to where they need to go and digging in. Cat signals a drop ball. I grit my teeth to hold off the pain, and push off with every ounce of power my legs can manage. My left foot plants and I roll my hand. The ball sinks like a stone in water, and again, the girl is left looking ridiculous as she swings at nothing but air. Strike two. The snickers from my teammates are louder this time, and they do nothing to hide them. Cat’s eyes are full of amusement as she laughs, and the batter shoots her a look. Cat, not offended in the least, shoots her one equally poisonous, and the girl looks away. I take another deep breath and step back on the mound. My body is tired, and one more strike will bring us that much closer to victory. As the batter is getting her signal from her coach, I again run my fingers over the laces, and think about the decision that I made just a few days ago. I wonder if I made the right choice, turning down my softball scholarships and taking an academic scholarship at TCU.

I chose to go to TCU so I could focus on pre-med instead of softball. And even though I know this is the more logical choice, softball is a part of who I am. I’ve always been “the pitcher,” and everyone in the area knows my name. I’ve always made softball and school my top priorities, never focusing solely on boys and parties like many teenage girls.  And now, after playing softball for 14 years, I was going to school that didn’t even have fastpitch intramurals, much less an actual team.  My entire town was shocked when I announced my decision, as were my parents. And I’m really nervous about my decision.  What if I can’t cut it at TCU? What if I hate pre-med and fail? What if all the rich kids that everyone says go there are mean to kids like me, who are from hick towns that don’t even have a McDonald’s? I push this thought out of my head and focus on one more pitch, one more strike.

Cat signals a change-up, one of the most entertaining pitches to throw. I try not to smile, and bury the softball deep in my palm. I wind up, bound off the mound with power and swing my arm around with full momentum, only to release a pitch that floats across the plate at half my normal speed. The batter swings before it gets there and trips over her own feet. Bailey, the short stop, collapses to the ground in a fit of laughter, and the rest of the team promptly does their whiff sign. Strike three, take your seat.

Now we have two outs, and the end of the inning is so close I almost taste the sweetness of a victory. The next batter steps up and I recognize her as not so much a threat, but as a batter who always seems to hit the most insignificant little shots into the most inconvenient spots on the field. She is always good for a single, but I don’t have room for her on the bases right now, so that’s not going to work. I’ll have to be careful. I step on the mound again, and Cat signals 1-4, and waves her hand towards the batter. Fastball inside. Tight inside. That means I’ll almost have to hit her, but still make it look like a strike. As soon as I release the pitch it’s as if it’s moving in slow motion. I see it heading for the corner, and it’s the perfect pitch. Until her bat makes contact with the ball. The hit is nothing spectacular, a small pop-up at the edge of left-field. Our left-fielder, Laci, runs for it and dives but comes up short. A run gets in and a girl is rounding third, and Laci throws the ball in to Cat. As Cat scoops the ball up, she turns and looks at the runner, who begins a quick retreat to third base.

I watch in horror as Cat throws the ball as hard as she possibly can to our third baseman, Jordan, but the throw is low, in the dirt. Even though Jordan tries to pounce on it she fails, and the ball rolls rapidly towards the left field fence. Laci is off in a shot to retrieve it, but she isn’t fast enough, and two more runners score, putting us behind by three runs. Finally the ball is retrieved and makes it to the pitcher’s circle, and I try to calm myself. I have to get one more out. I sit the next batter down quick, with a rise, curve, rise combination. We make our way to our home dugout, dismayed at what has just happened: we are now down by three. Cat is beside herself with remorse, and we try to calm her and tell her it’s ok. She has to calm down fast, as she is our first batter up this inning, followed by Taylor, Laci, and then me.

