Chapter 8: Sacrifice Fly

https://www.capegazette.com/node/46098

“All right Joco, lay it down like in our little line-up!” whispers Coach Q, leaning close with both hands on her shoulders after she calls time-out to confirm his bunt signal. “They’ll never expect our number three hitter to bunt the winning run home.”

She just scowls and marches back up to the plate, her chestnut eyes glaring at the Guilford College pitcher about to deliver the pitch that will decide the ODAC championship.

__________

Q had been in a good mood on the ride home after another come-from-behind win at Sweet Briar College.

“That’s ten in a row, ladies,” he proclaimed as the bus pulled into a 7-11 at the edge of Charlottesville. “Box lunches and a beer for the bus!”

As we climbed back in bus twenty minutes later, cr-r-ruck, cr-r-ruck echoed down from a big black bird flying high overhead.

“No Bud’s for you?” Ronki asked, popping open one and plopping down onto the bench seat next to Shawna, who was leaning against the window with an ice-pack on her left shoulder.

“This isn’t a beer belly I’m nursing,” Shawna whispered, her deep blue eyes glistening and angular face breaking into a twisted frown as she fought the tears.

“No shit, Shawna?” Ronki wondered, her golden eyebrows raised before recovering. “Here, take my box if you’re eating for two.”

“I do get the munchies something fierce this time of day,” Shawna volunteered, “but I don’t want your whole supper. Maybe just the chips and pickle?”

“They’re yours!” Ronki replied handing them over. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“How about telling Coach Q?”

“Fuck Q!” she hissed, and then added “I’ll tell him at practice on Monday.”

“That, my friend, should be our rallying cry, but can you wait to tell him until after the Guilford game?”

“No problemo, Ace. So how, you know, how did it happen?”

“Oysters,” Shawna said, shaking her blond locks back and forth and breaking into a sly smile.

“Hush, here he comes!” Ronki warned.

Q had polished off a couple cans before wandering down the aisle and stopping next to Jo, who was studying for Dr. Hiss’s physics exam under the weak window light.

“Jo babe, that’s no way to celebrate,” he chided.

“What would you suggest?” she immediately regretted replying.

“Well since you asked,” he smiled, sliding in next to her and slipping a long arm around her shoulder.

She tried to squirm away but was lodged between him and the window.

“Stop right there!” sang Ronki from the next seat back.

“I wanna know right now,” added Shawna.

“Before we go any further do you love me?” sang the rest of the players. “Will you love me forever?”

“Do ya need me?” Jo joined in with a grin.

     “Will you never leave me?

Will you make me so happy for the rest of my life?

Will you take me away and will you make me your wife?

I wanna know right now

before we go any further

do you love me

and will you love me forever?”

Coach Q did not reply “let me sleep on it” as Meatloaf would have. He just turned white and slunk back up to the seat behind the driver, disappearing behind its tall back.

__________

The game is tied at two runs apiece in the bottom of the seventh inning, with Ronki on third base, one out, and the pitch count two balls and one strike on Jo. The heart of the Guilford order is due up in the top of the eighth, so we need a run now with Shawna tiring and our relief pitcher MG just out of her cast.

Jo crouches, eyes the windup, and picks up the spinning ball leaving the pitcher’s hand. Ignoring Q’s signal to bunt, she steps into a high fastball on the outside corner and strokes a lofty fly ball to right field. Ronki jumps back to third, waiting until the ball touches the fielder’s glove before leaping off the base. The Quaker right fielder makes the catch running toward home. Her throw is hard and straight, hopping near the mound. The ball skips into the catcher’s mitt as Ronki charges down the third base line. At full steam, she steps over the leg blocking the plate as the catcher sweeps the tag around.

“Safe!” signals the umpire as Ronki leaps into Cat’s arms in the on-deck circle.

The rest of the team charges over from the bench and circles around.

“Are you coming, Coach?” offers Jo as she joins the celebration.

“You girls won’t win states if you don’t listen,” he complains as the umpires hustle away and the fans start shuffling out.

The players mill around home plate looking at their feet as Q walks off the field and the Guilford players pack up their gear.

“Give me a Q,” Ronki says quietly.

“Q,” Shawna answers with that sly smile.

“Give me a Q!” Ronki repeats a little louder.

“Q,” joins in Jo, reaching her hand into the middle of the pack.

“Give me another Q!” Ronki says a little louder still, placing her hand on top of Jo’s.

“Q,” join in Toni and Cat, adding their hands to the stack.

“Give me another Q!” Ronki shouts as the coach looks over his shoulder before entering the locker room.

“Q,” cheer all the Yellow Jacket softballers, forming a wheel with their arms.

“What’s that spell?” Ronki yells with a grin.

“Four Q!”

“What’s that spell?”

“Four Q!”

“What’s that spell?”

“Four Q!” they all yell.

“A-men,” whispers Jo.




Box Score:

Chapter 7: Double Header

https://scoringlive.com/story.php?storyid=16176

Tyeep, tyeep, tyeep, tyeep calls a red-breasted bird from the newly cut outfield grass out in right centerfield.

Ronki hits a pop fly to the right side of the infield for what will be the last out of game one.

“I got it!” calls the Longwood College pitcher settling under the descending ball along the foul line.

The ball drifts just outside the white line and into the base path. Ronki tries to swerve but bumps the pitcher’s shoulder. The blow knocks them both down as the ball glances off Ronki’s helmet.

“Foul ball!” calls the umpire.

“Interference!” yells the Longwood coach from the third base coaching box.

“Obstruction!” shouts coach Q from the bench.

“Unnecessary roughness,” complains the Longwood catcher squatting back down behind the home plate.

