Last Ups

Last Ups

By Alex Putterman

Most likely, he alone recognized the stakes.

To the others—his teammates, their parents, the coach slouched along the third-base line—this was another at-bat at the close of a junior varsity baseball schedule that all were ready to see over. The score today was 9-1 in favor of the wrong team, with maybe one more inning to play before darkness ended the season. Dinner waited at home. It was time for a few more swings, then a line of handshakes.

To him, though, this was momentous. Here, with one man out and no one on base, he would take the last at-bat of his baseball career.

He’d been lucky to make the JV team, first as a sophomore, now as junior, but held little shot to crack the varsity next year. “You’ve had a good run,” the coach had told him last week, averting his eyes. He wasn’t sure he’d even try out.

That meant this was it. Years of throwing, catching, swinging, and running would end this afternoon.

As far as he could see, the opposing pitcher was no good. He’d entered last inning and walked two batters. He threw softer, probably, than anyone they’d faced all year. Against him, even the lightest hitting wannabe second basement had a shot.

And so that wannabe second basemen entered the batter’s box with hope. He touched the far end of home plate with his bat, then mimed a half-swing. The pitcher dragged back his elbow and tossed his first pitch. It was low, but the umpire stuck out his arm anyway. No balls, one strike.

He had begun playing baseball at age six, when his mom had bought him a glove and softened it with baby oil. He’d spent hours in his backyard, tossing a ball off a wall or a pitchback net, inventing drills and imagining games. He soon signed up for Little League and savored each time he pulled on those strange gray pants. The dirt, the grass, the satisfying thud of ball in glove. He’d banter with teammates at weeknight practices, then race home to catch the 7 p.m. games on TV.

Now the pitcher stepped toward the plate again. This time, he left the ball high. One ball, one strike.

He was never the best player, not the worst. He rarely struck out or made errors but just as rarely hit the ball past the infield. While teammates honed their swings with personal coaches at fancy batting cages, he had little interest. He wanted to play, no more and no less.

Sometimes, he envied the more talented players. Like his friend the varsity shortstop, who captained the soccer team in the fall and led the basketball team in the winter, then grabbed his glove in March and instantly became the best one on the field. Who didn’t watch the game, didn’t think about the game, didn’t care about the game, but excelled at it anyway.

The next pitch was low like the first, and this time he swung, tipping the ball back behind him. One ball, two strikes.

Players like him knew a special type of frustration. The type that comes when you understand the sport far better than you can play it. You know how to read a pitcher’s delivery but can’t run fast enough to steal second. You know which base to throw to, but can’t find it with accuracy. You can name more members of the 1960 Pittsburgh Pirates than any teenager should – which, of course, means nothing at all in the batter’s box.

So although in this moment he knew the pitcher would try a curveball, that didn’t mean he would manage to hit it. If he’d ever squared up a curveball in his life, he couldn’t remember. Most often, he’d swung early and failed, then ignored the giggles from his own team’s bench. Not today, though. His baseball career wouldn’t end in that brand of embarrassment. He’d watch the curveball and hope it bounced before the plate.

The pitcher delivered, and sure enough the red and white orb began to spin. Down, down, down—down into the dirt. Two balls, two strikes.

In truth, he hadn’t been entirely focused this season. He liked a girl in his English glass, and most days she seemed to like him too. But there was another boy who sat at a cooler lunch table, and she flirted with him just as much. The end-of-year dance was barely a month away and…well, baseball had recently seemed less important.

The pitcher reared back again, and this time the toss was right where he liked it, level with his thighs on the inside half of home plate. He pulled the bat across the strike zone and felt the ball kiss the faded logo on the barrel.

Crack. The sound every hitter dreamed of hearing.

He knew in an instant that he’d done something special, something he’d never done before. Racing toward first base, he glimpsed the left fielder turn and look up. He saw the ball hit the grass, deep into the fenceless outfield. He sped his stride, sensing a double or even triple. He buried his head and sprinted. In that moment, he felt like he could run forever.

He had nearly passed second base when the umpire finally corralled his attention. The ball—after its odyssey deep into the left field sky—had landed just foul. His farthest ever hit would count for nothing at all.

As he jogged back to the batter’s box, he heard a teammate laugh on the bench. “I didn’t know he had that in him.” He smiled. He hadn’t known either. Hadn’t known, all these years, he could do something like that. That he could feel, however briefly, like some sort of star.

He would have reveled in his foul ball for hours. Would have stood and smiled and mourned and maybe laughed at himself for sprinting halfway around the diamond for a hit that didn’t count. He would have basked in the murmur of the crowd and the chatter on his team’s bench, would have recounted and reenacted his near-triumph for anyone who asked. The pitcher, though, was ready to trudge ahead. The lanky teenager stepped toward the plate and delivered another soft, thigh-high toss, nearly identical to the last.

He lifted his foot slightly and cocked his hands. He shifted his hips and whipped his bat toward the strike zone. He locked his eyes downward. The ball zipped toward him. He pulled his hands through the strike zone.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Before he could step back from the plate, the catcher flipped the ball toward third base in casual celebration. The next batter advanced toward the plate. “Two outs,” someone yelled.

This was the tenth most-read piece of 2022.

Alex Putterman is a newspaper reporter in Hartford, Connecticut and a lifelong baseball fan. While his writing and reporting have appeared in publications including The Atlantic, MLB.com and the Hartford Courant, this is his debut work of short fiction.

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