Randy Torrez steps up to the plate for the most important at-bat in his life. Two outs. Bases loaded. He gets a hit, and the Lenape Lions win the high school state championship. He gets out, they lose and call it a season. Of course, he could also walk or get hit by a pitch, but Randy doesn’t want to win that way.
Randy takes some practice swings before stepping into the batter’s box. He pats the cross hanging on a chain underneath his shirt, blesses himself—a gesture so quick it almost looks like he’s drawing an air-circle. He digs in, raises the barrel of the bat to eye level, grabs it, squints at it, whispers something, lowers it, and then relaxes into his stance.
The Dakota Dodgers’s fielders and bench jockeys chatter.
“NobatterNobatterNobatterNobatterUpThereJarvisBaby!”
That would be Jarvis Metempo, the pitcher.
Randy takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.
You got this.
Somebody yells, “Walk’s as good as a hit, Randy!” as if it’s newly discovered wisdom instead of a cliche Randy’s heard since Little League. Randy called bullshit on that advice at around age five along with “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose.”
It sure as hell does matter; even little kids aren’t fooled by that one, and colleges don’t offer scholarships to walkers. Those who closely follow high school baseball—players, coaches, various social media, some newspapers—consider Randy the best prospect in Pennsylvania. He’s a five-tool player: hits for average, got some pop, acrobatic fielder, gun for an arm, and fast.
Colleges also don’t offer scholarships to pitchers who allow a hit, or walk someone, or hit batters and lose games as a result. Not a good look. Metempo is the best hurler in the state. A kid who can mix heat, with a drop-off-the-table curve ball, a sneaky slider, and once in a while a disappearing change-up. That’s at least two out-pitches right there, maybe three.
Randy glances at the crowd, about 5,000 strong in this bush-league ballpark, host of the state playoffs this year. Shadows of the stands creep over the grass on this bright and cool day. Perfect baseball weather played under a turquoise dome of a sky arching ever on and on.
Randy’s already gotten scholarship offers. However, in the stands this afternoon sits John “Clutch” McNally, a scout for the Division 1 university Randy really wants to go to. That school manufactures Major League Baseball prospects.
Clutch got his nickname because he looks for the sixth tool: How does a player perform under pressure? Does he come through when everything’s on the line? Does he hit walk-off home runs? Or can he pitch a gem to stop a losing streak? He measures intangibles, those nearly spiritual elements in skill or attitude or concentration that allow players to perform well in situations.
Not everything that takes place on the diamond can now be measured, it just seems that way. Randy’s grandfather talked about batting averages and earned runs. Now, advanced statistics measure things like—for hitters—wRAA (weighted runs above average) and wRC+ (weighted runs created plus); and for pitchers, SIERA (skill-interactive earned run average) and xFIP (expected fielding independent pitching).
But advanced stats can’t be gathered at the high school level because of the small sample size. It’s just too short of a season; 15 to 20 games. Baseball ability runs hot and cold for even top prospects and by the time a talented player shakes free from a slump, or makes the right adjustment on the mound, there may be just two more contests to go.
For hitters, college recruiters look at bat speed, mechanics, knowledge of the strike zone, and the ability to get the barrel of the bat on the ball.
Stop thinking.
Randy needs to enter the zone, where everything slows and he locks onto the moment, entering the now.
“You can do it, Randy,” somebody in the crowd yells.
Randy knows that he can do it. Just this year he’s gotten three game-ending hits, two of them walk-off homers. Lately, though ...
Coach Roberts didn’t tell Randy about Clutch McNally, who’d travelled 300 miles to see Randy and Metempo face off. Coach probably didn’t want to put that pressure on his star player. But somebody at Lenape Regional High School somehow found out—maybe a teacher, maybe a kid, maybe a parent, maybe one of the maintenance workers. Who knows? Randy heard about it one week ago and hasn’t gotten a hit since.
That’s 0 for 4 over two games, with two walks. Coach Roberts took him aside.
“Listen, I know that you know about the recruiter,” Roberts said. “It’s affecting your game a little bit.”
“I think my balance might be off, Coach. Putting too much weight on the back leg. And maybe my swing ...”
“Stop!” Roberts commanded. “Stop thinking!”
“Coach?”
“Let muscle memory do the thinking for you. You know how to hit.”
Randy wanted to ask, “How in hell do you stop thinking? How do you try without trying to not try?” Or how do you not press, as Coach would put it, without pressing to do so?
The fact that Roberts teaches physics made such a pep talk seem all that more off-kilter. If anybody believed that everything can in fact be measured, it’d be an educator dealing with the laws of electromagnetism and thermodynamics.
Like a lot of great instructors, Roberts’s digressions often prove more compelling then when he sticks to the lesson plan. A couple of weeks ago he discussed how some scientists tried to locate the human soul.
“Do you believe we have a soul, Mr. Roberts?”
Affirmative.
“Is there proof?”
Not any that can be detected by science, but there have been some interesting philosophical arguments.
“For now, though, it really just comes down to faith,” Roberts concluded.
A virtue Randy can use more of at the moment.
So far today, he’s gone 0 for 2 with a walk. True, he did quickly steal second and then third, where his teammates stranded him. He fielded flawlessly, gunning two guys out at the plate from center field, and making three game-reel plays—two diving catches, and one scaling up and reaching over the fence to snag what should have been a home run, but became the third out instead.
Don’t put pressure on yourself.
He looks out at the mound but makes no eye contact with Metempo.
The pitcher doesn’t exist.
The only thing that exists is the ball.
See it, hit it. See it, hit it. See it, hit it.
