Sparkplug

I walked to the Sandlot with a wooden bat in one hand and my helmet and mitt in the other.  For once, I was not using Old Reliable at the Sandlot; instead, one of the many bats that my dad left behind.

          Matt said that we should use our own bats for the game, so everyone was doing so today for our first practice.

          When I got to the Sandlot, I saw that Ryan, Adam, Noah, and Matt were already here.  It was about one forty-five; I was happy not to be the only one who gets to ‘official practices’ early.

          “You got everything?” Matt asked, “I see you got a hold of a wooden bat.”

          “Yeah, it was my dad’s.” I said, and put my stuff in the shack.  I brought out my mitt only, and warmed up with Ryan and Noah.

          At about ten until two, Joey Lovaski showed up.  Five minutes before two, Drew and Zac showed up.  Mike finally showed up five minutes past two.  He carried all his stuff in an unorganized manner to the shack and grabbed his mitt.

          We had set up the plastic bases we usually used for Sandlot games and everyone took their position.

          Mike was behind the plate, Joey at first, Noah at second, Adam at shortstop, and Matt at third to make up the infield.  In the outfield were Zac, Drew, and I.  Ryan took the position of pitcher.

          Mike hit balls to every person at least ten times before we moved to batting practice.  This was harder to practice; we just have enough players to play every single position.  We usually have somebody like Mike throwing easy pitches before pickup games, and Matt just used the usual option.  Besides, I doubt he would want Ryan or I getting hurt; we were just about the only pitchers he had available.

          I walked to home plate, holding the light wooden bat instead of the usual aluminum bat for softball.  It was definitely a different feeling between the bats, but I didn’t notice that much.

          Mike stared at me dramatically on the mound, and delivered a pitch.  It was a sad attempt at a knuckle ball, and it sunk down into the dirt before it reached home plate.

          I stepped out of the box, gave Mike a shake of my head, and went back in to hit.  This time, I got a fastball.  Mike’s fastball isn’t that terrible, actually. 

          I took it for a strike and the guys sat on the sidelines, booing at me jokingly.  Matt’s philosophy was to not have anybody out there fielding-wise except for the pitcher and catcher.  He said that it reduced injuries to not have anyone out during batting practice; I don’t know if I believe him or not.  All I do know is that the guys took the position of spectator to an extreme.

          The next ball I got was also a fastball.  I just missed it, and popped it up to second base.  Yet again, the guys booed.

          I stepped into the box, knowing that Mike would now try and throw a change-up to mess me up.  He always does it, I kid you not.