Throwing Like A Girl

“Batter up!” the umpire yelled at the bottom of the second inning. I hustled up to the plate and took my stance. The pitcher smirked at me and went into his pitch.

“Strike!” the ump said from behind me. Fair enough. I should’ve swung.

“C’mon, Bree!” I heard from the dugout. It was Jordan. I couldn’t help but smile as I waited for the next pitch.

“Ball!” It was way on the outside of the plate, and probably would’ve hit me if I batted lefty.

“Strike!” That was a cheap call. It was super low. The pitcher smirked at me again nonetheless, and went into his pitch.

All of a sudden, my upper back was throbbing and I heard a collective gasp from my team’s dugout. The pitcher had hit me with the ball.

“Take your base, number 5,” the ump told me. I clenched my teeth and tossed my bat toward the dugout, jogging lightly to first.

“Sorry,” the pitcher said unconvincingly, eying me as I went by. I eyed him back, and realized he was number 21.

“You good, Throckmorton?” the assistant coach who always coached first, Coach Anwar, asked me.

I nodded. “I’m good.”

“Okay, make sure to get your lead…”

It was odd to me, being able to leave the base before the pitch. In softball, I’d been trained to keep my foot on that base at all times, dammit.

I was the first batter of the inning, so I was the only one on base. Jesse batted after me, and after an iffy-called strike and a dropped ball that got me to second, he hit deep into the outfield and brought me home.

“Way to go, Bree,” Jordan told me as I passed him on my way to my part of the bench.

“Thanks,” I said. “I think he was the one who whistled at me earlier.” I gestured toward the pitcher.

“Asshole,” he muttered to me, patting my arm. “We’ll get him when he’s up to bat.”

And we did. When 21 went up to bat with two outs in the last inning, he made it to second, and stole third on one of the next batter’s dropped balls. Jordan flashed me a look before throwing the ball back to Evan and I took a few steps backward toward my base. I like to play third pretty close, so I can go for bunts and pick up grounders quickly, so I need to readjust a lot when I have a runner on my base or have a play coming to me.

I stepped right next to my base as Evan went into his windup.

“How’s your back, honey?” 21 asked in a mock-concerned voice, starting to creep toward home. I ignored him as Evan released the ball. He threw a strike that number 14 swung too early for and Jordan threw down to me, quick as lightning. 21 was diving for the base in an instant, and was already touching it when I went down to tag him.

“Nice try,” he smirked, getting up and dusting himself off. I rolled my eyes and threw the ball back to Evan.

Evan took his time before the next pitch, and I could feel myself getting edgy as I waited for him to throw. 21 was edging away from the base the entire time, taking what seemed like baby steps away, keeping his eyes on Evan. I could see Evan looking at 21 out of the corner of his eye and wondered if he was going to do what I thought he was going to do.

Sure enough, as soon as Evan seemed to think 21 was far enough away from the base, he turned on a dime and threw me the ball. 21 realized too late what was happening, and I tagged him in the stomach—glove-height for me and harder than was probably necessary—as he tried to scramble back to the base.

“Out!” the ump behind me called.

I smirked at 21. “How’s your stomach, honey?”

He glared at me, but jogged off the field. I tossed the ball back to Evan, who dropped it on the mound—since we were ahead, it was the winning out. As all the guys came in, they high-fived me or said something along the lines of “good job.” We circled up and gave the other team a cheer—“Panthers!”—then lined up and gave the obligatory “good game” and high five.

When I reached 21, I smiled extra brightly and slapped his hand extra hard. “Good game,” I told him emphatically.

“Good game,” he muttered back, not meeting my eye.

I heard chuckling behind me and glanced back to find Evan grinning at me. We returned to the dugout to pack up our stuff and head back to the dorms. Or so I thought.

“Alright guys, what’ll it be tonight?” Coach asked. “Pizza or Mexican?”

“Wait, what?” I asked, grabbing Jordan’s sleeve. “What is he talking about?”

“We won, we’re going out to eat,” Jordan explained, tossing his cleats in his bag and pulling out his Vans.

“Mexican it is,” Coach Hastings said, taking off his baseball hat. “Get a move on, guys!”

I took a deep breath to keep some expletives from escaping my mouth. I had math busywork to finish up, since my teacher had decided he hadn’t piled up enough homework on us in the past few weeks.

“Do we change first?” I muttered to Jordan.

“Yeah, but make it quick,” he replied, already heading for the locker rooms rather quickly.

“Damn,” I muttered, slinging my bag over my shoulder and hurrying after him.

In the locker room, I realized that I could choose between wearing my school uniform (the typical plaid skirt and button-up shirt, with the optional sweater vest or blazer) or whatever happened to be left in my locker—flip flops, black practice shorts, and a thin white sweatshirt with the outlines of black hearts on it. That sounded better than the alternative, so I stripped out of my baseball uniform, except for my white undershirt, freshened up with deodorant and perfume, got dressed, and fixed my drooping ponytail. Then I shoved a twenty dollar bill and my phone into my hoodie pocket and left the locker room.

Only about half the team was gathered in the hallway in front of the coaches’ offices, so I stood next to Jordan as we waited for the rest of the guys, smiling in the wake of our post-victory euphoric high. We didn’t really talk—I think we were both near-exhausted after being out in the California sun for seven innings. When the rest of the guys trickled out, most in jeans and plain t-shirts, we piled into two of the school’s passenger vans and headed to the apparently traditional Mexican restaurant.