Page 23 of Totally Played
I sit before it becomes an even more embarrassing situation. They reach the grass and gather behind the main singer, then dance a choreographed number like they’re in some kind of music video. I saw a few of the dances last night on the replay game, but Rachel was right, being here in person is so much better. The energy in the crowd is intoxicating, and like some lemming influenced by the mob around me, I’m singing along with them before the song is over.
Then the OG’s surround Calvin’s team, and the crowd erupts three times as loud.
“Wow, they’re popular,” I say to Rachel.
“Yeah, the OG’s have legacy fans from the birth of the sport. They’re hardcore. She nods to a section up and over from where we are. About fifty people are all wearing the OG yellow jerseys and hats and waving giant foam fingers with “OG #1” on them.
“Purple is more my color,” I say, and Rachel takes off her jacket, revealing a jersey like her brothers’, only it’s fitted and long like a dress.
“Mine, too,” she replies, hanging her jacket on the seatback. “I made this out of an extra-large jersey. Do you like it?”
“Wow, you’re so clever. I can’t sew a button on a shirt.”
She chuckles.
“I’m sure you could. It’s not that hard.”
“I have enough trouble picking what to wear, no way could I design a whole dress. You should give yourself some credit. It’s amazing.”
“There are a bunch of women doing the same thing now. If the clubs sold them we’d be able to buy them instead of having to create our own.”
“I’m sure what you’ve created looks better than anything they could come up with.”
“Thanks.” She blushes, and we turn our attention back to the players.
Calvin’s team is mostly jogging to the dugout as the OG team fans fan out across the field.
The first hitter, Rachel tells me, is John Morley, and he doesn’t even clip the ball before he’s out, and while the second hitter, Beau Hogan, manages to connect, it’s caught in center field and he’s sent back to the dugout, too.
Then the crowd starts to make quacking sounds.
“Quack, quack,” Rachel and her parents join in. The large screen zooms in on Brendan Grant, nicknamed Duckie, as he searches through a collection of bats off to the side of the field. Surely any one of them would be fine, I think, but apparently not. He shakes his head and jogs back to the dugout, returning a moment later with a bright yellow bat with ducks all over it. The crowd cheers as he playfully swings to the crowd before stepping into the box.
It’s a good show, but it won’t mean much if he can’t get a hit.
The pitcher sends a curveball right into the catcher’s glove a moment later.
Duckie doesn’t look concerned, waving to the crowd and tapping the side of his boot before preparing to swing again.
The pitcher lines up, the crowd falls silent, and then, as the ball is sent screaming toward him, he swings. It connects. The crowd is on their feet. Brendan is off like a shot to first, as the ball lands in the grass near the far stands and one of the outfielders scoops it and sends it toward second. Duckie is almost there. Why didn’t he stop at first? He slides, foot connecting with the base just before the ball connects.
“Safe,” the second base ump calls.
“Wooooo!” we cheer along with the fans. It’s not a point, but it’s a start.
Calvin steps onto the field, a mic in one hand and his bat in the other. He points the bat toward Duckie.
“You’re on my base,” he calls, and the second base ump steps closer so that Duckie can reply using his collar mic.
“Get me home and you can have it.”
“You got it,” he replies, tossing the mic to Tim, who’s waiting at the side, and then stepping into the box.
“Come onnnnn, come onnn,” I mutter, wringing my fingers in my lap.
“He’ll hit it,” Rachel says with a confidence in her tone I so hope is warranted. He managed a couple of good hits in the game we watched last night, so she might be right.
He glances my way just as the pitcher sends the ball, and it lands in the glove for the first strike.
