The First Rule in Baseball

I hurl the ball down the middle before the batter is even settled.

“Strike!” the umpire calls.

The kid steps back and looks at his coach, who nods to him and claps supportively.

The kid takes practice swings and then steps back into the box. The head of the bat wobbles above his shoulder.

In the stands, my dad is still reading. I hope he looks up this time because he’ll like this next pitch.

I windup with a high kick and pitch the ball submarine-style, like Mike Eickhorn.

The aluminum bat rings.

I’m coming out of the hurl, barely back into my fielding stance, and the ball is already back at the mound, a line drive headed toward my face. I know won’t be able to get my glove up in time.

I can feel the grass under one hand and the dirt of the mound under the other. The colors of the field return. I’m sitting on the ground. It has already happened.

I am looking down. Blood is on my uniform, and I feel it dripping from my nose. It’s in my mouth with grit from the field. I’m shaking.

Rick, my coach, is beside me, rubbing my back and lifting my chin.

Players from both teams surround me. Rick yells to another coach to bring me ice from the cooler.

The coach runs over and gives me two handfuls of loose ice. Water and blood drip from my knuckles and run down my forearms. Parents are lined up on the baselines. My dad is on his feet now in the stands.

There are cheers when I stand up. Rick walks me to the dugout with his hand on my back. My dad is there.

“He’s gonna need to go to the hospital,” Rick says.

My dad frowns. He says to Rick: “My wife is working in the ER tonight. Ask for her.”

“You’re not going to take me?” I ask.

“Mom will take care of you. Learn to keep your eye on the ball.”