The Slide

by Bob Stanley

(Note: Bob Stanley is Sacramento's current Poet Laureate. Among other things.)

The whole thing only took about fifteen seconds. The rib, whether or not it was broken, is less painful every day. The cut on my cheek is healed, still a little slick, a little red where the skin is filling in, but the scab is off. The season is over, we didn’t win a championship t-shirt this year, but I still remember the one play as if it just happened. I replayed it over and over in my mind, for the first few days, and it still stays with me now, nearly two weeks later. I think it will for a long time.

I first sensed we would come back and win while I sat on the bench, even though we were behind by seven runs. The team we were playing had crushed us, 20 to 1, a few weeks before, and we were behind 13 to 6 at the time. For some reason I mumbled to nobody in particular, “We have a really solid team tonight.” I wasn’t sure why, but there it was, some vague confidence bubbling to the surface.

The story really doesn’t begin until my second run-scoring double, when I stood on second base in the cool October night. Not that those two doubles weren’t an accomplishment in themselves, I just fused determination – stance, elbows, eyes, hands gripping the bat – with concentration – staying with the ball until and after contact – to drive it into the gap in right. I'm not sure if I ever worked so hard for a hit and had it come out so right. Surprised myself, I did.

So here I am on second. Sullivan’s on third, we’re down by one, one out in the bottom of the last inning. Almost like Casey at the bat: “There was Jimmy safe at second, and Flynn a huggin’ third.” Sullivan to tie, Stanley to win. Thirteen-Twelve. On the very first pitch, the batter lofts an easy fly to medium left-center. After the catch, Sully tags and scores, I tag and dance halfway towards third. When the ball scoots past and under the catcher, I quicken my pace, continuing toward third, when our story begins.

To Be Concluded