Fast Pitch

As if there isn’t more than enough on my mind by the time we get to the ballpark for our first section game, the moment I step out of the Firebus, I look across the parking lot and spot someone I hoped to never see again.
I stop dead, and Britt-Marie crashes right into me.
“Gees, Lockwood,” she says.
And I guess she notices the look on my face because her next words are “Why do you look like you just saw Medusa and turned to stone?”
I don’t respond. Just keep staring.
“Sheniiiiice?” And taps me on the shoulder.
Still can’t move.
“Lightning? O captain, our captain? What gives?”
She must follow my eyes then. Because the next words out of her mouth are: “Oh, sugar honey iced tea.”
“Yeah” is all I can muster.
“Wait a minute, is that …” Laury, our queen of first base, steps up beside us. “No way.”
“Way,” I say.
Then, almost as though she can feel our stares, the girl’s head turns, and she sees me.
Her face lights up like it’s Christmas.
“Sugar honey iced tea is right,” I say.
My final year playing slow pitch, I was nine. Fourth grade. I was the only Black girl on the team, and three games into the season, we had a match against the Birchville Bruisers.
Which should’ve been warning enough. Because that’s exactly what these players were.
Everyone on their team was bigger – in height and weight – than everyone on ours. To the point where our coach wondered aloud if they were actually eligible for the ten-and-under league. And they played rough and dirty. Threw faster and swung harder than any players our crew had ever seen. They were quick on their feet, stole every stealable base at least once, and were clearly out for blood.
Bottom of the sixth, they’re up to bat. Two outs, two strikes, on of which was a foul ball. They had a runner on first – blond wispy hair she couldn’t seem to keep out of her mouth or eyes despite it being in a braid. And a runner on third. We’ll call her B-Cubed: Bloody Bruising Becca. She was half a head taller than me and much bigger. Hair was dyed bright blue, and she had a pale face with bright red cheeks.
She genuinely looked mean.
The whole thing happened super fast: B-Cubed shifted her stance in a way that let me know she planned to steal home the moment the ball was released. I had just switched over to catcher from second base – partially because my coach realized I noticed stuff like a shifted stance – and I was still getting my bearings. But as our pitcher prepped to toss, I started really sweating.