Pressure at the Plate

Keith Bohrer

Ms. Oliver

World Literature Honors

20 April 2014

Pressure at the Plate

My Jaw hit the floor. The glimmer illuminating from the barrel blinded me in one eye. I

couldn’t believe it. The only thing between the two of us was a single panel of glass.

I turned to my best friend Patrick, “It’s a thing of beauty man, pure perfection.”

The Anderson Techzilla, the best baseball bat that money could buy. Anybody who was

anybody had their hands on this bat, giving them an entrance into an exclusive club.

Patrick took a step back, his freckled nose cringed, “Too bad it will take three-hundred

smack-a-roos to buy it.”

I took a deep breath. I realized the harsh reality, how was a ten year-old boy supposed to

come up with that sort of cash? I knew one thing is for sure; my parents wouldn’t buy it. I can

hear them coming up with some snarky remark, “A bat is a bat, all you do is hit the ball, why

spend so much money?” They didn’t understand.

Patrick and I, planted in front of the store window, combed through every idea in our

head on how we could each get out very own Techzilla. Failing to think of anything, we turned

away unable to handle watching something that we knew we couldn’t have.

Trying to lighten the mood, I proposed, “Hey Pat, maybe we will find one laying on the

street.”

Bohrer 2

A corky smile came to his face, “I think that might be a little optimistic, all I know is that

even if you have the bat, I will still be able to strike you out!”

Patrick always had the idea in his head that he was better than me. Must have been all

the soda he drinks finally getting to his head, or he was just trying to mess with me. Either way,

it just made we want to beat him more than I did before.

But that was all in the past.

We are in the major league now. It is Opening Day of our rookie seasons. The crowd

roars, louder than a thousand lions. Perspiration dripped off my brow. My Manager has

assigned me the essential role of hitting first.

The umpire rips off the mask that reeks of pine tar and sweat of an old man. The crowd

waits with baited breath as the umpire shouts “Play Ball!” A sonic boom of exuberant fan takes

over the stadium. I could not help but think about the path I took to get to this point. Endless

amounts of sweat shed, countless practices, a pyscho work-ethic, and an optimistic attitude has

gifted me with the opportunity of my life. I could not afford to blow it. The fan’s cries were so

overwhelming that I couldn’t hear my manager call me over.

“Listen up kid, go out there and just try to make a splash, got it?”

“It’s what I do Coach.” I said with a wink.

I jogged up the stairs receiving a classic pat on the butt from my manager. The fans

began to salivate with the idea of me hitting for the first time. All I could hear was white noise.

I had my brand new Techzilla in my hand, paid with by my first ever professional paycheck.

Trying to calm down, I gave the handle a fatal squeeze in an attempt to release some adrenaline.

Bohrer 3

I dug my heel in to the plush dirt at the back of the batter’s box. I gave the umpire a

customary wink and started my lucky ritual of plate tapping with my bat. Tap! Things begin to

move in slow motion. Tap! The dirt explodes of the ground as if it was being bombarded in a

warzone. Tap! I have my infamous game face on. I grabbed ahold of the plastic tip of my

helmet to adjust it. Taking my first look at the pitcher I started to hone in.

I thought to myself, “Calm down Keith, this is your dream. There are just 100,000

people eagerly awaiting your first at bat.” I stopped there. I was just psyching myself out.

“Time!” the umpire’s voice reverberated around the stadium.

Luckily for my psyche, it was just the opposing manager going to talk to his

pitcher. It appears as if their pitcher has been injured! The opposing manager pointed to their

bullpen.

I began to think again “It won’t be. There is no way this going to happen. I know he is a

reliever, but there is no way their manager will call his number on this big of a stage!”

Sure enough my suspicions were confirmed when the bullpen door flew open and out

jogged Patrick. My stomach turned, Patrick has been getting the best of me since we were kids

and now he is here to ruin my big day. Memories of past failures against him began to flood my

already troubled head.

Arriving at the mound, Patrick noticed the shiny Techzilla in my shaking hand. Just like

old times he whipped out the same corky smile he had as a kid and laughed, “I see you finally

got it, I guess I’ll just have to keep the promise I made when I was a kid.”

“Play Ball!” the umpired yelled for a seemingly tenth time.

Bohrer 4

I stepped back into the box restarting the rituals I had done previously. I peered right at

him begging a starring contest that had the intensity to stop the earth from spinning. Patrick set

up, reading the forthcoming pitch. In some sense I was glad he came in, it made me focus on

him and rather than what the fans were thinking. The sound of his ten year-old voice rang in my

head, “All I know is that even if you have the bat, I will still be able to strike you out!” I grit my

teeth together; an internal fire was lit inside me. The pitch was fired in like it was discharged

from a shotgun. The voice began to get louder. The closer the ball got the louder it was. I

initiated the swing that could either set the crowd alight or give me unavoidable embarrassment.

The ball and bat were about to collide. At this point, the voice is my head reached a full scream,

louder and louder and louder…

“Smash!” the bat echoed

Everything went mute. Every mouth in the building went silent as the watched the white

pearl start to fly. The sound of people standing up from their seats with excitement struck my

ears. Gracefully and effortlessly, the pearl fell out of sight. It was over the wall! Sound came

back to me, hitting like a 4 by 4. Patrick hung his head in disbelief.

“Home Run!” the umpire said with disbelief in his winkled face.

Filled with arrogance, I flipped my bat in the air, just to rub it in. My home run trot

began, I pointed out to the adoring fans, which turned from foes to friends. I arrived at home

plate after the best 360 foot jog of my life and emphatically stomped on the plate. As the cheers

continued, I turned to Patrick and threatened,

“Strike me out now.”