The Home Run King Only Swings for Me

The boos from forty thousand people started three seconds after I stood up.

Bottom of the ninth, down by one, bases loaded, two outs. All Leo needed was a single hit and we'd take the lead.

My seat was at the far end of the dugout, closest to the tunnel. The first row of the infield stands was right above me.

He'd already stepped into the batter's box and was raising his right hand, about to flash the signal that only the two of us understood.

That was when every single comment across my vision turned red.

[This is the one! One swing and his right wrist is done for!]

[Stop him! Stop him now!]

My head buzzed.

If we lost this game, we still had next week's Wild Card Game.

But if that hand gave out here, there wouldn't be another game after this.

Just before his fingers touched the wristband, I stood up.

I held out two fingers, pressed them hard against my own wrist, and pushed down.

It was our signal in reverse. Stop. Don't swing. Keep the bat on your shoulder.

Across the sea of people, Leo stared at me.

The hand gripping the bat trembled slightly. I could almost see the struggle in his eyes.

He knew what the reversed signal meant, and he knew what forty thousand people were waiting for.

On one side, the swing that forty thousand people were counting on, the one that would cement his legend.

On the other side, me.

The pitcher took the mound. The roar of forty thousand voices crashed down in waves.

In the entire stadium, I was the only one going against the crowd.

First pitch, strike, he didn't move. Second pitch, strike, he still didn't move.

He stood rigid and watched the ball fly past him without swinging once.

The instant the third strike slammed into the catcher's mitt, the umpire's hand shot up.

Strikeout. Out. Game over.

He never swung. Not once.

We lost.

The score sat frozen on the board, so glaring I could hardly breathe.

The stadium went deathly silent. Then boos crashed down from every side.

The jumbotron camera landed squarely on my face, and forty thousand pairs of eyes followed the screen and bore down on me all at once.

Someone in the front row above me stood up and screamed at me to get lost.

The commentator's voice came through the speakers, every word landing like a blow.

The commentator said one gesture from the team's female doctor had distracted their king when it mattered most.

The booing rose in waves, each one louder than the last, all crashing down on me.

Someone hurled a popcorn bucket at the railing, scattering paper scraps everywhere.

I'd imagined ten thousand ways people might curse me out, but never this one.

Every word they screamed at me, I couldn't answer a single one.

I stood frozen, tears burning in my eyes, clenching my teeth to keep them from falling.

On the far side of the field, Leo took off his helmet. But instead of heading for the players' tunnel, he turned against the crowd and walked toward me, one step at a time.

The booing from forty thousand people followed him the whole way.

He stopped in front of me and, right there before everyone, reached out and shielded me behind him.

His palm was burning hot, still warm from gripping the bat.

He didn't look at the people shouting at me. He only looked down at me.

His voice was hoarse, so low only I could hear. "As long as I still have this hand, losing this one means we'll have another chance. But we can't afford to lose the Wild Card Game."

Then he pushed his helmet into my hands and led me out through the wall of boos.

Only then did I realize that the right hand gripping my shoulder had been shaking the entire time.

He didn't say a word the entire walk back through the tunnel. He didn't let go of my hand until we reached the dugout.

He immediately tucked that right hand into his jacket pocket.

That night, the whole city believed I was the reason their king had fallen.

No one knew that his right wrist had already fractured during the last game of the previous season.

No one knew he'd asked me to keep it secret.

And no one knew why I'd agreed.

What I hadn't expected was the last line the comments put out that night.

[Don't be sad just yet.]

[Tomorrow morning, someone's going to cross your name off the list.]