The Green-Light

The game was out of reach when Dylan Morrison had stepped up to the plate. His team was up nine to nothing going into the seventh inning, and a new reliever was tasked with the job of stopping any further damage by getting out of the inning. He was a bit wild with his pitches, not seeming to control his stuff by walking the batter before Dylan and loading the bases. This at-bat was huge. A rookie, coming off the bench, seeking his first-ever career hit in the majors. A dream he had had ever since he was a boy, watching the game that he loved. As Dylan stepped into the batter’s box, he could not help but feel some nerves, knowing that the world was watching. It was a warm summer night in June, which meant the ball would travel farther if he could get the barrel of his bat to the ball. With the lights shining brightly over the stadium, it all seemed majestic from where Dylan was standing. Fresh cut grass, a roaring crowd from every direction, and of course, a giant billboard that featured his name and face. In theory, he had made it, but what would he do with that time?

“Okay, just wait for your pitch,” he had murmured. “It’s just like little league; keep your eye on the ball.”

If there was one thing that Dylan knew, he would have to be patient at the plate. With the bases loaded, this pitcher would be more nervous than he was, having to challenge him and throw each pitch for a strike. This was a prime opportunity for him to make a name for himself. Once the pitcher was fully set, he threw the ball, a slider in the dirt, hoping to get him fishing outside the strike zone.

Dylan and the pitcher prepared themselves once more upon the umpire, indicating the first pitch was indeed a ball. Keeping his hands and body loose, Dylan had entered his stance and waited for the next pitch. The thing that he always loved about baseball was the fact that it was a thinking person’s game. So often, it had been compared to a game of chess, and there was some accuracy to it, always having to think ahead and anticipate your opponent’s move. It was all just a mental adjustment. Dylan quickly dropped down to the dirt with a ninety-six-mile-per-hour fastball coming in close to his head. He did not like that, nor did his manager and teammates sitting in the dugout. Dusting himself off, the youngster timidly stepped back into the left-hander’s batter’s box.

“We ain’t trying to hit you, don’t get all uptight about it,” Victor Mesa, the opposing catcher, spat out. “We’re getting our asses kicked; you think we want to hit you and bring in another run?”

After another pitch was thrown out of the strike zone by the pitcher, Dylan had found himself in the perfect scenario for a batter. A 3-0 count, usually meaning his skipper would give him the green light to swing for the fences. Typically, the batter would look to his skipper or the third base coach for confirmation, but Dylan did not bother looking. It was in the heat of the moment, and this was his chance for that first illustrious hit. Choking up on his bat, young Dylan’s eyes lit up as the pitcher challenged him with another fastball, this time right down the middle. With all his might, he swung with perfect timing, connecting the barrel to the ball. In an instance, it soared through the crisp night sky.” He’s at the wall, and that ball is gone, a grand slam for Dylan Morrison on a 3-0 count,” One announcer spoke as Dylan and his teammates jogged around the bases.

“I’m not going to lie to you; I did not like that at all.” Another announcer chimed. “The game was already out of reach; you can’t do that. You talk about the unwritten rules of the game, you’re already up big, this late in the game, and you’re swinging? Unacceptable.”

The rookie was all smiles as he did his home-run trot, a smile that quickly faltered as he circled the bases. This was not how he imagined his first career hit, nonetheless his first career home run playing out. In his mind, Dylan was going to be considered the man; he would be receiving nothing but love from his peers, but this was not the case. Upon touching home plate, Dylan saw looks of disappointment. This was supposed to be a happy moment for the rookie, but instead, it wasn’t.

His manager, Gordon Roberts, had a scowl on his face, yelling across the way at the opposition. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him, I’ll tell him, “He assured. “I know. I know, you can’t do that!”

“That can’t be good,” Dylan thought to himself. “What’s up, Skip?” he questioned, a question he would soon regret asking.

Pulling Dylan into the dugout, Roberts could not help but shake his head, “kid, what are you thinking? Did I give you the green light to be swinging 3-0 like that?” Dylan shook his head. “Exactly, I didn’t, and you didn’t even bother to check. That’s very disrespectful to not only me but to your opponents and this game of baseball. Everyone knows you don’t show up the opponent like that!”

No excitement, no congratulations, no nothing. In something that was supposed to be huge, Dylan felt nothing but small at that very moment, having no kind of support from his peers, especially from Roberts. It was surreal, the people who he thought would have his back, turning the cold shoulder.

“But…but,” he did not even have words.

