Flash Fiction: The Hit

The last time I played baseball, the field was bathed in a sea of yellow and orange sunlight that turned the grass to gold. The sight would have been beautiful, if I wasn’t being forced to stare directly into the brilliant sunset and trying to make out the figure standing a few feet in front of me. I squinted my eyes as much as I could without closing them completely, and tried lowering my head slightly, hoping that the visor of my shabby helmet would help block the rays just a little bit – enough for me to properly see my coach, who seemed to be winding up his arm – but nothing could save me from the blinding light. All I could see was golden light, golden grass, and the shining patch of gravel at my feet. 

I wondered how I was supposed to learn how to conquer my fear of the ball when I couldn’t even see who was throwing it. I did my best to tighten my sweaty grip on the worn leather of the metal bat and shuffled my feet, trying to remember how my sister, the softball star, held the bat. How my friend, the up and coming baseball star, planted his feet. They always seemed to know the right way to carry themselves naturally, but I could never figure it out. All I could do was try to imitate them.  

Every other nervous beat, my heart swelled with anger at my coach. I was angry that I had been singled out and pulled aside for special training just because I flinched away from the ball. I told myself that it was normal to be scared of something small and hard being thrown toward your face. That not being scared was what was weird. But I could feel a small part of my heart, which I refused to acknowledge, filling with a cautious hope that after that pitch I wouldn’t be scared anymore. That I could swing with confidence just like they could. 

While I was still trying to see through the sun, to find the right way, I heard a shuffle of feet sliding on gravel. A shadow the size of a fly broke away from one of the yellow rays piercing my eyes, and grew to the size of a small rock as it arced towards me. I yelled at myself not to flinch, and held fast to the words my sister had spoken to me countless times as we played catch by the roots of the big oak tree in City Park.  

“Just keep your eye on the ball.” 

I planted my feet the best I could, and pulled the bat into place over my shoulder, fighting the urge to turn away and duck. The shadow was right in front of me. My body was screaming at me to dodge, but I forced it to attack instead. I tensed my arms, ready to swing them down and across my chest the way my friend and sister always did. But the swing never came. The ball didn’t pass in front of me. Instead, I felt a weight hit my left shoulder, breaking my stance and making me stumble. 

I blinked, stunned, wondering why I didn’t swing. How I lost sight of the shadow that I had tried so hard to keep my eyes on. Then the pain hit. Tears filled my eyes, and my right hand shot up to my shoulder. I crouched down, curling in on myself and beginning to wail. I heard my coach shout from somewhere within the waning sunset, and the thump of heavy footsteps as they rushed toward me. I didn’t want him to come near me. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say. He had wanted to show me that the ball wasn’t scary. He proved that I was right to be scared. 

It hurts, I thought through my sobs, It hurts. I can’t be like them.