A Moment in Time: At the Plate

I'm introducing a new series to my blog entitled "A Moment in Time." One of my professors at Boston University told me that if you can describe a single moment in more than just a few words and stretch it into a few paragraphs, then you are well on your way to becoming a good writer. This advice stuck with me and helped me write a few great features in a sports journalism class. The new series will focus on describing single moments in time to evoke feelings of happiness or sadness, nostalgia or discovery, acceptance or rejection. My goal is to write these posts in the second person to create an atmosphere in which you can place yourself even if you've never been in that situation before. I hope you enjoy.

Photo courtesy of iStockphoto.com.

The sun reflects off the composite bat in your hands. The air is warm and smells of freshly cut grass and foot odor. The crowd slows from a loud cheer into a soft murmur as it anxiously awaits your fate. You squint your eyes against the glare and pick out your little brother focusing on his Nintendo DS in the crowd.

At least one pair of eyes isn't watching me.

A slap across your helmet knocks your mind into focus. The 25-foot walk across the rock-filled dirt seems to grow a mile in front of you. Sweat beads form on your forehead where the inside of the padded helmet presses onto your skin. You shuffle your feet on the path to seal your legacy as a player.

You arrive at the white pentagon that represents the deciding factor between a win or a loss.

How can such an insignificant piece of rubber loom so ominously at me? How could it have the power to create a memory that will last a lifetime or a repressed thought that will bring embarrassment to my name?

The two holes spaced a foot apart below your feet prove too deep for your liking. You swipe your left foot across the dirt and into the holes. You repeat with your right foot, then your left again. You dig your left cleat into the covered hole. You dig your right cleat into the other hole. You hold the 23-ounce bat in your left hand and tap the far corner of the plate to position yourself in the perfect stance. You circle the bat around like a windmill three times before cocking it into a 45-degree angle behind your head.

The pitcher whips the yellow ball into her glove twice before placing herself on the rubber a mere 43 feet away from you. The crowd is silent. Your team stands behind the fence; everyone links their fingers into the chains in anticipation of the first pitch. The sun's rays seem to beat down on your face hotter than before, causing the sweat to drip down the front bill of your helmet.

Please do something. Anything.

It seems like an eternity before the pitcher contorts her arm into a winding motion and flicks the ball towards you. It whizzes past the letters on your jersey. Strike one.

You look down the third base line to see your coach nodding and clapping at you, willing you to at least make contact with the ball. The pitcher whips her braided ponytail back around her head and once again turns to face you. Her fingers twirl around the ball to find the right grip.

I'm going to swing at this one. High and outside, baby. Right in the sweet spot.

The winding motion starts, and this time you see the ball rotating towards the same location as the last pitch. You take a step forward and force all of your power behind the bat while keeping your body balanced. But the ball still ends up in the catcher's mitt. Strike two.

The crowd groans, and the team on the opposing bench jumps up and down in excitement. No balls, two strikes, two outs. It's the bottom of the seventh inning, and your team is down by one. Two of your teammates are on second and third base; you can see them clap their hands and yell at you to bring them home through the cloud of dust. If you drive them in, your team advances to the semi-finals of the district championships. If you fail, your team goes home title-less, but you claim the title of choke artist.

Every pitcher knows to throw outside the strike zone when it's 0-and-2. Let's hope this girl isn't stupid.

This time the pitcher's motion slows down -- a change-up. The white-stitched sphere curves low and outside. Ball one.

The crowd rises on the bleachers. Your team rattles the fence and produces a clanging noise that echoes between the ear holes of your helmet. Your coach rests his hands on his knees, nodding away to give you confidence. His black aviators hide the fear and disappointment you can already see forming in the creases of his face.

Then all goes quiet. Your team continues to jump up and down; their mouths form words, but nothing comes out. The crowd is still clapping, but no sound emanates from the clash of their hands. There is no noise except for the thoughts running through your head.

I can do this. I can do this for my team, my family, myself. Forget the pitcher; watch the ball. It's all up to me.

The pitcher winds up for the final time, and the ball spins closer and closer right down the middle of the plate. The bat shakes in your hands from the heavy pounding of your heartbeat. You hold your breath and try not to blink.

This is the pitch that decides everything. Whether you hit a line drive to score two runs and win the game or strike out swinging and disappoint the whole team is up to you. In that single moment, you can overcome your fears or you can let them consume you. Because a decision made in one single moment can change everything.