It’s the bottom of the seventh. The home team, the Longville Sluggers, are up 3-0 over the visitors, the Carson Bulldogs. The Sluggers’ shortstop, #9, Jonesy stood at the plate, his black maple bat hanging laid on his shoulder, pressing into the sweat moistened fabric of his uniform. It was a hot day in Poteet, Texas, which was nothing unusual, It’s always a hot day in Poteet. Jonesy looked ahead at his dugout, scanning over the blank expressions on the their faces, down to the mounds of cracked sunflower seeds at their feet. The seeds had piled up so high it was impossible to reach the floor without using a shovel. Jonesy looked behind him, to the opposite dugout, and found the Bulldogs had seeds up to their ankles. His ears perked up at a rustling sound to his side, Jonesy turned and found the Umpire and the Bulldogs’ Catcher sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the ground, picking at the loose blades of grass that stuck out of the tan dirt. Jonesy sighed and turned his attention to the single cloud in the sky.
It, like the rest of this at bat, drifted slowly. He turned his attention back to the two men behind him, who had used up all of the grass around him and now turned to flicking small pebbles. Jonesy sighed again.
“Here it comes!” shouted someone from the Sluggers’ dugout.
Both Jonesy, the Umpire, and the Bulldogs’ Catcher snapped into attention, the Umpire and the Catcher hopping to their feet as Jonesy spun around to face the plate. He could see it, way off in the distance, something was coming towards him fast. It was about a mile away now, but over the flat desert area, it was easy to make out. It being a small white ball, 9.25 inches in circumference, 2.94 inches in diameter, made up of a yarn wrapped cork covered in two strips of white cowhide, stitched ever so tightly with red string. It was a baseball, and it was heading directly over the plate Jonesy was standing at. After the five hours it traveled after the pitcher threw it in Meers, Oklahoma, it was finally here.
Jonesy got in his stance. Half a mile away. The Bulldogs’ Catcher got into his stance. A quarter of a mile away. The Umpire got into his stance. The Baseball was hundreds of feet away now. Jonesy was locked in, eyes fixated on the white blur speeding towards him.
A hundred feet.
Fifty feet.
Twenty.
Ten.
It was coming right at him, right over the middle of this plate.
Five.
Jonesy was going to send this ball to Kamloops.
One foot.
Jonesy swung, all the muscles in his arms exploding with power, slicing the black maple bat right over the meat of the plate, only to find air where a baseball should be.
He missed.
“Strike two!” screamed the Umpire. Jonesy turned around to find the catcher's mitt firmly on the dirt, the baseball snuggled in it.
“Fuck!” exclaimed Jonesy “That goddamn curveball!.” He tossed his bat to the ground in anger, which resulted in some loud grumbling from the Umpire, who had returned to the ground began flicking pebbles with the Bulldogs’ Catcher. Jonesy turned back over the plate, jabbing his index finger in the direction of Meers.
“You throw that shit again, and I’m jacking it all the way to Atikameg!” Jonesy stood there in his anger for a few more minutes, sighed, and picked his bat back up. He walked over to the left side of the plate, black maple bat resting on the sweat drenched wool covering his shoulder, and waited for the next pitch.