“This isn’t football, young lady,” the umpire chides as Ronki steps back into the batter’s box.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit her,” she apologizes.

“Yah big meany,” chuckles the umpire.

The pitcher is shaken as she serves up a fastball over Ronki’s head. Her next pitch is a curveball in the dirt for ball four to walk the tying run.

Toni Valenti steps up to the plate as the pitcher takes a big breath and toes the rubber. She shakes off the catcher’s sign for another inside curve and instead heaves a low fastball on the inside corner. Toni slashes it to leftfield to put runners on first and second.

The first pitch to Jo is over her head for ball one. The next is in the dirt, skipping past the catcher as Ronki and Toni move up to second and third base on the passed ball. Jo steps out of the box and pops in a stick of Big Red.

“R-B-R-B-R-B-I,” cheers the bench as Jo settles back into her stance.

The pitch is a high hard one right down the pipe. Jo strokes a line drive into right center. The red-breasted bird takes off as the ball bounds through the gap and Ronki and Toni head home for the win.

Box Score:

__________

     “Want to run with me?” asked MG during the break between games. She had taken up distance running during practices after the cast had been put on her arm.

“Yeah, to the cafeteria,” I laughed, incredulous of both the invitation from a pretty French girl and the possibility of actually doing it.

“We’ll go slow,” she prodded, “and we can walk if necessary.”

“What about my excess baggage?”

“Are you afraid of being seen with me?” she asked, her hazel eyes flashing.

“I’ll get my Converse,” I assented.

We started out walking north along the Norfolk & Southern rail line, but she coaxed me into a jog as we crossed the tracks.

“They say students should stay out of Dog Town,” I cautioned.

“These petite houses are cozy, but they’re all falling down,” she observed. “Who lives here?”

“It’s the African-American side of Magnolia, but now it’s mostly old people.”

“Then why is it called Dog Town?”

“A watch dog at every house?” I wondered, but for once she had me stumped.

“I like this part of town, but those Longwood players don’t like us,” she noted.

“Yeah, Ronki… got away with … bumping… their pitcher” I explained, losing steam as we ran on.

“It’s more than that, no?”

“The oldest… rivalry… in the south … Gibby-Hank… and Hampden Sydney … extends… to the sister… school.”

“So very stupid!” she exclaimed, but I had stopped running.

“A stitch,” I gasped, clutching a sharp pain in my right side.

“Just bend down until the diaphragm spasm subsides!” she advised, demonstrating a hands-on-knees rest position.

“Ah, it’s gone, but I’d better head back,” I said, looking over my shoulder as I started walking back the way we had come.

“Zut alors, it’s just the beginning,” she exclaimed, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me back with her uncasted hand. “It get’s easier every time.”

She was right, of course. We ran another half mile down North James Street, even sprinting a little way when chased by a pack of beagle puppies. Then caw, caw, caw floated past with a string of big black birds.

“They’re all headed west,” I observed.

“We follow!” commanded MG, turning left onto a dirt road before I could object.

We ran a half mile down the track, drawn by a rising cacophony to a big oak tree on the edge of a farmer’s field.

“We look!” she declared, climbing through the barbed wire as I held the top wire up and the bottom one down.

A thunderous boom, boom, boom froze her between the wires and poured a black rain from the tree. Three guys with shotguns emerged as we took off back the way we had come.

“Why would they kill birds?” MG cried.

“Corn,” was the best I could offer.

“Pay them no mind, their chickens will come home to roost,” croaked a stooped black man leaning onto his cane beside the road.

     The little dogs charged again as we jogged back.

“Hé!” screamed MG, leaping behind me and holding onto my waist.

“Roof!” I shouted in my deepest voice, spreading my arms and barking down at the little alpha dog. It took off yipping, the other four in tow.

“My hero!” she laughed, planting a kiss on my cheek and taking off toward campus.

That was enough to spur me on for the rest of the run. I finally re-crossed the tracks and pulled up gasping for air, so we walked side-by-side the rest of the way.

      “Hey fat boy, how do the French kiss?” called a guy from the baseball practice field, laughing with a couple of other players.

“Idiot, ask that to my fiancé in Paris!” MG shouted back, taking my arm as we strode back to the Old Gym.

__________

Ronki leads off the bottom of the sixth inning of the second game with the score tied at one. The first pitch is a slider that starts right down the middle and then tails toward her. She smacks a hard liner toward third. The Longwood third basewoman leaps and misses. The ball tails toward the foul line, bouncing just inside it. The leftfielder dives and misses. Ronki’s foot catches the inside of second base as the centerfielder chases down the ball.

“Ronki, we miss you, we really really miss you, please come home, please come home!” cheer our players, jumping up and down on the bench.

Coach Q waves his left arm in a counterclockwise circle from the third base coaching box to send her home.

“An inside-the-park homerun is rare in softball,” I mumble, leaping up with the rest of the team.

The throw is cut-off by the shortshop behind third base as Ronki tears toward the plate. Toni points down with both hands from the on-deck circle to signal a slide. Ronki skids onto her bottom about four feet from home plate. The catcher kneels down onto Ronki’s legs while reaching for the relay throw.

“You’re out!” calls the umpire standing over the two girls.

“Obstruction!” shouts Coach Q, striding over from third base.

Jo sprints over from the bench and knocks the catcher off Ronki’s legs. They tumble in a heap as both teams charge toward home plate.

“Break it up, break it up!” cautions the umpire reaching for Jo.

“Get your hands off her!” threatens Q standing between them.

“Good play, catch!” says Ronki, offering a hand to the catcher to end the looming brawl.

Tyeep, tyeep, tyeep, tyeep calls a red-breasted bird from the newly cut outfield grass.

Box Score: