The Smile Has Left Your Eyes

Chapter Four

Aspen

"I got it! I got it!" our left fielder shouted as the baseball fell perfectly into the net of his glove.

That was the third out.

My team jogged back into the dugout to prepare for our first at-bat. I sat at the end of the bench and leisurely took off my bulky gear while our first batter stepped up to the plate. Jamey dug his foot into the box, hunching over slightly in his stance. His job was to get on base and steal when our second batter gave him an opportunity.

The third person in our lineup was Devin, the most consistent and reliable power hitter on our team. I stood in the on-deck circle behind the third base foul line, taking practice swings and trying to ignore any soreness in my muscles and joints.

Devin connected with the ball, sending it just over the second baseman's head and landing where the dirt met the grass. That hit sent Jamey home and our second batter to third base, while Devin was called safe at first.

Now it was my turn. I placed one foot inside the box, turning my body to look at my coach for a sign. Swing away. As always. I'd held the fourth spot as the cleanup hitter in the lineup since I joined the varsity team as a sophomore. My job right now was to get the biggest hit I could to send our runners to home plate.

I let out a slow breath to focus my mind. I raised my bat, placing it above my head as I adjusted my grip on the handle. The pitcher started his windup, probably hoping a faster ball would be more likely to get me out, but the catcher's way of thinking was too simple. When his arm came swinging down and the ball was released from his hand, I took a step with my left foot and cocked my bat.

My eyes followed the ball as it spun toward me. I didn't blink and waited until the ball was in an ideal position. I swung my bat, making sure my form was perfect while the barrel hit the lower center of the baseball. How stupid. Calling for a fastball from a pitcher with weak control against a slugger with a high batting average. The catcher must've been green.

I sent the ball flying into the outfield so high it got lost in the sky, dusk encasing the sphere and rendering the baseball invisible in the purples and peaches of the darkening mosaic of clouds. I sprinted toward first, rounding the base and going straight for second. My teammates cheered as the ball landed well behind the center fielder, allowing our two runners to cross home base. It would've been a home run if they'd had a fence. The third-base coach flailed his arm around in large motions, urging me to keep going. I rounded second and darted toward third. The coach yelled at me, telling me to go down. I started my slide off to the side of the base just as the third baseman caught the ball. When he slammed his glove down to tag me, I glided straight past the base; the fielder missed me by a hair as I twisted my body and grabbed the white rubber with my hand.

"Safe!" the field ump shouted from between second and third.

I looked into the dugout at the gleeful guys pressed up against the chain-link fence, slapping the helmets of the runners I sent home. Rafe stood just feet away from me, getting ready for his at-bat. The proud smile on his face was enough to pump me up for the rest of the game.

We crushed them. Riverside was barely even competition for us when we were at our best. I ended the game with two triples and three doubles, Rafe getting on bases with one triple, two singles, and two walks. Our battery only allowed five of their batters to get on base throughout the entire game. It was nearly a complete shut-out, and damn, it felt good. Our season wasn't over yet; we won our league's playoffs, which meant our next game would be at States.

I talked to Rafe on the side of our huddled group after shaking hands with the other team; he was so animated and excited.

"Weren't you the one who said high school baseball didn't matter anymore?" I questioned.