“But nothing, you better hope next time you go up there, they don’t put a ball in your ear, and honestly, kid, I wouldn’t fault them if they did. Grab some pine.”

Doing as he was told, Dylan tossed his gloves into his helmet, placing them and his bat into the respected cubby, and took a seat on the bench. Most of his teammates did not attempt to make eye contact with him. Oh, how he wished someone, just anyone, could have his back and give him some support. Tossing his head back, Dylan closed his eyes and hoped for this all to be over. He had another at-bat coming up in the ninth, and if Roberts words meant anything, he knew there would be repercussions for his good deeds.

“Hey, Moore, you suck!” a fan belted from the stands. He seemed to speak for all the opposition as they followed suit, with boos and insults.

Dylan once again stepped into the box, this time much different than the first. He still had some nerves, but this kind was not in a good way. All he could think about was how the pitcher would retaliate? And Dylan quickly found out. Dylan already knew that his intentions were bad by just looking at the man sixty feet away from him. The way he carried himself and the way Mesa had positioned himself, Dylan knew for sure without a doubt in his mind, he was going to get hit, and it was going to hurt. Taking a deep breath, Dylan closed his eyes and waited for it to be over with a loud thud.

“Ugh,” he grimaced, taking a pitch in the ribs.

It was a complete turn of events. An audience that was booing Dylan moments ago swiftly began to cheer as the villain in their eyes got what was coming to him.

“Take your base, kid,” The umpire instructed. His voice was low, and he had hardly given Dylan a look. He knew what was going to happen; heck, everyone in the stadium did. Stuff like this was usual in baseball. There was almost this pact mentality in terms of serving out justice in their way. It was not necessarily a good thing, but it was just something that happened due to it being “just the way it is.” Often, fans and players alike would argue that this type of mentality was killing the game of baseball. Heck, it was an unwritten rule after all. Dylan did nothing wrong other than hurting the feelings of the opposition, which some would claim in the name of bad sportsmanship. This had always been an issue in baseball, an issue that quite possibly will never be resolved.

The rest of the game went by relatively fast, with Dylan and company getting the win. It all seemed like a blur to him from the final out of the game to getting back to the hotel room. Plopping down on his bed, he and replayed everything in his mind. Was there anything that he could have done differently? He asked. Would things have been different if he would have just taken a pitch for a strike? Would he be less hated? “Well, there’s no taking it back now; what is done is done.” And with that, he closed his eyes, and let the worries of tomorrow, fade into the background.

--

It was the top of the ninth inning, and Dylan’s squad was down a run, with a runner in scoring position, standing at second base. It was a weird turn of events, as he was being called upon to pinch-hit yet again. A base hit would tie the game; the only issue was, there were two outs in the game, one left, and it would be over. As Dylan walked up to the plate, all he could think about was the rough twenty-four hours he had had. Once he was settled in, he had taken the first pitch for a strike. He was in his own head, even watching a second ball right down the middle.

“Come on, kid, look for your pitch,”

The next pitch was too high and called a ball. It was clear, this pitcher wanted to see if Dylan would chase.

“And next pitch by Rollins is too low. We’re now even in the count, two balls and two strikes.”

“Good eye, Morrison,” a teammate shouted out. This was a little confidence booster for Dylan, who fouled back the next pitch back into the stands.

“Dylan Morrison is battling here and takes the next pitch for a ball. The count is now full, three balls and two strikes. Next pitch does it.”

Before Rollins would give his next pitch, Dylan raised his arm and signaled for a timeout. The game was on the line, and the last thing he wanted to do, was let everyone down, especially after the rough twenty-four hours he had. From being booed, yelled at by his own manager, and even apologized earlier in the day. For a moment, he wondered if it was all worth it?

“Hey kid,” Roberts shouted out, getting his attention. He did not have to say anything but give a simple nod of the head. It was the green light he was looking for, the okay to swing for the fences.

Stepping back into the box, Dylan felt more comfortable. All he wanted was some kind of support. On the next pitch from the pitcher, Dylan had just missed his timing yet again, sending it into the stands, just foul.

It was becoming quite the battle, a battle that Dylan planned on putting an end to with one swing of the bat.

A mistake in location by the pitcher, a mistake he knew once the ball left his hand. Closing his eyes, Dylan swung yet again, getting every piece of the ball.

“An absolute no-doubter by Dylan Morrison, to the top deck!” Dylan felt pure jubilation. He had given his team the lead with the go-ahead run. Most importantly, Dylan had finally gotten what he wanted all along, support from his peers. All of those doubts he had were erased, and he knew it was all worth it in the end.