Chapter Seven
The next Saturday, my team, the Bulldogs, had a game. We played the Eagles, a team from across town. The sun was burning down on the red-orange crushed pebble baseball diamond. The grass all around the infield was bright green. I was made catcher because I am short and fast. I am also the leadoff batter for the same reasons. Since I am so short, I have a narrow strike zone and pitchers usually walk me. Because I am fast, I can get away with stealing bases. In fact, I’ve never been thrown out. I think this is kind of cool, but I wish I could have more chances to hit the ball. I asked Coach Owens about this one day.
“Coach, I would like more chances to hit the ball,” I said.
“I would like that, too, but the fact is, pitchers can’t hit your strike zone very often. This is an advantage to the team because you get on base a lot. I love to see you on base because I know you are fast and you can steal bases easily,” he explained.
“That sort of seems like cheating,” I said.
“No, it is called strategy. All coaches have a plan for winning,” he said.
As the catcher, I have a view of the complete field. I am aware of what all other players are doing. I can warn the pitcher if someone is about to steal a base. I think being catcher is fun, except that it is hot. And all that gear is a lot of trouble to get into—knee pads, chest protector, and face mask. It’s clumsy.
Even though it was spring that day and the temperature stayed in the 70s, the heat of the sun burned my skin through my red Bulldogs T-shirt. I could feel it through the thin air, not much oxygen, at our altitude of one mile above sea level. Sweat poured down my face. I could taste the salt in it.
I could also smell myself—stinky. I never used to notice when I got stinky, but one day, I heard a girl at school telling another girl that she wished I would wear deodorant. I felt embarrassed. Mom said she would get me some. She said that stinky underarms meant I was growing up. She forgot to get it when she went to the store, though.
Pow! A batter on the Eagles team hit the ball straight up in the air. I saw it headed backwards toward me, but over my head. As I pulled off my clunky mask with one hand so I could see it, I adjusted my position and held my gloved hand above my head because I saw the ball arced backwards and to the left. I jumped that way and grabbed it. All that took about three seconds. It felt like a long time, like I was moving in slow motion.
I caught his foul ball before it hit the ground, and the batter was out. All my teammates yelled congratulations. So did Mom from the stands. She comes to every game. Sean and Ozzie come, too, and Sean was yelling along with Mom. Dad is usually at work.
At my next at bat, I got walked, as usual. While the Eagles pitcher tried to throw our next batter, Brian, out, I stole second base. I slid right under the second baseman, red dust flying everywhere. There was so much dust, he couldn’t even see me for a moment. He didn’t tag me in time.
Then Brian smacked the ball right toward second base, but I took off for third. Brian made it to first and while the Eagle players were trying to tag him, I dashed to third base. Brian kept going so he was now on second.
“Yay! Way to go, Brian,” I shouted to my friend.
Everybody on our team and in the stands was stomping, dancing around, and yelling with glee. There I was, on third, with Brian on second. I was tense, holding my breath as the next batter, Joey, took two strikes and passed on two balls. The next pitch would be it. Then Joey smacked the ball down first base line. He was tagged out, but I made it home. That was the first out of the inning. I was so excited to make the first score of the game for the Bulldogs. The team and crowd cheered like crazy.
Brian was now on third. I knew the next batter, Bobby, a sixth grader, could hit the ball hard. He hit a pop fly and the Eagles pitcher caught it, so that was out number two. Brian did not advance.
The next batter, Hunter, struck out. Darn. He usually got a hit. That was out number three. Brian was left on base.
After a couple of long innings under the scorching sun, nothing else happened. Some batters got walked. My mind wandered from the action. I saw in my mind that a batter on the Eagles team was going to hit a ball hard and that it would hit one of my team members in the head, knocking him out. I signaled to Coach Owens for a time-out and told him what I saw.
“Soon an Eagles batter is going to hit a ball that will knock out Tommy at first base,” I said.
“He’d have to really hit it hard, Noah. I don’t think that will happen,” said Mr. Owens.
I felt alone and bent down, scraping the dirt off home plate with my fingers. The umpire has a brush for that, but I just didn’t want anyone to see my face. No one ever believes me. I kept looking down so no one would see how discouraged I felt.
The next time the Eagles came to bat, the first kid up smacked one of Brian’s balls right down the first base line and into the side of Tommy’s head. He fell head-first into the red dust of the infield. For a moment everything went silent as I realized another vision had come true. But as I thought about the cry Tommy gave, before he fell to the ground, I felt terrible that my vision had been correct. Everyone, including me, rushed to help. I had to throw off my gear first. His mom ran sobbing onto the field. Someone must have called an ambulance because soon sirens could be heard, getting louder and louder as the truck bounced down a dirt hill to get to the field. The driver stayed in the ambulance, ready to roll, while two paramedics dashed to the form of Tommy, still lying in the dirt. One was carrying a backboard. As they gave first aid to Tommy, I heard his mom, Iris, call his dad on her cell phone. The paramedics got Tommy onto the board and put braces around his head to keep him still. Tommy’s mom got into the ambulance with her boy. He was taken to the emergency room at the hospital.
I felt miserable because Tommy was hurt, but also because the coach did not believe me when I told him this would happen. I don’t think he even remembered I had told him Tommy would get hit by a ball. He was too busy calming the team and getting us re-organized.
The game had passed the five-inning mark, so the umpire called an end to it because everyone was upset about Tommy getting hit. The Eagles won by one run. This was the first loss of the season for the Bulldogs. On top of Tommy getting hurt, we also had to lose the game. I was dragging my arms, my glove almost touching the ground, as I walked over to Mom, Sean, and Ozzie in the stands. She hugged me and asked if I would like to go for ice cream.
“I don’t feel like ice cream,” I said, still feeling dejected.
She looked into my eyes, knowing the day I turned down ice cream, there must be something very wrong.
“Tell me how you are feeling,” she said.
“Well, I had a vision that Tommy was going to be hit in the head with a ball. I told the coach about it, but he just ignored me. I wish people would believe me when I get visions and dreams.”
Mom looked at me in a peculiar way, like she was trying to figure out how to help me but had no clue.
“It would be nice and cold and yummy. We could get out of this heat for a few minutes,” she coaxed.
“Well, okay,” I said, feeling brighter at the thought.
We went to the Dairy Queen. While Mom ordered chocolate sundaes for us, I went in the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face and head. That felt good, too. I came out dripping, my hair sticking up all over. Mom cracked up laughing at the sight of me. I think she looks pretty when she laughs. I scooped up some ice cream on a spoon and got some of it on my nose. Sean gave some of his ice cream to Ozzie. Since he is a therapy dog, he gets to go into restaurants. She laughed even harder. When we finished our sundaes, I licked my spoon clean and stuck it on my nose, making a silly face. She thought that was funny, too, which was what I intended. The stress of the game and Tommy’s injury seemed to slide away.
Once we got home, Dad was there. Mom called Tommy’s mom, Iris, on her cell phone to ask if Tommy was okay. She put the phone on speaker so I could hear, too.
“He’ll be fine. He has a mild concussion, but his skull isn’t cracked. We just have to watch him overnight,” said Tommy’s mom.
“Let me know if I can help in any way,” said Mom.
As Mom hung up the phone, she patted me on the shoulder. “Tommy is going to be fine. Everything will be okay.” I wanted to believe her, that everything would be okay, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the visions and dreams I constantly had. No one would believe me. I could have stopped Tommy from being injured. We could have had a chance at winning the game if he hadn’t been hurt. I wish grownups would listen to me. I feel like no one listens because I’m a kid. If I were a grownup, would people believe me?