Final Game

By Donna Gamache

Blessed is the man that endureth temptation (James 1:12).

“Go, Monarchs, go!” shouted a voice from the stands as our team took the field for the first inning. It was the last game of the regular baseball season, and the most important game of the summer for our team, the Mid-Town Monarchs. We were tied for first place with the South-End Satellites, and whoever won would get the league championship trophy.

“We just have to win, Tim,” my best friend, Ryan, shouted at me as we headed for the field. He played center field, and I was in left field. We always backed each other up if the ball came our way.

“So let’s do it,” I shouted back.

We’d never won the league championship before. In fact, until this year, we hadn’t even won many games. But this year was different, partly because we’d gained experience and skills over the last three years, partly because of luck, but mostly because we had a new player, Jay Dunwoody, who had moved to our part of town last winter. Other years, we hadn’t had a good pitcher, but Jay was about the best twelve-year-old pitcher around.

Jay was really keen to win. When baseball season started and he discovered our team wasn’t very strong, he organized extra practices, beyond what Coach Burnell called. Jay became our self-elected captain, and when the coach made him official captain, we didn’t mind, even though he was the new boy.

“Strike ’em out, Jay,” I called to him now as we went to our positions in the field. I hoped that things would go right for us.

They did, at first. Jay struck out the first two batters, and the third one popped out to the shortstop. Then, on our turn at bat, we scored two runs.

But in the second inning, the Satellites’ first baseman belted a home run over Ryan’s head. Although there was no way that he could have reached it, I knew that Ryan was upset.

The next batter sent a hard ground ball toward me. Just as I reached for it, the ball struck a bump on the field and bounced over my glove. I retrieved the ball, but the batter reached third. Later our second baseman fumbled a fly ball, and two runners scored, putting the Satellites ahead, 3–2.

“What’s wrong with you guys in the field?” Jay grumbled when we went in for our second at bat. “I can’t win this game alone.”

“Take it easy, Jay,” Coach Burnell interrupted. “Those were honest errors. Maybe everybody’s trying too hard. We need to relax.”

“That first baseman is good,” Ryan muttered.

“Yes,” the coach agreed. “He can hit as well as play his position. We’ll have to watch him. Now, let’s settle down and play ball.”

That’s just what we did. We didn’t score any more runs for the next few innings, but we did stop the Satellites, and Ryan and I each caught a tricky fly ball, which helped make up for our earlier bad luck.

By the sixth inning, the score was still 3–2, and the tension was mounting. I could feel my stomach knotting, and the shouts from the crowd didn’t help.

As our first batter went to the plate, Jay called me aside. “You’ll be up third this inning. If you hit it, Tim,” he said quietly, “run into that first baseman. Knock him down and shake him up. Or step on his foot with your cleats. If he’s hurt, he won’t be able to play. He’s due to bat again. But if he can’t play, their whole team might give up.”

“We don’t play like that,” I started to protest, but Jay stopped me.

“Did you ever win the league championship before? Were you even close?”

I shook my head.

“Then listen to me. And don’t go running to Coach Burnell. I can’t win this game alone. But if you do what I say, you can really help.”

“Why me?”

“You’re the biggest guy on our team. And you can make it look like an accident.”

He walked away. The knot in my stomach was a lot worse, and I felt almost like throwing up. I didn’t want to do what he said, but, boy, did I want to win! And I knew that our whole team felt the same. After three years of finishing almost last, it would feel so good to finish first.

“Go, Monarchs, go,” called a voice from the stands that I knew was my mother’s. She was my biggest fan, and she was counting on a victory. Even my little sister had come to watch. I just had to do what I could to win this game.

“Tim, up to bat,” shouted the coach, and I realized that our first two batters had both struck out.

“Go for it, Tim,” called Jay. “Do what you can.”

I took a deep breath, and when the first pitch came, I was ready. Wham! The ball sailed past the pitcher. Dropping the bat, I sped for first.

I felt as if everything was in slow motion. With one eye, I watched the second baseman running to get the ball on a bounce. With the other, I saw the first baseman toeing the bag, to receive the throw. And the ball was going to beat me! But if I did what Jay wanted, I could still help, and maybe we’d have a chance.

I was sure that I could knock the guy over if I charged into him. He wasn’t very big. Or I could jump on his foot with my cleats. Nobody would know it wasn’t an accident. Nobody but Jay and me.

But suddenly, almost as if the slow motion stopped, I decided that it wasn’t that important to win. It was only a game, not a life and death struggle.

The ball smacked into the first baseman’s glove just before I reached the base. I sailed past without touching him.

“You’re out!” shouted the base umpire, and I headed for the bench to get my glove.

“You didn’t even try it,” Jay snarled as I went past him. “Don’t you want to win?”

I stopped. “I want to win, all right,” I told him. “Just as much as you do. But not that way.”

After that, the last inning sped by, and that was the end of us.

But when the game was over, when the Satellites lined up to accept the trophy, I felt good. We Monarchs had had a good season and finished second, and that was OK. Maybe Jay couldn’t understand, but from the grin on Ryan’s face, I figured that he felt the way I did.

Illustrated by Mick Reasor