My Last At-Bat for North Bentley

PING!

A rocket scorched off the bat—over the gigantic first baseman. Hell yeah! Take two, Shea. Down the right field line, the ball skipped as the defense repositioned to handle my son’s double. A.J., his best friend, dashed ahead to reach third base and screeched to a halt at the head coach’s signal. Two outs, but two runners in scoring position. Son of a bitch, these boys could still do it.

Our half of the Pierpoint High School baseball stands hollered and cheered with one last spark of visitor’s momentum. Meanwhile, the home crowd countered with deliberate shouts of their own like “just one more!” and “shut ‘em down, guys!” I stood leaning against the metal bleacher’s top row, superstition preventing me from reclaiming my seat beside Lindsey, my wife, and Callie, Shea’s girl. Both troopers, in their matching gray North Bentley Baseball hoodies. Perfect company for the hour-long drive we had made on the third consecutive day. If our beloved Hawks completed the series comeback, round two of the state playoffs meant a ninety-minute trip to face Lawson next Wednesday. The scoreboard loomed over the yellow-trimmed outfield fence beyond right-center.

GUEST: 3

SPARTANS: 6

“Now batting for the Hawks, the left fielder, Benjamin Powell,” boomed from the navy announcer’s booth directly behind the central grandstand.

“C’mon, Pow!”

“Let’s go, Hawks!”

For the past decade, we had watched this roster mature together. Nine seniors, several of whom were playing their potential finale—whether or not they acknowledged this reality amid the teenage tension between the chalk lines. And for us parents, a sense of denial—that this might be the last baseball field we ever saw—shrouded every spirited chant. Well, I spoke for myself. Would have stung to see Shea’s final at-bat end in an out, same for A.J. The two of them slunk into their leads as the Spartans’ pitcher delivered the 0–0 pitch.

Pop!

Strike one.

Pow’s dad, Rich, sat in the hot seat I had luckily vacated. His son stepped out of the batter’s box. Gray pants and a crimson Hawks’ jersey, headed to the laundry room before either another road trip or nine-month’s worth of storage. Naturally, the uniforms had evolved over the three-and-a-half decades since my last at-bat for North Bentley. For the best, really, given that those two-toned vests we sported stunk worse than a dump. Lindsey looked over, the unspoken eye contact of “I’m a bundle of nerves.” I patted my palm in the air between us as if I could throttle the pressure. 0–1, the action resumed.

Pop!

Ball one.

Shea scooted to the second base bag in the sienna dirt as the ball returned from catcher to pitcher. Arms folded together, I clenched my fists to quell my tingling fingers. Seat-squirming and restless feet created a muffled clang from the bleachers, an undertone for the competing spectators. One side in search of at least three runs, the other—the final out. My faded memories in metal spikes kept firing at the pace of a cranky pitching machine. The sweaty rubber grip of a white aluminum bat. Standing in the on-deck circle. My buddy, Nate, and his futile sprint during his lazy pop-up to shortstop. A deflating playoff loss and an unanswered prayer for one more at-bat. While the pitcher’s leg lifted, I inhaled and Pow loaded within the right-hand batter’s box.

Dink!

A grounder trickled across the kelly-green grass toward the second baseman. He gathered it cleanly and tossed to first base. And the Hawks’ season dissolved immediately in opposing cheers. Shea had hustled to third during the play, and he dropped to a squat halfway to home plate, hands plastered atop his NB helmet. Our fans moped in a collective standstill, unlike the nearby Pierpoint party hooting, hollering, and high-fiving. Their sons, brothers, and boyfriends bounced in a mosh pit beside the pitcher’s mound, celebrating a 6–3 victory and a secured second-round berth. Meanwhile, the booth broadcasted Santana’s “Winning.”

A burly hand gripped my right shoulder. “Welp, one more inning and we coulda had ‘em.”

“Tough series. Wish the boys had more time out there.”

“Shea’s a fine young man. And a damn good ballplayer.”

“Thanks, Stanley. Hell of a season, for sure.”

“Still think he should sign-up for tryouts somewhere. Any chance he’ll change his mind?”

I shook my head. “Seems unlikely.”

“So then, he’ll just have to find new reasons to make you proud.”

“Guess so. Same for A.J., huh?”

We fathers exchanged defeated smiles. With a tip of his gray cap, he slung a royal-blue lawn chair over one shoulder and hobbled off toward the far side of the visitor’s dugout.

The teams crossed the diamond for customary handshakes—heads high on the Spartans, sulking on the Hawks. The girls had dismounted the metal bleachers, along with the rest of our fans, and approached me. Lips downturned, Lindsey pressed straight into me for a wholehearted embrace. I hugged back, the first image of Shea holding a wiffle ball bat nestled in the silence between us. Callie looked around, hands tucked inside her hoodie sleeves. How my son managed to find a teenage girl genuinely inquisitive about something like the infield fly rule might remain our family’s forever enigma. I flicked my head backward, inviting her into the moment. A sheepish grin emerged beneath her ash-blonde hair, and she reached in to join.