We sit in the dugout and cheer her on, but she strikes out, and is inconsolable when she comes back to the dugout. We watch in dismay as Taylor does the same, fouling off pitch after pitch before finally watching one go by that the umpire calls a strike. She too comes into the dugout in tears. This is not going as we planned, and we can feel the game slipping away, taking our state rings with it. I take my practice swings on deck, holding my breath as I watch Laci bat. She is fighting as hard as she can, fouling off pitch after pitch. “Come on Laci, come on!” I say this under my breath, as if somehow saying this to myself will give her the strength to hit the ball over the fence. She fouls off three more, but then swings and misses, striking out. Our stands are silent, but the Aledo side erupts into applause, and the players are jumping and cheering. We were the team to beat, number one, and they were the ones to do what before the game had been considered next to impossible.

Laci doesn’t move out of the batter’s box, just slowly sinks to the ground as if her legs can no longer hold her weight. I take off my helmet and lay my bat on the ground, and walk over to her. The tears streaming down her face are black, tainted with her mascara and the eye black we have applied religiously under our eyes before every game since freshman year. She is full out sobbing, and I bite my bottom lip to keep from joining her. I don’t cry in front of other people, but right now I’m on the brink of a break down. I hear sobs coming from my teammates in the dugout, and I wrap my arms around Laci. She returns the hug, her murky tears making a black spot on the shoulder of my royal blue jersey. “Come on, we have to shake hands. Stand up.” I say this as I help her to her feet, and we walk through the line together and shake hands with the other team like the good sports we really aren’t. All I can think about is that this is the last time I will ever do this. The last time I’ll ever shake hands with my opponent, that I’ll ever wear a pair of torn up cleats. The last time I’ll ever wear a Joshua softball jersey. My own eyes burn with tears that are welling up and dancing on the edge, threatening to spill at any moment. I fight them back and finish shaking hands, and walk Laci back towards the dugout.

Our head coach, Brooks, is already standing in the outfield alone, and the assistant Haskins tells us we should all go and join her. We all go out there, everyone but me with black tear streaks down their faces, and we sit in the grass. Coach Gillham, the youngest new coach, has a crying girl in each arm and is trying to calm them both with a look of despair on his face. It’s obvious he is new at this. “I’m proud of yall.” We all look up and see Coach Brooks looking at the grass, unable to meet our eyes. “Yall just played the best game I’ve ever seen you play. Heather, you pitched amazing. No one girl is at fault, we play as a team. We win as a team, and now we have to lose as a team. I love you girls more than I’ve ever let myself love a team, and I’m going to miss you seven crazy seniors.” Her voice is tight, and even though she is looking at the ground, we all know our coach with the stone heart is crying. I feel hot tears running down my own face, leaving black streaks identical to those on the faces of my teammates, and I no longer care if they fall or not.

She continues her short speech, the only sound other than her voice our hushed sobs. We now have to face the grim reality that we just played our last game together as a team. And for the seven of us that are seniors, it’s especially heartbreaking; we have been on varsity together all four years of high school. When she is finished talking we stand quietly and walk towards our dugout for the last time, leaving Brooks and Haskins in the field where we shed so much blood and sweat, and now so many tears. I retrieve my bat and helmet, and begin to meticulously put my things away. I pick up my glove and put it to my face, and breathe in deeply. The smell of leather mixed with dirt brings on a whole new flood of tears as I carefully put it in its place in the bag. I take off my cleats, again inspecting the worn green tape around my shoe, but I can’t make myself put them in the bag. It would be too final, mean that this is really over. Most of the other girls have left the dugout, and I know Dalton and my family are probably waiting on me. But I can’t stand up and leave. Coach Gillham is suddenly sitting beside me, and he quietly wraps me in a hug.

“You know,” he says softly. “You don’t always have to be the one giving the hugs.” I bury my face in his shirt and cry, replying through the tears, “But it’s my last game. They are all playing in college, but I’m not. I lost my last game.” He looks down at me as if he is shocked by what I’ve just said. “You just pitched the best game I’ve ever seen you pitch. And you are going to a great school for your grades. Grades that you worked damn hard for. You don’t have to play in college. You’re exceptionally gifted, in softball and in smarts. Hold your head up high, Heather, because I’ve never seen anyone play with a passion like you just did.” I break down into a new round of tears, and he just holds me close. We talk about the game and what happened, and my plans for the future. How I’m going do great at TCU, and someday be an orthopedist. When I have calmed down some, I look up at him. “Thank you.” He smiles, making it even more obvious how handsome he is at only 25. “You’re welcome. You better come see me next year!” I laugh and tell him I will.

