The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [128]
“Attaboy, Willy!”
“One more fellas, one more!”
“Come on, Moe! Come on, baby!”
One more. That’s all we needed. The Birds were down to their last out, but baseball has a way of making one little out impossible to get. In an attempt to confuse it, our catcher called time and walked out to the mound. There was nothing he could say that wasn’t obvious by the situation, but the conversation wasn’t important. He could very well talk about candlesticks or fried chicken. He was stalling.
We were slowing down the Birds. They were riding a surge of adrenaline, a fire fueled and stoked by the crowd. Our battery was trying to put it out by starving their need for action. A long enough lull and the energy would dissipate, and the Cardinals would once again be aware of their dilemma.
The umpire, not immune to the energy, hurried our pitcher along, though he resisted as long as he could. The players reset. The crowd’s engine turned over, firing up again. Moreno looked for the sign. Fastball, just what he wanted. Leg kick hand break, and then the ferocious uncoiling down the mound to where he let it loose.
The ball was struck by a hitter who had batted around. He topped it, sending it spinning across to third base like a bouncing boobie to Chase. Chase scooped, stepped, and threw it across the infield. The ball seemed to move in slow motion, spinning like any other and, at the same time, unlike any I’d ever seen. It seemed to stand still, as if the field, the stadium, and the whole earth itself moved around it. It carried the expectation of a 147 game season on it, the culmination of every drop of sweat, every sacrifice, and every hope. Thousands of eyes watched, dozens of hearts pushed, and one outstretched glove caught the ball that ended the 2007 Texas League season. We had won it all.
I made it to the gate first, but my emotions were driving me at a reckless pace, and I couldn’t get the latch open. All the practice I put in, and I was rendered impotent like a freshman fumbling with bra hooks. I began punching and jerking on the fence, finally resorting to kicking it open.
The rest of the pen was on top on me. Suffering from the same adrenaline stupor, they would have pushed me through the fence or simply knocked it down had I not gotten the gate open. When it flung wide, we burst through like a raging river. Across the outfield we ran, screaming wildly.
I was in a full sprint, my arms raised in a V with both fists clenched as I crossed the infield dirt. Ox and Dalton tore off their jackets and threw their hats as they ran. We were set to collide with the mountain of teammates already forming on the pitcher’s mound. Arriving last, we landed on top of that screaming pile of uniforms. Underneath, we could hear cries for mercy from the crushed. They begged us to relent, crying they couldn’t breathe, that something was going to break if we didn’t get off. Ox got off, jumped back on, and rolled around on the top like a pig in mud.
The voice of the announcer, the same one who called our names to the demonizing tones of Darth Vader, announced us as champions. The crowd mustered hollow congratulatory applause. Then the announcer took a cheer offering for the slain Cardinals, and the place erupted one final time for the fallen.
A stage was erected on the field, directly behind home plate. Our team was called together and presented a trophy, the prize of the Texas League. We clamored to touch it, to feel the tangible proof of a championship. League officials made speeches, coaches offered magnanimous words, and pictures were taken. Microphones and the people who wielded them chased around key players for marketable insight, but no one wanted to linger on the field. There was a celebration waiting for us in the locker room, and we wasted no time getting to it.
As we entered the locker room, champagne bottles were again handed to us like rifles. The stereo blared hip-hop, and guys squealed and screamed like children ready for birthday cake. We popped the corks of our bottles and held our fingers over the barrels, awaiting firing