The Game

A short story about two people who meet in a somewhat strange way.

Her head dropped as she watched the fluorescent green, furry ball travel just past her reach and hit the wall behind her with a thud and a groan of the large crowd.

 

Love-Thirty. The voice echoed throughout the world's largest arena.

 

Down a set, down a break. Things weren't looking good for her chances of reaching the semi-finals right now. Disappointment fell over her like a sheet, negativity clinging to her every thought.

 

The ball boy, a short kid, maybe fifteen years old, bounced her three balls. She held them, considered them, and bounced one back to the kid, tucked one in her spandex, and toed the line with the other.

 

A fan favorite, her early struggles had quieted the sellout crowd. Each bounce of the ball sounded like a gunshot in an empty alley in a seedy part of the city.

 

On the third bounce the crowd started to stir, on the fourth clapping broke out throughout, on the fifth a full on applause.

 

Confused, she caught the ball on the up bounce and looked towards the rectangular screen up above. Recognition and understanding passed over her as she stepped back and allowed the crowd of 22,500 their applause.

 

He was modest, trying to wave the ovation off and let the players continue their match. His eyes were dark, matching his hair; he turned to her, making eye contact, begging her to serve the ball; shift the focus back on the court, where it should be.

 

She held his gaze for a moment. It was the first time in three similar instances that they had met eyes. This was her third match that he'd attended, every time he was displayed on the big board, every time the same modest smile and wave. But this was the first time he looked to her.

 

She was confused. Surely someone of his stature was used to such attention, even more. Every fifth day during the summer he performed with 50,000 fans cheering him on, or hoping he'd fail. So why does the attention of 22,500 fans here make him uncomfortable.

 

Modesty, she thought. That's his venue, this is hers. He knows that. He doesn't want to make this about him, because it's not. It's about her, and her opponent. 

 

She finally broke the gaze, took a step back from the line and motioned over to the ball boy to bring her towel. It was a humid night; you could cut through it with a knife. She took the towel and wiped the forehead, then her cheeks which were a shade of red due to the heat.

 

She threw the towel back to the kid and stepped back up to the line. Looked across the court to make sure her opponent was ready. She was, shifting her weight from her left leg to the right, awaiting her big first serve.

 

She bounced the ball three times, tossed it above her head, and smashed it across the court. If the match were being played on grass, the audience would've seen the chalk cloud created when the ball struck the line. Her opponent didn't react -- just walked to the other side of the court and readied herself for the next serve.

 

 

30-15.

 

She smiled, looking to the ball boy who tossed her three new fluorescent balls.

 

She looked back at him. Again their eyes met. Though it was just for a second, she felt it. In that moment he transferred hope and positivity. Confidence. He’d been in this situation before, he’d had his back against the wall. So had she. She knew she could turn this around, she could win. She took one last glance back at him before toeing the line.

 

3-6, 7-5, 6-2. She won.

 

 

 

It's funny; such a mild summer and the hottest week is the first of September. He didn't mind though. The heat and humidity helped his arm. Right now, it felt like rubber, like he could throw about 300 times.

 

And the other team probably hoped he would. Just the top of the first and they were already threatening with two on and just one out. 

 

He took a stroll around the mound, trying to compose himself. Wiped his brow with his arm, juggled the rosin, took a deep breath and stepped back onto the mound and toed the rubber.

 

He stared sixty feet down towards his opponent. Big guy, lefty, power hitter, definitely looking to hit one out -- take advantage of the short porch out in right. 

 

Canner squatted behind the plate, dropped his free hand between his legs and threw down a sign.

 

No. He’ll eat up the change. No, I’m not feeling my curve right now, don’t trust it.

 

There is it. One finger, pointing down to the dirt.

 

He gripped the seams accordingly, took one more breath �" in and out �" and began to windup.

 

Pushing himself off the rubber, he took a huge stride, landing on his front foot while his right arm catapulted towards the hitter.

 

The ball sizzled as it reached the batter in a fraction of a second, and only took a fraction longer to be deposited into center field, plating two.

 

He battled through the rest of the inning, allowing one more hit, but nobody else crossed the plate.

 

After the third out, he approached the home plate umpire, wondering where a few of those close pitches had missed.

 

It was a respectful conversation, on both sides, and while it couldn’t change what had happened it would allow him to learn where this umpire wants to ball.

 

That last pitch to 31 didn’t catch the corner?

Two inches.

I looked to maybe have caught the black…

Two inches. He repeated, bending over and dusting off the plate.

Just make sure my boys get the same calls, right?

 

A soft cheer echoed from the crowd. A strange time to cheer, while they were switching sides.