I pack up the rest of my things with great care, with a new outlook on the life ahead of me, even though softball won’t be a part of it. But when I go to put my tennis shoes on my left foot screams in disapproval. “So much for that,” I say to myself. I put the shoes back into my bag and limp out of the dugout in my blue, knee-high socks. When I get off the field the entire crowd is waiting for me, and bursts into applause. Everyone pats me on the back and tells me what a good season I’ve pitched, and how well I just played. I just smile and say thank you to everyone, and I finally make my way to where my boyfriend Dalton is standing. “Where are your shoes?” I just laugh. “I can’t get my foot in. Hurts too bad.” He gives me a sympathetic smile, throws my bag over his shoulder, and scoops me up into his arms. “I think an amazing pitcher like yourself has earned a lift out of her stadium.” He kisses my cheek, and with that I’m carried out of my favorite place in the whole world.

It’s been nine months since that day, and I’m now sitting in the TCU Bookstore typing an essay for my English class. As I type, I find myself looking back on that day and how much things have changed since then. I hated Pre-Med and am now a Secondary Education Major. Dalton and I went through a nasty break up and don’t speak. Needless to say my first semester kind of sucked, but my second is going much better. As if to remind me of this I get a text from Dylan reminding me of our lunch date, and I head out of the bookstore and down the street.

When I walk into Dutch’s he smiles when he sees me, lighting up his whole face. I smile back, thinking about how cute he is. We aren’t serious, I don’t even know if we are “dating,” but he is sweet and he makes me laugh. As we are waiting to order I hear Coach Gillham’s words in my head, and I think about how differently things turned out. But when I look at Dylan, who is trying to make the ever crucial decision between hamburger or chicken, I can’t help but smile. Things hadn’t gone like I’d planned at all; they were better than I ever could have imagined.

Reviews

[Wendy Seames Garner]

What a wonderful, well written story, Heather! I'm not really into sports, but I felt I was right there on the mound with you, feeling the tension and the excitement. You write with as much passion as you play softball.

You are right, no matter how carefully we plan out our lives, we get thrown a curve ball, and things change. Usually for the better, if we have our eyes open to all that is available to us. I expect to be reading your best seller books in the future!

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the photo and the story. Sports can be hard on the body. I like the conversations and the interesting situations in this story. A very good ending to the story. A outstanding story. Thank you for sharing.
Coyote

[steph]

This is a super awsome story... I really enjoyed it. It kept me glued to the screen waiting for the next event to unfold. I am mot sure about stories, but I really liked this one...:-)

[Beth Wilcox]

This left me speechless. This was just... wow. Incredible. You have an amazing talent adn you take it and use to to the fullest you can. This was such a wonderful story and I enjoyed reading it. You are very talented, like I have already said. Your writing is so beautiful and inspiring. You give such great details and description. I loved reading this, I really did. I hope to see much more work from you in the future because you are an amazing, incredible, outstanding writer who needs to be heard by all means. Someday, I believe you will be well known. :)

[Dilan Gray]

I love the part where Bailey falls on the ground laughing. I couldn't help but imagine it and hold in a giggle myself. I love the images, they are perfect and the descriptions are incredible! I played softball for two years, so this really took me back. Great story! It almost made me cry. It was so beautiful!!!! I loved it so much!

[Jim Parson]

Wow. Just wow. This was really amazing, Heather. A good story, well written, without pretension. Again, you've brought the reader with you effortlessly, painting every visual perfectly. You know just how to make us feel exactly what you want us to feel. Really well done.

[Kelley]

This was a great story Heather I bet you get an A on it .
Got to love a good sports story mix.

Thanks for sharing.

Kelley