© Copyright 2007 by Karen O'Leary

It was the bottom of the ninth in the Babe Ruth district finals. The Blazers led the Racers three to two with two out. The Racers’ third baseman was on second, dancing back and forth, trying to distract the pitcher.

The Blazers’ ace stood on the mound, working the ball in his right hand. The league’s home run leader stepped into the batter’s box with a confident smirk on his face.

“Ball one,” the umpire yelled as the first pitch failed to nip the outside corner.

The pitcher wiped the sweat from his brow then wound up for his second delivery. “Strike.”

The third pitch hummed down the middle of the plate. Crack! The squarely hit ball lined into right field, heading for Mike Sampson, the smallest player on the team. The coach held his breath, hoping the center fielder could cover before both runs scored. The assistant coach threw his cap on the ground. “You should have put him in left.”

Mike kept his eye on the ball, leaping with his glove stretched behind his head. He landed on his left shoulder but jumped up quickly, holding the ball high in the air.

The rest of the team rushed the mound, congratulating each other on their victory, paying no attention to the player that saved the game.

The pitching coach walked out to Mike and grabbed his slumped shoulder. “That was a great play son.”

“I guess,” the youngster replied as he walked off the field.

The pitcher’s father slapped Reverend Jared Sampson on the back. “That was a lucky grab.”

Jared wanted to tell the arrogant banker that he had seen his son make similar plays on numerous occasions but refrained and simply said, “Thanks.” He hurried towards his son.

Mike grabbed the handle of the family’s fifteen-year-old Volkswagen when he heard, “That was a fantastic catch!”

The youngster turned his tear-stained face towards the familiar voice. He swallowed, seeing the concern in his father’s pale blue eyes. “I’ll be OK.”

Reverend Sampson feared his new position in the quaint little church might be a difficult transition but felt they needed a new start after burying his wife and daughter. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Coupled with being poor and living on the wrong side of the tracks, a minister’s son stood little chance of fitting in the long established hierarchy of this small town. “Keep up the good work, and God will see that you get your chance.”

“How? The coach hardly gives me any playing time.”

“You’ve got to have faith.” The words rang false in the Reverend Sampson’s ears. He continued to struggle to make sense of the accident that reduced his family in half almost a year ago. The drunk that hit them walked away unharmed. Scenes rolled through his mind like a rerun of a bad movie.

Jared shook his head. His son was already buckled in the passenger seat, waiting for his dad to reconnect with the present. He paused momentarily to thank God for Mike’s patience then slid behind the wheel. “Sorry about going off again.”

“It’s OK Dad,” the youth replied, while staring out the window to his right. “You’ve had a lot to deal with.”

“So have you.” Jared shoved the keys in the ignition. “Hey, how about celebrating with a sundae?”

“At Minerva’s?” Mike looked at his dad, a hint of a smile on his face.

“Where else?” his father responded, grinning. “She’ll want to hear all about how her favorite player saved the game.”

The youth perked up. “Can I have a super hot fudge?”

Jared chuckled. “You bet. After that catch of yours, it’s the least a humble father can do.”

“Since when have you been humble?”

“OK, I set myself up for that one but do you always have to make the most of it?”

Mike grinned. “I’ve got a duty to keep you sharp. I can’t have everyone in the church showing you up.”

Jared pulled into a parking spot near Minerva’s Homestyle Diner. Patrons from entered and headed for the snack bar’s shiny chrome stools topped with red vinyl seats.

A gray-haired wisp of a lady scurried from behind the counter. “What took you so long? The game’s been over for a half hour.” Minerva’s deep blue eyes sparkled as she ruffled Mike’s wavy brown hair. “You’ve really got this town buzzing champ. Jack said there’s going to be a clip of your grab on the six o’clock news. Never thought I’d be standing next to a TV star.”

Feeling his cheeks heat up, Mike focused on the floor. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“That’s not what I hear.” She flung her arm around the boy’s shoulder. “How about a triple scoop, hot fudge sundae with the trimmings on the house?”

Mike’s head shot up. “That would be great!”

As she steered the youngster toward a small table with a red and white checked tablecloth, she glanced back at Jared still standing near the entrance. “Come along. I think I can round up something for you too.” She winked.

The minister chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I like the ring of that. Never could stand a man that couldn’t make up his mind.”

