My dream was dead. Under the bask of the bleak, May sunset I sat staring at my unlaced spikes from the first row of the cold, steel bleachers positioned before the shadowy baseball field, the field where I had spent the last four years of my life. The rays from the snarling sunset pierced the back of my matted neck and sweaty forearms like jagged, orange shards of glass and dried a poignant tear to the eye black on my cheek. I struggled to control my solicitous hands, having to clasp my cut, dirty palms together in between my blood-stained baseball pants to keep them from trembling. Behind me, the bus that had taken my team and I back from the Northern California Division II championship game in Oakland sat idle in the parking lot; my team, my coach, my parents and much of the student body surrounding it.
Alone, on that frigid bench, entombed in numbness and shock, I played back visions of standing isolated on the mound, holding the heavy, rough baseball in my right hand and bearing the weight of 2,000 fans from our team’s suburban bubble on my shoulders. I pulled my black cap low over my eyes. The moist, putrid bill smelled of sweat and vinegar. Against the underside of my eyelids I watched myself stride, release then turn to watch the white blur fly over the head of my center fielder. I watched the enthusiasm of the crowd deflate like a punctured balloon as the winning run crossed home plate for the opposing team. I watched myself take part in the nightmare I had seen unfold many times in my dreams.
The air was nearly silent under the dying afternoon. Only a faint murmur of depressed chatter reached my ears from the bus. A breeze froze muddled sweat to my arms and warm snot to the wet skin below my nose. I sniffed violently yet could smell nothing but the freshly clipped grass of Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum. When I lifted my cap I was still blinded by my nightmare, my horrifying, paralyzing nightmare. I swallowed the lump in my throat and tasted nothing but bitter slime seeping down the back of my mouth toward the deep pit of guilt in my stomach.
My coach; my coach who had given me the role of captain, who had served as a second father to me, watched me fail. My family; my family whom I had convinced to put their trust in me, bore witness to my unkempt promise. I shivered as the sun struggled to shine over the crest of the Berkley hills guarding Oakland to the west.
But it was when I felt most alone that I realized I wasn’t. For from the shadows behind me I heard the sound of metal marching against cement. In confusion I turned to see my teammates, proud and united, tramping toward me with their heads high. Twenty young men, who had come together with my help and had been behind me the whole year, were so again in bloody, black uniforms.
I stood with what strength I had left in my insecure legs and gazed towards them as they came near then encircled me, taking spots amongst the bleachers. My eye black was streaked and my pride diminished. Yet standing amongst my brothers, I saw theirs was not. My catcher spoke first.
” We wouldn’t have gotten here with out you, D-Moore,” he said slowly. I nodded and looked at each of their faces. Their eyes were all red as well.
” I’m so-” I started before they all abruptly stood and embraced me. Each one of them hugged me, told me they loved me and reminded me that they were still my family.
We sat together for a long minute after that, waiting for the night to settle, taking in the baseball field upon which we had become a team one last time, together. And when the numbness wore off and the tears dried we left the bleachers as brothers. I left them proudly, having discovered that my dream had not died, but had been realized in the family I’d made. The family which had turned my anguish to honor– my failure into resiliency. And amidst the cacophony of baseball spikes churning against the concrete, my catcher spoke once more.
” Well, I still got like twenty bottles of champagne at my house.”
And the sun finally set.
Filed under: Samples
