Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Patience, Lads

So it's 1-0, now, nobody out, and a guy on third. It's been a few minutes since that high fastball passed within a few inches of his orbital bone, and our two-hole batter digs in, trying to look unfazed. He's been hit in the head before. Only once, but that's enough. The pitcher knew this, of course -- they all know it.

Our batter takes another fastball, low and away, for ball two. He was taking all the way. That first pitch turned this into a battle of wills, rather than a battle of wits, and he wasn't going to stand there and get bullied by this guy, lose his cool. So, great, a hitter's count -- just make contact and score the runner on third.

But he's angry, now. He was afraid of getting hit in the head, almost did, and now he's pissed. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.

The third pitch is a hard slider that comes in on his hands, and he fouls it away. 2-1. The next is a high fastball ... he tracks it, and in a split second he's telling himself to speed up his hands ... "Catch up to it, it's right there!" ... and he comes up empty. 2-2. The catcher mocks him for "trying to win the game with one swing."

This has been an awfully unpleasant at-bat already. Our hitter is starting to feel like he's never played baseball before. He calls timeout to collect himself. Various bits of baseball advice handed down to him over the years flash across his mind, sayings and phrases and profanity that amount to, in not so many words, "Keep it simple, and be optimistic." Pretty useless, really, but he follows it anyway and stands in the box ready to simply "make contact."

That hard slider comes in again and he fouls it off. Encouraging. Waste some more pitches. He briefly considers that in the entire at-bat only that first slider was even arguably in the strike zone, but who cares. Make this guy pay and get the run across. He sits fastball, and here it comes ... diving, dancing, sinking past his bat and into the dirt. A split-finger.

On the way back to the dugout, he can't look at the pitcher, his manager, or his teammates ...