A few minutes later Minerva plopped two huge bowls in front of the Sampsons. The fudge and nut covered ice cream was topped with whip cream.

Jared grinned. “You’re an angel and saint all rolled into one.”

* * *

“That was an awesome catch!” Justin Brun, the coach’s son yelled as Mike walked onto the practice field the next day.

Corey Erstad, the previous day’s pitcher, jogged over. “Thanks for saving the game. I got way too much of the plate with that pitch.”

“Aren’t outfielders supposed to catch the ball?” Mike lifted his face with a hint of a smile.

The other two laughed. Corey slapped him on the back. “You can cover for me anytime.”

“You three going to get on the field or jaw like old ladies all day,” Coach Brun growled. “Sampson, behind the plate.”

The team’s regular catcher helped Mike into the protective gear that was much too large for him. “You can’t go out there like this.”

Mike’s eyes met his teammate’s. “He’s the coach.” He struggled over to the spot behind home plate and crouched down.

“Play ball,” the coach yelled.

A half-hour later, Mike clenched his teeth, wondering how long he would be made to endure the agonizing cramps in his legs. His only opportunity to stretch was when he threw out a runner trying to steal second five minutes into practice. “Please God help me,” he silently prayed.

The temperature rose to the mid nineties. The assistant stood beside Coach Bruns, his gaze locked on the minister’s son. “Don’t you think he’s had enough?”

“If he wants to be a big star, he’ll have to toughen up.”

“Dad,” Justin hesitated then continued, “I can catch for awhile.”

“You running the show now?”

“No sir.”

“Then cover first base,” the coach snapped.

Gradually, a numbing sensation replaced the pain in Mike’s shaking lower limbs. His throws back to the mound weakened, the last bouncing twice before the pitcher scooped it up.

“You OK?” Corey whispered as he stepped into the batter’s box.

Mike shuffled his feet but didn’t answer. He had to concentrate or the dizziness would overtake him.

“Take a break,” the coach finally barked.

Mike sat back and stretched his legs in front of him. Brent Spenelli, the pitching coach and a paramedic by trade, rushed over to him. He lifted the mask, from the flushed face. “Here drink a little of this.” He handed the boy a glass of water. “Take it easy or you’ll get sick.”

The cool liquid soothed Mike’s parched throat, reviving him a little from his stupor. His head ached. He longed to close his heavy lids.

Brent quickly removed the pads, revealing a sweat soaked uniform that clung to the boy’s body. He grabbed the youngster’s wrist, feeling the rapid but strong pulse. “We’ve got to get you home and cooled off.”

Mike merely nodded.

The paramedic assisted the boy to his feet. He practically carried the limp youth to his car. By the time he pulled into the Sampson driveway, Mike had fallen asleep.

Jared hurried out, ominous dread squeezed his very soul. “What’s wrong?”

“A little too much sun,” Brent replied. “Can you get the door while I help him in?’

The minister sprinted towards the entrance of his home, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk but righting himself before he fell.

The paramedic hurried around to the passenger door. “Mike, can you wake up? You’re home.”

The boy opened his droopy-looking eyes, finding it difficult to focus. He allowed the pitching coach to steer him into the house.

“We’ve got to get him cooled down,” Brent explained. The two men worked quickly, lowering the drowsy youngster into a tub of tepid water. “Do you have a thermometer?”

Jared retrieved the instrument from the medicine cabinet above the sink.

“His temp is 103.5 degrees,” the paramedic informed the frantic-looking father. “I’m going to call Dr. Montgomery and see if he recommends anything else.”

Jared slipped a clean shirt over his son’s head as Brent returned to the bathroom. “Doc’s covering the emergency department and would like us to bring him in.” Both the Sampsons’ eyes riveted toward him. “Just a precaution,” the paramedic assured.

They entered the bustling hospital lobby fifteen minutes later. An elderly gentleman paced in front of the registration desk. “Follow me,” the paramedic instructed with an air of confidence as he led them to the treatment area.

An auburn-haired nurse dressed in royal blue scrubs ushered them into a room. “So you’re friends of Brent.” She smiled as she checked Mike’s vital signs. Her efficient manner and warm-looking eyes helped quell the panic that threatened to overwhelm Jared. Surely, God wouldn’t take his son away too.

