Three Strikeouts

First Baseball

Marco's stomach felt like it was full of jumping frogs.

He sat on the metal bench in the dugout, squeezing his batting gloves tight, then loose, then tight again. The bench was hot from the sun, and his uniform was a little too big — the sleeves came down past his elbows, and his cap kept sliding over his eyes.

It was his very first real baseball game. Not backyard baseball with Dad. Not wiffle ball at recess. Real baseball, with umpires and bases and a scoreboard and everything.

And so far, it was not going the way he'd imagined.

In the first inning, Marco had walked up to the plate with his bat on his shoulder, just like Dad taught him. He dug his sneakers into the dirt. He bent his knees. He was ready.

The pitch came in. Marco swung — and the ball was already in the catcher's glove.

"Strike one!"

He swung again, hard enough to spin himself in a circle.

"Strike two!"

The third pitch came low, and Marco chopped at it like he was cutting down a tree.

"Strike three! You're out!"

Marco walked back to the dugout with his head down. That's okay, he told himself. I'll get it next time.

But in the second inning, the same thing happened. Three pitches. Three swings. Three misses. He could hear the other team's fans clapping, and his ears turned hot.

Then in the third inning — oh, the third inning was the worst. Marco swung so hard at the first pitch that his helmet flew right off his head and rolled all the way to the backstop. Some people in the stands laughed. Not mean laughing, exactly. But Marco's chest got tight, and his eyes got stingy.

Three more strikes. Three more misses.

He sat back down on the bench and stared at his shoes. His teammate Lucy scooted over and offered him a piece of orange from the snack bag.

"No thanks," Marco whispered.

He watched the other kids bat. Tommy smacked one into the outfield. Sofia hit a ground ball and made it to first base. Even Jackson, who was smaller than Marco, managed to bloop one over the shortstop's head.

Marco pulled his cap down over his eyes.

Maybe I'm just not a baseball player, he thought.

His dad was sitting in the bleachers behind the dugout. Marco could feel him there. He knew if he turned around, Dad would give him a thumbs-up and a big smile. But Marco didn't want a thumbs-up right now. He didn't want anything right now except to maybe disappear into the bench like a piece of old bubblegum.

The innings went by. Marco played right field and caught zero fly balls because zero fly balls came to right field. He kicked at the dandelions growing in the grass and watched a ladybug crawl across his glove.

Then it was the fourth inning, and Coach Rivera looked down the bench.

"Marco, you're up."

The jumping frogs in Marco's stomach woke up again. His legs felt wobbly as he stood. He picked up his bat. It felt heavier than before — like someone had secretly filled it with rocks.

He walked toward the plate.

The pitcher was a tall kid named Dylan who threw fast. Marco had already seen Dylan's pitches up close three times. He knew exactly what they looked like — a white blur and then a pop in the catcher's mitt.

Marco stepped into the batter's box. He tapped the plate with his bat, the way he'd seen players do on TV. He pulled his helmet down snug.

His hands were shaking a little.

Just watch the ball, he thought. That's what Dad always said. Not "swing hard." Not "try to hit a home run." Just — watch the ball.

So this time, Marco decided he wouldn't think about the people in the stands. He wouldn't think about the three strikeouts or the helmet rolling away or the laughing. He wouldn't think about Tommy's hit or Sofia's hit or Jackson's hit.

He would just watch the ball.

Dylan wound up. His arm came around.

The ball left his hand, and Marco watched it. Really watched it. He saw the red stitches spinning. He saw it coming toward him, not too high, not too low.

And something clicked — like a little light turning on inside his chest.

He swung.

TINK!

It wasn't a boom. It wasn't a crack. It was a small, tinny tink — the sound of a ball hitting an aluminum bat not quite in the sweet spot.

The ball bounced on the ground. It wasn't hit hard. It wobbled between the pitcher's mound and the first baseman like it couldn't decide where to go. It hopped once, twice, three times on the dirt.

Dylan ran for it. The first baseman ran for it. They both stopped and looked at each other.

And Marco ran.

His too-big uniform flapped around him. His helmet bounced on his head. His sneakers slapped against the dirt of the baseline, and he pumped his arms as hard as he could.

Dylan picked up the ball and threw it to first.

But Marco's foot hit the bag — just before the ball smacked into the first baseman's glove.

"SAFE!" the umpire shouted, stretching his arms wide.

Marco stood on first base, breathing hard. His heart was hammering like a drum. He looked down at the bag under his foot — this square of white in all that brown dirt — and a grin spread across his face so wide it almost didn't fit.

It was not a home run. It was not even a good hit. It was a slow, wobbly, dinky little ground ball that barely made it past the pitcher.

But Marco was standing on first base.

From the dugout, he heard his teammates. "YEAH, MARCO!" Lucy was standing on the bench, clapping with her orange-sticky hands. Tommy was banging his bat against the fence. Sofia was whistling with two fingers in her mouth.

And from the bleachers, Marco heard his dad.

"THAT'S MY GUY! THAT'S MY GUY RIGHT THERE!"

Marco's grin got even wider. He didn't even know a face could smile that much.

The next batter hit a fly ball that got caught, and Marco had to jog back to the dugout. He never made it past first base. His team actually lost the game, eight to three.

But when Marco got back to the bench, Coach Rivera patted him on the back and said, "Nice hustle out there."

And Lucy handed him a piece of orange, and this time he took it.

After the game, Marco walked to the car with his dad. His bat bag dragged on the ground behind him. His uniform was covered in dirt, and there was a grass stain on his knee from right field, even though nothing had even happened in right field. He may have slid in the grass for fun between innings.

Dad opened the trunk, and Marco tossed his bag inside.

"Dad?" Marco said.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"I struck out three times."

"I know. I saw."

"My helmet fell off."

"I saw that too." Dad's mouth twitched a little.

Marco climbed into the backseat and buckled his seatbelt. He was quiet for a moment, looking out the window. Then he smiled — small and real and his.

"Can we come back next Saturday?"

Dad looked at him in the rearview mirror. His eyes were crinkly and warm.

"Absolutely, buddy. Absolutely."

Marco leaned his head against the window. The sun was going down, and the sky was turning the color of oranges — the same kind Lucy kept handing him in the dugout. His eyelids drooped. His legs were tired. His arms were tired.

But somewhere inside his chest, right where that little light had clicked on, something was still glowing.

One hit.

His hit.

And Saturday was only six days away.