A Baseball Story

Hi: Breaking tradition, here's a 450-word story about a kid who loves baseball. Thanks for stopping by.
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The kid grew up on baseball. He played it, watched it, listened to it, had even been betrayed by it. He’d collected the cards and memorized the box stats. He always took his fielder’s glove to the games. Always.

The sport united the kid to his dad. Giants’ fans forever, both lived and died (mostly died) through June swoons and play-off autumns.

The kid respected the game and the players. But he had never tried to approach one. It wasn’t that he was afraid of them. It was more like he was in awe. Talk about the players? Sure. Talk to them? Never.

For his 16th birthday, he asked for, and miraculously received, not a car, but a ticket to Row 6, Seat 15 in the right-center field bleachers, a Friday-night game against the Diamondbacks at AT&T Park. And dad was going too.

The late-April game day arrived and they found their seats. The kid was ready with hat, glove, wind-breaker, sunflower seeds, and a secret weapon, just-in-case. For Number 25 was already at #713.

In his first at bat with one man on, Number 25 slapped a pitch by an Arizona ace into McCovey Cove. The crowd exploded. The big-screen score board flashed “714” and showed the soaked and lucky ball holder being escorted to safety by stadium security.

Number 25 walked in the fifth.

He came up to bat again in the seventh and drilled an outside pitch into the bleachers, four rows up and over the kid’s head. As he and his dad turned to see who would catch #715, the wave of hands and gloves broke too soon and slapped the ball back at the kid, right into his glove.

He fell to his knees, his dad protecting him. Security materialized to escort them out. The kid didn’t rise. He huddled over the ball, secret weapon in hand, doing what he had practiced many times in the last week.

Finally pulled to his feet, the kid and his dad were guided toward a lower exit. Number 25 came out for a second bow. The crowd roared. The big screen then switched cameras to show the kid on the steps as he reached into his glove, grabbed #715 and, with all his might, launched it back onto the field in the direction of the slugger. The crowd gasped, then thunderously applauded the kid’s generosity.

A single camera followed the ball as it slowly rolled toward the infield on the thick green grass, then stopped. Number 25 jogged over, bent down to pick it up. But he didn’t. The huge smile left his face. For the camera image on the big screen showed a white ball with red seams and in large, black, permanent ink, two asterisks: the kid’s unmistakable commentary on the hero’s achievement.