When his left hand released the ball, it flew by at a speed so quick I could barely make out anything but a white blur. The sound of the ball impacting against the catcher’s mitt was so loud it echoed against the backstop. The batter stepped out from the batter’s box and looked nervously at his coach before stepping back in. Two more pitches screamed by and that was out number one of the night.
“Strike three! You’re out!” the umpire shouted enthusiastically and the crowd cheered wildly.
The scouts in the stands huddled together, comparing the red “ 97 94 ” digital readout on their radar gun screens.
“Holy shit, that was ninety- seven four miles an hour,” I said out loud, my mouth slightly open.
“I told you he’s good.”
I focused my camera on the pitching mound, with Jack’s feet and the bottom of his glove dangling in the viewfinder. Click. Then I moved the lens up to view his bare left hand, gripping the baseball between three fingers, the red-stitched seam barely visible. Click. He brought his glove up to his face and all features except his brown eyes disappeared behind it. Click. His face twisted as he released the powerful pitch, his eyes never leaving their target. Click. Sweaty dark hair briefly saw light as Jack removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Click.
When the inning ended, I watched Jack jog off the field and into the dugout, never once looking into the stands. He instantly reappeared, a dark blue helmet on his head, two bats in hand. He swung the bats around like a windmill, stretching his shoulders. And when he bent over to stretch his hamstrings, girlish screams filled the air, along with flashes of light.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I shook my head, looking around at the people taking pictures.
“Spectacle,” was all Melissa said with a laugh.
Jack stepped around home plate and into the batter’s box, his demeanor completely relaxed. Since he was left-handed, the front of him was in full view, as opposed to the back of all the right-handed hitters. I started to grab my camera, but then shoved it back on my lap instead. I had enough pictures of Jack for one night.
The opposing pitcher went through his motion and as he released the ball, Jack took a small step forward before his hips twisted with his swing. The ping of the ball against the metal bat quickly disappeared amidst all the cheering. Jack easily rounded first base and picked up speed as he raced toward second. The outfielder fired the ball at the shortstop as Jack slid headfirst into the bag, a cloud of dust encircling him.
“Safe!” The umpire shouted his call, his arms outstretched on either side of his body.
Jack planted both feet on top of the dusty base and brushed the dirt off his chest before dipping down the belt of his pants and allowing clumps of dirt to fall out. I was completely turned on.
I suck, I suck, I suck.
I overheard one scout ask another, “What did you clock him to first?” Referring to Jack’s base running speed from home plate to first base.
The other scout glanced at his stopwatch. “Four point one.” The first scout nodded his head in agreement and scribbled down more notes.
The photographer in me couldn’t hold out any longer. I zoomed in on Jack’s hands, now covered in batting gloves as he stepped away from second base with three long strides. Click. The dark of his eyes, now shadowed from his helmet, gave him an almost ominous appearance. Click.
“Gonna make a Jack photo album for yourself later?” Melissa flicked a finger at my shoulder as she teased me.
“You’re the one who said I needed to work on my action shots!” I whisper-shouted.
“I didn’t say they all had to be of Jack.”
“Shit.” I snapped the lens cap on and quickly flipped the power button into the Off position, where it stayed for the remainder of the game.
When it finally ended, Jack had pitched all nine innings and only gave up one run and three hits. The final score was eight to one, us. I grabbed my camera and shoved it into my purse before looking back at the team celebrating on the field. The coach pulled Jack aside and escorted him over to the press area where he was besieged by reporters, scouts, and fans.
Jack glanced up from the field and directly into my eyes. That single look stopped me in my tracks, and I was slammed into by the man walking behind me. Jack smiled and turned his attention back toward the cameras and journalists.
FOUR
I strolled through the tree-lined campus, following the cement pathway that would eventually lead me to the Trunk offices. I’d joined the award-winning student-run magazine at the insistence of my visual communications professor. Even though I was required to take writing classes with my major, my focus was on the visual reporting side of things. I yearned to improve my craft, bringing life-changing visuals to accompanying articles.