A burly hulk of a man entered. “Hi, I’m Dr. Montgomery.” The nurse handed him the clipboard she had been writing on. He quickly scanned the information. “102. His temp is still a bit high.” He gazed at the dozing youth, then addressed the anxious-looking father holding his son’s hand. “Do you know how long he was in that catcher’s gear?”

Jared shook his head. “I dropped him off at one.”

“We were out on a 911 call so I got to practice late,” Brent explained. “From what the boys told me, I figure it was about an hour.”

“In this heat? Who’s the coach?”

“Nate Bruns,” the paramedic responded.

The doctor rolled his eyes. “Reverend Sampson, I’d like to keep your son for a few hours and check some lab work. We need to get his temp down a little more.”

The minister nodded. The doctor scratched a few notes on Mike’s chart then left.

Jared flipped the damp rag on his son’s forehead. A tear slid down his left cheek. Brent rested a hand on the minister’s shoulder.

* * *

Two hours later, Brent stepped into the church’s meeting room. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

The eight parish board members hushed, focusing their attention on the lanky paramedic. “This had better be important,” the car salesman grumbled. “I was in the middle of a sweet deal.”

I know you’re all busy so I’ll cut the chase,” Brent replied. “Nate crossed the line this time. Mike Sampson is in the hospital.” He quickly recounted the facts. “The church sponsored this team as a part of our youth ministry in order to reach out to more kids and foster Christian values. I think we all can agree that the success of the team is exciting, but we’ve lost sight of our real purpose.”

Amanda Crane, the chairperson, agreed.

“I asked the coach to drop by in fifteen minutes,” the paramedic continued. “I’ll not sit by and watch him hurt these kids.”

Nathan Bruns stormed into the room five minutes late. “What’s this all about? Couldn’t it wait until after business hours?” His loud voice echoed around the room.

“Please sit down.” Amanda motioned to the vacant chair across from her.

With a scowl scary enough for a haunted house, Nate dropped his six-foot frame into the seat. “This better be good.”

Calmly, Mrs. Crane proceeded, “Could you tell us what happened with Mike Sampson this afternoon?”

“So the little sissy wimp complained about the big bad coach’s tough workout.” He chuckled. No one else joined him.

“He’s in the hospital,” Amanda stated.

Bruns shot out of his chair. “And you’re here to lynch me. No one complained when the trophies started rolling in. I built this team out of nothing while you people sat in air-conditioned offices not even breaking a sweat.”

“Calm down,” Brent advised.

“Calm down! Calm Down!” the coach roared. “Don’t tell me what to do you traitor.” He scanned the room like a condemned man. “You can find someone else to kick around. I quit.” He slammed the door so hard a picture fell off the wall shattering the glass.

* * *

A whistle blew three weeks later. Coach Brent Spenelli flanked by his assistant, Jared Sampson, gathered the Blazers into a huddle. “You’ve got a lot to be proud of. Not every team could pull things together like you have after losing the coach and a couple of starters. Several of the other coaches have asked me to thank you for helping them out. This is the first time this town has ever hosted a regional championship. You’re a credit to the community.”

“You think we have a shot at going to state?” one of the excited youngsters blurted out.

“You bet.” Brent’s eyes danced, caught up in the boys’ excitement. “Now, I’d like Reverend Sampson to say a prayer.”

Jared focused on his son, standing amid the other boys, no longer an outsider. Mike gave him a barely perceptible nod. Encouraged, the minister began, “Dear Lord, thank you for bringing us this far. You’ve given us the gift of friendship and melded us into a team. May we always be grateful for what we have and live by your example. And, if it’s your will we’d like to go to state.” An innocent smile lit up his face.

The boys cheered their approval, some slapping each other on the back, others exchanging high fives.

The new coach took center stage, hushing the team. “Hey Mike, do you have anything left in that arm of yours?”

The youngster nodded.

“Great! Get some warm up tosses in. I’d like you to start on the mound. Corey, can you cover first? Nathan…”

Mike caressed the ball in his right hand, feeling alive again. The batter stepped up to the plate. The ball snapped across the outside corner.

“Strike.”




HEY! and don't forget to e-mail Karen O'Leary if you have a comment!


gksm@cableone.net

Author's Note: Karen O'Leary is a Christian wife, mother, nurse, and freelance writer. She has published articles, short stories, and poetry in "Parables", "The Journal of Christian Nursing", "Smile", "Storyteller", "Art With Words" as well as others. She hopes her words will have a positive influence on others.





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