$#|+ ... at that moment, the batter just hit a pop fly.
I remember where the bat was when the ball hit it; even today. So, too, do I remember the hitter - and everyone else in the park - start to look in my direction. I even remember the hollow thud the bat made when it hit the ball.
I took a step back: for the first thing they say to all right fielders in their first year, in baseball speak, was to "keep everything in front of" me. My first reaction, while it was still in my head, was to turn to run back while keeping my eyes - or what's left of them - on the ball behind me; the one the sun won’t let me see. I started to turn to run behind me; towards the right-center field fence.
But then I remembered remembering the sorrowful noise the ball/bat made when ...
I saw It.
For only a split second, I saw the ball peek out at me, as it rose above the sun. And then, after a split moment, it was gone again.
Really, no one who knows what they're doing thinks about such things while watching them. They just do. But for me, for the first time in my eleven-year life, all those things, all those baseball clues, while they happened, told me:
The ball is IN FRONT OF YOU, RICK!
At that moment I realized how this all works. If the ball stayed in the sun for awhile, its a solid line drive; which means, I'm ducked.
But it didn't. It was hit high; meaning it wasn't hit far or, more importantly, over my head. I was so pleased beyond words at this physics realization, to finally achieve this much baseball zen in the last inning of my first year of real baseball. So joyful I was to finally know something, instead of always learning, that I ran faster than I had ever run before. Even though I *no idea* where the ball was going to land, I ran like I *was* the wind! I thought: I would be better able to figure that out when I got there; thus more outfield self-realization.
And so it was, for when I reached my destination, I could finally see where I was going. And sure enough, out of the blinding sky, I saw the ball fall to Earth, right in front of me. And I made myself see the baseball mitt I had on right under it.
Like a dream.
The next thing I remember was our first baseman, Steve "Don" Juanes, picking me up. Not because I had fallen. Because if he didn't catch me, I would've run right into his chest. I was at least ten- to twelve-feet away from the infield dirt when he caught me or when I ran into him. He ran all the way out there to catch the dam thing himself or to be quite cross with me if I didn't.
The newsletter guy - Gary Piazza, Kiwanis Club manager, I believe - called it an "ice-cream scoop catch".
.
Sadly, I don't remember anything else about that evening. Not even what I said or what was said to me by Coach Juanes.
But I thank him for that moment.
Always.
.
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