In the shallow left field grass, the Hawks huddled, four coaches on their feet facing the kneeling boys. I scanned the distant scoreboard, the scuffed infield chalk lines, and the buzzing floodlights overhead. The late-April air smelled fresh again above the girls’ arms and their comfort. Walking off the ball field in ‘95 presented me with a similar feeling, except cluelessness covered me like first-inning dirt stains. And my body had still yet to experience even a mild early-fifties backache. Lindsey, my angelic diamond doll that year, and my parents waited to greet me after our team’s final huddle. They ushered me away from defeat—the heaviest to date—and into life’s next stage. We ordered Lawler’s pizza, and that same night, I fell asleep as a baseball “has-been” and incoming freshman with an undeclared major.

Genesis’s “Just a Job to Do” strummed into the surrounding speakers. With an unplanned synchronized sigh, the three of us withdrew.

“What’d you think of Shea’s last hit, hun?” my wife asked, straightening her round glasses.

“He’ll hang on to that one for a long while. Good thing I didn’t leave my spot.”

Across the field in scattered trios, the victorious Spartans had begun to tend their own turf. The thump of number eight tamping the mound blended with the ensemble of clattering rakes and the whooshing tarp that half a dozen players lugged toward home plate. Our sons rose and broke their debrief with one ultimate “Go Hawks!” and retreated, heading to the dugout. My number twelve, one of the few to jog instead of saunter. Attaboy, Shea.

Rich waddled over, his lucky handkerchief in one hand, an unfinished bag of popcorn in the other.

“So, closing verdict then…who wore it better?”

“You kidding me? Kid hit four homers this season alone. Of course the Belford legacy belongs to him now.”

“Hawks for life, Randy. Glad to root with ya all these years.”

“Likewise. How many series will you and Deborah travel to see Pow next year?”

“Up to me? I’d say all of ‘em. Season’s been over for ten minutes and I’ve already got withdrawals. You’re welcome to tag along, if ya get an itch.”

He placed the red-and-white-striped bag under his left armpit and offered a handshake.

“Sounds good, Rich. Take care,” I said, returning his iron grip.

Lindsey, Callie, and I moseyed together to join the semi-circle of parents, siblings, and other North Bentley faithful crowding the concrete beside the dugout. One by one, the boys appeared with unique combinations of stained jerseys, running eyeblack, and packed gear. As each one reached his family, an exchange of pride and exhaustion followed. I lost count of how many Hawks had already departed the field before Shea finally emerged.

“Go ahead, Mister Belford.”

“Please, Callie. He’d rather talk to you than his old man.”

“No, no. It’s okay. I insist.”

She slipped her hair behind her ears and retreated a step in her light-brown Birkenstocks. With only a few seconds to protest, I froze as number twelve spotted us and waved. My legs trembled, stricken with a chill I had not felt since the announcer last called out “Shea Belford.”

“Hey Dad.” He dropped his strapped bag, and we latched into a bear hug like magnets.

“Great job, son.” My voice, croaking into his sweaty shoulder. I rubbed the vinyl numbering across his back. One-Two. Damn grateful. We separated, and Shea huffed, hands on his hips.

“What the heck am I supposed to do after school now, huh?”

“Come a long way since eight-U over at McCarthy Park. You remember your first team?”

“Uh, not really. We were the Yankees, I know. And the helmet y’all got me was too big and made me walk like a bobblehead.”

“Ha. That’s true. Anything about the last game of that season?”

“From—what—ten years ago? Nope.”

Shea gripped the tip of his grubby cap, pinching his lips. My eight-year-old boy reflected at me as I powered through the memory.

“Not to embarrass you, but you raised quite a fuss, sobbing because your team lost. Didn’t calm down until we got everything packed up and went to the pavilion for snacks.”

He chuckled. “Oops, must’ve been rough. And what was the score?”

“Well, Coach Marik pulled you aside to talk about exactly that…He said by the next week you wouldn’t even remember the score. But he wanted you young boys to know the game of baseball was about getting better. Being the best teammate you can be…And showing gratitude to all the good people in your life.”

With a nod, Shea peeked beyond me at his mother and girlfriend. He swiveled his neck around while each of his teammates engaged in similar earnest conversations of their own. A kettle of Hawks, all ready to leave the nest. I reached for a quick follow-up hug.

“We’ll drive back safely with Callie and order a coupla pizzas at Lawler’s. Meet you there?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m not so hungry, though.”

I patted his upper arm. Still a chance his stomach might have changed its mind after an hour-long bus ride. Callie had withdrawn another step, shepherding Lindsey to congratulate Shea next. With a deep breath, I motioned my wife over to trade places.

“Wait, Dad.”

“Mm?”

“Do you remember the score of that eight-U Yankees game?”

I tucked my tongue to one cheek. Not willing to let some things go, huh?

“I remember.”

“What was it? A blowout?”

He looked on with his mother’s brown eyes and long eyelashes. For only naïve reasons, I had been terrified that my relationship with Lindsey might have ended with my baseball career. And now, I worry similarly about my role as a father.

“Tell you what. Once you get to campus in August, call me when you have time. We can chat about it then…Deal?”