 

He looked up to the giant video screen in center and realized why. A blonde girl, with a team hat on -- new, probably just purchased at the gift shop on the way in -- and a beautiful smile waved to crowd as the video screen displayed her name and ranking.

 

He knew her, of course. Thanks to a Wednesday matinee start, he had spent his Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday nights watching her compete. I guess this was her returning the support �" or she was just a fan of the team �" or she just figured she’d catch a ballgame while in the city.

 

He strode passed the batter’s box and towards the first base side dugout. She had just turned away from the camera and met his stare as he approached. Her hair was out, makeup done, big smile. He had dirt on his face, sweat beading down his neck, and one-day stubble sprouting form his face.

 

They exchanged obvious smiles that lingered for just a moment longer than normal and he stepped down into the dugout feeling a slight adrenaline rush.

 

The next eight innings passed in a blur. He remembers curves biting sharply into the dirt as hitters swung over the ball, missing it by a foot. Fastballs that zipped by so quickly the batter barely got the bat off of his shoulder. Changeups so unexpected that the hitter swung three times before it finally passed the plate.

 

Whenever he felt the slightest bit fatigued, he stole a glance over towards the first row behind the first base dugout and felt an instant rush of adrenaline.

 

Now, with two strikes, two outs in the bottom of the ninth, up by three, the game was his. 48,000 excited fans, some drunk, stood and clapped, awaiting the inevitable. But he only cared about one.

 

She stood up slowly, not accustomed to the ballpark tradition.

 

He toed the rubber, stared down towards Canner. He dropped two fingers. At this point he would’ve accepted any number of fingers, as every pitch he had was working for him.

 

He gripped the seams and began his windup, took a large stride, catapulted his arm, and snapped his wrist, just slightly, as he released the ball.

 

It soared into the strike zone, belt high, a cookie. Until the bite. The ball dropped off the table and the bat missed it by about a twenty inches.

 

The crowd erupted. They knew the implications, as their team was one win closer to a berth in the postseason.

The rest of the team poured out of the dugout congratulating him on a gutsy performance. He thanked them for the run support, in return.

 

He finally made his way back towards the dugout after the handshakes and a lengthy postgame interview.

 

He tried to scope out her seat, trying his best to dodge slaps on the back and smacks on the head. When he finally found it, it was empty, void of any recent presence.

 

Disappointed, he stepped down into the dugout and deeper, then, into the clubhouse where the press was already buzzing after the clutch win.

 

The reporters patiently waited as he quickly showered and dressed. A press favorite, he answered every question asked with the sarcasm and bluntness you’d expect from a 22-year-old.

 

Finally, they thanked him, congratulated him one last time and made their way back to their desks where they could write up a synopsis of the game for the morning’s paper, or blog, or website.

 

Even after a great win, he left the clubhouse feeling slightly down, feeling, or maybe wishing, that there had to be something more to the night.

 

Just before he exited he was approached by the clubhouse manager. He told him that there was someone waiting for him outside, been waiting since the end of the game.

 

He didn’t need to ask who it was as he felt the grade-school smile cross his face and could tell, but didn’t care, that the clubhouse manager noticed it as well.

 

He walked down the corridor that led to the parking lot a little quicker than usual, a hop in his step, for sure.

 

His stomach was in knots and he took a moment to calm himself down before taking the final turn into the parking lot. Unbelievable, he thought. He could pitch in front of a stadium full of people, and thousands more on television, but he still got nervous when approaching a beautiful girl.  

 

As he turned the corner, he caught a glimpse of her hair, first, blowing slightly in the wind. He continued, tightening, the knot in in his tie, finally making it to his destination.

 

He stopped just a foot in front of her. She stared up at him, he down at her. Their dark eyes never breaking contact. She still wore her new ballcap, along with a white t-shirt, and dark wash jeans. 

 

Hi.

Hey.

I’m…

I know.

They smiled

You waited this entire time just to…

Yeah. She smiled again. You kept coming to my matches.

He smiled. You’re fun to watch.

She bit her bottom lip, pushed a stray hair behind her ear. Yeah, so are you.

They stood there for a moment, still not breaking eye contact. A gust of wind made it’s presence noticed as it swirled throughout the empty parking lot. She shivered, rubbing her bare arms and laughed for no reason.

Have you eaten since..?

No, actually, I haven’t eaten for…

You want to go… I know this place.

They’re open? It’s kind of late for…

It’s New York.

She smiled. It’s New York.

He undid the top button of his suit jack and gently placed it over her shoulders. She thanked him with her eyes and a smile. 

She wasn’t cold anymore.

He knew the night held something more.

 

Author's Note

This was one of those spur of the moment type stories. I tried using a simplistic style of writing that would allow the reader to get into the head of the character without it being in first person. Let me know what you think, any comments are greatly appreciated.