Metempo winds up. Let’s loose.
“Heyooo!” the ump roars. “Outside!”
Randy backs away, takes another deep breath, another practice swing.
You got this.
He eases into his stance.
The windup, the pitch.
“Eereike!
Shit. That was my pitch.
Metempo just served it up there. A fastball too fast for 90 percent of high school batters, but Randy knows that he could have crushed it.
Sometimes pitchers would intentionally walk him, and sometimes they’d not put anything in the strike zone, hoping that Randy’s aggressiveness would make him swing at junk.
He sometimes did—on purpose. Randy would wave at the first two. Then, needing to get just one more strike to end the inning, they’d often try to sneak one by him. That’s how Randy got so many hits when behind 0-2.
But Metempo isn’t going to walk Randy and lose the game that way. He isn’t going to lose the game period, or so he thinks. Metempo wants to overpower the best hitter in the state.
The chatter from the Dodgers’s fielders comes faster, louder. Randy tunes it out. The catcher, though, he’s right there.
He says to Randy, “Slumps are the worst, dude. I feel you.”
“Yeah. Keep talking,” Randy says.
Randy calls time. Steps out of the box again, looks down to third base. Coach Roberts pantomimes giving a signal, patting shoulders, knees, and hips; tugging cap, nose, and ears. All of which means nothing. He’s not telling Randy to swing or not swing at the next pitch. He’s not giving the baserunners cues. This game’s come down to this moment where signals and advice don’t matter.
Coach claps, then yells, “You got this, Torrez!”
Randy steps back into the box.
“You ain’t swung the lumber all day,” the catcher says.
Randy doesn’t respond as Metempo digs with his cleats at the mound, reminding Randy of videos he’s seen of bulls pawing the dirt before charging.
Focus! Focus! Focus!
It’s not a contest between Randy and Metempo. It’s a contest between Randy and the ball. Probably contest is the wrong word. Negotiation might be more like it. Yeah. Negotiation works. The ball’s got spin, velocity, and trajectory. One way or another, though, it’s got to come to Randy.
Suddenly, Metempo throws over to third to try to pick off the runner and end the game that way, but Randy’s teammate dives back just before the tag.
Randy doesn’t appreciate almost getting the bat taken out of his hands with the game on the line. And yet the runner on third clearly wormed into Metempo’s head the way their catcher’s been trying to get into Randy’s. The psychological battle never ends.
Windup. Pitch.
Randy sees the ball better than he has in a week. Good. Unfortunately the pill rockets toward his head and Randy hits the ground to avoid being beaned.
Holy shit!
“Yalllll,” the ump yells.
The catcher jumps to snag the pitch. If it had gotten past him, the kid on third would have scored and that would have ended the game. The catcher asks for time and jogs out to Metempo. Randy’s willing to take one for the team, but not in the head. Is Metempo choking? Will he walk Randy?
Damn! Come on! Let me hit!
The catcher trots back and squats behind the plate once more. The ump leans over his shoulder. Quiet descends. The Dodgers’s chatter fades, nobody calls from the stands.
Windup. Pitch.
Outside corner. But is it in the strike zone? Randy reaches, nips the ball foul.
Man!
Randy asks the umpire: “In?”
“Painted the black.”
Two balls. Two strikes.
Randy again steps out. Breathes. Practice swings. If Metempo throws that kind of heat in that part of the strike zone, then the adage “good pitching beats good hitting” takes over.
Cancel that thought! Come on! You got this!”
Metempo stalks about the mound again.
He smells victory.
Windup. Pitch.
Not yet. The ball’s in the dirt. Randy dances out of the way as the catcher throws his body in front of it, again saving the game. He might be the one impressing Clutch McNally.
Randy can’t resist.
“Almost two wild pitches,” he tells the catcher.
“Almost,” the catcher says as he gets up, “but this ain’t horseshoes.”
Still, he calls time again, heads to the mound for one last discussion with Metempo. He returns, squats behind the plate. Randy glances back to glimpse where the catcher sets up. The ump positions himself as well.
This is it.
Three balls. Two strikes. Bases loaded. Bottom of the seventh. Clutch McNally probably standing with the rest of the crowd that’s noisier than it’s been all day. The Dodgers’s players now screech their encouragement for Metempo.
Does Randy’s entire future hinge on what happens next?
You’re thinking again!
Randy calls time, steps out of the box. Breathes. Stretches. Prays like his Grandpa would have. Philippians 4:13. “Todo lo puedo en aquel qua me fortalece.” I can do all things in Him who strengthens me.
Would advance statistics help him in this situation? Can everything be measured? Will all things one day be known? To Randy, it comes down to Issac Newton: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Forces happen in pairs. Object A (the ball) can’t expend force on Object B (the bat) without encountering a force itself.
Stop thinking! Focus!
Windup. Pitch.
He sees it. Sees it perfectly. Another fastball, but it appears to be slower than Metempo’s usual. The kid on the mound’s tired. Finally. Randy will swing. This one’s in his wheelhouse. That guarantees nothing, though. How many times have great hitters swung and missed balls in their wheelhouse, or turned them into fly outs or ground outs?
His thought in this millisecond will unfold for him later the way water in a pond ripples circularly away from a point of impact. The ball exists in another dimension, a hidden reality.
Randy reaches deep inside himself, deeper than he’d ever reached. Deeper than consciousness, deeper than life or what lays beyond it. Reaching all the way down to his very soul that watches from a field of being that stretches ever on and on.
"Now Batting" was originally published December 16, 2024 in the literary magazine Written Tales
