Sweat, Grit, and Strike Three!

Sweat beading on the tip of my nose, I squint across the diamond of red clay for the score. Suddenly, worn out funeral fan thrusts itself into my line of vision. “Do you need this?” my Mama inquires, waving the fan in front of my face. A gnat lands on the corner of my nose on a mission, climbing upward towards my left nostril. I twitch but it makes no move to fly away. "Fwap!" The nasty fan lands hard. “Oww! Jeez, Mama!” Giggling, she tucks it away--the remains of south Georgia's tiniest mascot in repose.

I love watching my brother, Bud, when he’s on the mound. It amazes me how such a goofy, gangly being can move with the concentration, rhythm and agility akin to a ballerina as he eases his lanky frame into a windup for a fastball.

The symphony begins, the tension striking a chord. Bud draws in a measured breath. Long fingers stretch taut around the ball like the strings of a fine-tuned instrument sensing a pivotal note approaching. Brow furrowing, upper lip drawn back and a full row of shiny white teeth on display, he tilts his head ever so slightly to the right, communicating silently with the catcher, the neurons firing as they calculate together the accuracy and speed of the energy about to be unleashed.

Spectators perch on the ends of their seats. The first and third baseline crew (consisting mostly of family members) lean forward in our cheap beach chairs, waiting with baited breath. 

Bud leans forward, eyes zeroed in on his prey now crouched at the plate, bat in hand, sweat dripping from his chin.  We watch, transfixed, as the ball rolls eagerly behind my brother’s back, arm poised and ready for the runner on first base as he gingerly creeps off the bag towards second. In one fluid motion, a decision is made. The tension is finally released. 

We exhale, the ball catapulting towards a resolution between the batter’s skill and Bud’s calculations.  The soul satisfying sound of a solid “thwack!” is emitted from the catcher’s mitt. “Steerriiiiiike!” The most beautiful word barely heard over my Mama screaming next to me--her score book, funeral fan, and chair thrown aside in the midst of her rapture. A tribal, unearthly sound pushes its way past my lips as I cling onto the fence, yelling my brother’s name.

A hand grips the back of my sweat-stained shirt and I realize that one foot is already on its way towards climbing over and running onto the field. My father, the pacer and stander for most of the game, lets out an ear piercing whistle. Everyone is hugging, crying, shouting “hot damn!” and slapping each other on the back as the team runs from the dugout in one feverish stampede towards the middle of the field.

Chunks of lime infused red clay fly through the air as the boys collapse together in one large heap–rolling, laughing, and crying in the aftermath of such sweet and hard-earned victory. A fine dust gently rains down and softly settles into the rims of Coke cans, hair, and down into all our sweaty crevasses–yet no one bats an eye. We breathe it all in, watching the boys as they drag themselves up from the ground to form a line. My brother looks each player from the opposing team in the eye as he shakes their hands--his uniform, face, and hands now caked with the red clay which bore witness to this triumph. In my peripheral, I notice a scout sitting behind home plate nodding with approval.

My brother just pitched a shutout game. Another "no-hitter" hits the books.

As the team trots back into the dugout, my brother looks toward our small “VIP section” with the full disarray on display, shakes his head, and grins--the toothy grin a stark contrast against his now rust-colored face.

Exclamations of “That’s my boy!” and “Yuh done good, son!” fill the air as celebratory supper choices are made en route to the parking lot. My brother stays behind, helping to reset the playing field. After packing ice onto his arm and gathering up his bag, Bud finally catches up to us. Calm as a cucumber, he walks with us to the parking lot, every once of tension now completely spent. We laugh together, touching on certain points of the game during which Mama or Grandmama could be heard yelling at the umpires and coaches.

I turn back and look at the field once more at the red clay. The essence that bears witness to the best and worst parts of us while also bringing us together. We relish in the grit, joy, and tears--the full catharsis. Time and time again.