At Least They're Committed

I’m sitting in the dugout looking across the field at the opposing team. The game’s over, for that matter, the season’s over and the only reason both teams are still here is because it’s time for our annual assessment and rah-rah trip to Pizza Hut. We’d tied with the Governors in the championship game, tied because the league doesn’t believe in extra innings. At least they let us keep score now, up until third grade they didn’t even do that.

I’m brought back to my senses when, on my right, Penelope nudges me in the ribs. The only other girl on the team, she’s new this year. “How’d it go? I’m nervous!” I look down at the silver medal around my neck and the certificate that says, Your (sic) a winner, great job this season!

“Nothing to be worried about, seriously. You rocked it this season,” I say. On my left, Jack nods his head and shrugs, running his hand over his silver medal, folding his certificate and stuffing it in his duffle bag. He’s been through this more than I have; he’s been on the team since Kindergarten, I joined in first grade.

Garth nearly skips out of his assessment, proudly wearing his silver medal and flapping his certificate in front of our faces. Jack grumbles, “Yeah, dude, we got it. We all got it.”

Coach calls Trevor into the makeshift clubhouse. He looks at me and rolls his eyes. Trevor’s tough. He’s a tight player who seldom misses a play, but he bites. He can be hyper-critical of teammates in the heat of the moment and I’m not the only one to feel the sting of his words. But, damn, the guy is a good player and he works hard, stays after practice to take a few more swings, work on his fielding. A lot of us do that. A lot of the guys put in the extra time, trying to improve our game, take it up a notch, ya know?

Across the field, in the Governors’ dugout, I see Steve storm away from his coach, arms crossed, angry. No medal, he just got a certificate of participation. I chuckle a little because Steve, like Garth, seldom showed up for practice and infrequently made it to the game and by god the rest of the team was relieved by his absence because the kid never failed to make an error. Too bad for him they don’t give medals for most errors.

My friend Finny, the Governors’ star second baseman, well he sees me looking and waves. I smile and wave back. And when he holds up his gold medal from across the field I stand and applaud and so does Jack. Finny takes an exaggerated bow and we laugh.

I’m not as good as Finny and I never will be. This season I’d missed some swings I should have hit, I think my stance might have been a bit jacked and I was holding the bat a bit high. Each time I looked at Coach, like, what should I do? Like, how do I fix this? He clapped encouragingly.

Trevor comes out of the “clubhouse” with his silver medal and winner cert and plops next to his best friend, our star player, Denard. Denard, man, he’s amazing. Like, making the big league, going to the show one day. They wide-eyed, mockingly compare silver medals and do an exaggerated high-five, toss aside their certificates then sit back and wait for the trip to Pizza Hut.

Penelope emerges with her silver medal and shrugs and the team rises together, grabbing duffle bags and heading to the school bus to head for our yearly Pizza Hut “triumph” lunch.

I look back a moment before I step onto the bus, Finny waves and holds up his cell, “Tonight?” he yells and I’m looking forward to hitting a few rounds with him before sunset. But I see something else. Denard . . . the Govs’ coach has motioned him over and our wiry star is jogging toward the other bench. And I wonder if Coach will notice.

I know I’m a pretty good, but I could do better, I just need a little guidance is all. Everyone gets a silver medal. Wouldn’t want to damage anyone’s self esteem, right? Or maybe it’s just easier.