The pitch...the swing...the play at the plate

Whenever I had a bad day, my dad would always tell me, "Life is like baseball. There's always another game tomorrow." This was always a comfort - the idea of tomorrow being a fresh start, a new game and with it, a new at bat.

But tomorrow there would be no more games. Today was the last game of the season. The championship game. And we were, by far, the underdogs in this match up.

Before every game, I like to stand behind the plate and just take a moment. I've always loved the game and today is no exception as I take in the cloudless sky, the green of the outfield, the feel of the dirt beneath my feet, the smell of the leather off my glove. Every time I suited up in my gear and took my familiar place behind the plate, it felt like coming home.

My pitcher was nervous. Too nervous. It didn't help that she broke up with her boyfriend at lunch. I feared she wouldn't have her good stuff today. She seemed off the second she took the mound. I stroll out to her, giving my standard line: "It's just you and me, baby. Let's play catch." I took it as a good sign when she responded, "Get your ass behind the plate!"

She winds up and let loose with wicked curve that lands with a sweet POP in my mitt. The warm up continues to exceed my expectations - she was hitting all the spots - and it was just her and me, playing catch. "Balls in! Coming down!" I yell, signifying the end of the warm up. One last pitch and I launch the ball down to second base. The shortstop snags the ball and lays down the tag on an imaginary runner. I have my good stuff today too, I think smugly.

The game was close. Although the lead traded off with almost every inning, we were never more than 2 runs apart. They'd score. We'd answer right back. Before long, it was the bottom of the 9th. We were up by two. Two outs. They were desperate for one last rally. The runner was taking a huge lead off first, daring the pitcher to pick her off.

The opposing coach announces a change in line up and a petite blond saunters to the plate, a cocky smile playing on her lips. Oh no! This was the worst thing that could possibly happen right now. This new batter...she was the reason my pitcher and her guy split. I started making my way to the mound the second that realization hit.

Tears began to flood her eyes as she tried to wave me back behind the plate. Against my better judgment, I get down and call for a fastball. The pitcher flings the ball right at the batter's head. She goes down in the dirt as I dive for the ball. Unable to keep the wild pitch in front of me, the runner steels second.

Tossing the ball back, I shake my head at the pitcher. With an innocent smile, she draws a circle in the air around her head. See my halo? she teases.

I reposition myself behind the plate, still shaking my head. I know what's coming with this next pitch. Again, it sails right for the batter. She hits the dirt once more. This time the ump gives the pitcher a warning. The batter stands, pissed, refusing to brush herself off.

I signal for a curve and set up for the pitch. One. Two. Three. I count to myself before I scoop up a handful of dirt and toss it at the batter's shoes. It's a cheap trick, but it works. She looks down at the cloud of dust just as the ball sails across the plate into my glove. A perfect strike.

This time I'm the one drawing a circle around my head with a wink to my pitcher. The batter takes a few practice swings. Her jaw is clenched with determination. Here comes the pitch. And the swing...

The ball sails in the air, back toward the fence. The left fielder breaks into a sprint, trying to catch up to the ball. It flies over her head, rolling to a stop at least 10 feet behind her. The runner crosses the plate before the left fielder even reaches the ball.

The batter is fast, easily stretching this into a triple. The third base coach signaled for her to hold up at the bag. But she kept running, determined to take home.

I flip off my mask, standing in the baseline, glove outstretched waiting for the throw. My teammates scream to get the ball home. The left fielder had an arm like a cannon and hurls the ball to the plate.

My concentration is split between ball and runner, both heading toward me with remarkable speed. The ball hits my glove the exact moment the runner plows into my side. My glove closes as I lose my balance - the force of the runner literally knocking me off my feet. I feel like I'm falling backward in slow motion. The runner dives forward toward me, struggling to get her hand on the plate.

We land hard on the ground in a tangle of limbs. Her cleat kicks my glove. The impact knocks the ball loose, sending it dropping quickly for the ground. The ball brushes the fingertips of my bare hand as I struggle to hang on. Both teams were screaming. The fans were all on their feet, holding their breath, struggling to see through the cloud of dirt who would emerge victorious.

"OUT! THE BATTER IS OUT!" the umpire exclaims loudly.

I didn't have time to get to my feet before I was swarmed by my team. Victory never tasted so sweet.

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