Page 183 of Left on Base

By the time the first pitch leaves Camdyn’s hand, Devon Park is a living, breathing madhouse.

King is vibrating with excitement, stats app open, narrating softly. Fork Guy is already on his second “official” hot dog and third “unofficial” snack (he claims the nachos were “for Brody,” but Brody is currently trading pins with a grandma from Norman). I try to block them out and just watch her.

By the third inning, Fork Guy has somehow befriended the entire row behind us—a youth baseball team from Tulsa (all with forks tucked behind their ears “for luck”), two security guards, and Steve, who’s now passionately explaining kettle corn economics. Brody is back too—still dual-wielding, still living his best life.

I turn to Fork Guy. “We’re not keeping the kid. You’re leaving him here in Oklahoma.”

Fork Guy levels me with a serious look. “He’s from Florida.”

Why that matters, I have no idea.

“Fork Guy!” a voice shouts from two sections over. “You want my extra nachos?”

Fork Guy immediately takes them up on the offer. Minutes later, he’s back, arms loaded with snacks, and a small crowd has started chanting “FORK GUY! FORK GUY!” every time the stadium does a giveaway.

I wonder if I should regret bringing him. Is this what losing control of your life feels like? On the other hand, without Fork Guy’s food tour, new friendships, and crowd work, I’d be a mess right now. I can’t tell if I’m grateful for the distraction or if I should apologize to the state of Oklahoma.

The game is a seesaw. Oklahoma scratches out a run in the third. UW ties it in the fourth on a bloop single. Camdyn is dealing—movement on her drop ball filthy, rise ball impossible to lay off. She’s sweating, breathing hard, but you can see it—she wants this more than anyone.

Fork Guy starts a chant: “LET’S GO CAM!” The entire section joins in, Brody waving a homemade sign that says, “MY MOM FOUND ME. GO UW!”

Fifth inning, UW down 3-2. Two outs, bases empty. Camdyn steps in. The crowd is buzzing, but for me everything narrows—just her, bat on her shoulder, jaw set.

First pitch, ball one. Second pitch—a fastball low and inside. She turns on it, and time stops. The crack is so pure, so loud, it echoes off the stadium roof. Left fielder drifts back, back—runs out of room.

Gone.

Tie game.

King is screaming, hugging everyone in sight. Fork Guy dumps lemonade over his own head, then throws his visor into the air, nearly decapitating a popcorn vendor. Brody starts the worm down the aisle. I just sit there, grinning like an idiot, watching Camdyn round the bases—head high, smiling for the first time all game.

Sixth inning. Both teams threaten, nobody scores. Fork Guy is now running stats on napkins for everyone in our section. “Probability of Camdyn being a superhuman: high. Probability of me finishing this tray of nachos: also high.”

Seventh inning. Tied 3-3, two outs, UW has a runner on third. Brynn at the plate. She fouls off three straight pitches. The tension is unbearable; King looks like he’s about to faint.

Brynn lines a single up the middle. Runner scores. 4-3, UW.

The bottom of the seventh is agony. Oklahoma puts two on, one out. Camdyn digs in, eyes sharp. She gets a pop-up. Two down. The stadium is roaring—half crimson, half purple. Last batter, OU’s best hitter.

Fork Guy is standing on his chair, arms raised, leading our whole section in a bizarre, off-key softball cheer I think he Googled. King is muttering, “Just one more. Just one more,” and I can barely breathe.

When you’ve played the game as long as Camdyn and I have, these are the moments you dream about. Sometimes you get there and it all falls apart right before your eyes. You never know when everything will finally fall into place and that dream becomes reality.

Camdyn shakes off the first two pitch calls, then nods to the third. I watch her breathe in, blink slowly, step back, and wind up. First pitch, swinging strike. Next pitch, outside, ball one. Third pitch—a changeup, perfectly placed. Swing and a miss. The place is shaking. Fourth pitch, ball, low. Still have two balls to work with.

One strike away.

Camdyn takes a breath. Shakes off another pitch, then sets. Delivers.

Rise ball, just above the hands. Hitter chases. Strike three.

Game over.

UW wins the College World Series for the first time in history, 4-3 over Oklahoma.

Chaos erupts. King hugs strangers, Fork Guy is crowd-surfing (I have no idea how this started, but two dads in Sooner hats are helping), Brody’s trying to find a security guard to high-five. I stand there, watching Camdyn leap into her teammates’ arms, her face pure joy. She’s never looked more alive.

She finds me in the stands, eyes shining, and I lose it—cheering, yelling, not caring who hears. All the nerves, the waiting, the not-knowing—gone. She did it.

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