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Flying Solo

Charlie

It all comes downto this. The crowd is on their feet, cheering and hollering as if there’s no tomorrow. I take a deep breath, trying to block out the noise and focus on the task at hand.

I’m Charlie McManus. I’m a badass pitcher. I can play baseball in my sleep. I can also hit a curveball if I keep my head on straight and remember what Roy said. The rest will take care of itself.

Stepping up to the plate, I tighten my grip on the bat as I sling it over my shoulder. The pitcher eyes me warily; I eye him right back and anchor myself in the dirt.

The first pitch—a fastball—comes in hot. I don’t even think; I swing with all my might. The bat slices through empty air with a whoosh.Strike one.

I scowl, not liking the result one bit. But that’s okay. Not everyone scores a home run on their first swing. Shaking it off, I reset my feet in the batter’s box. I won’t let one missed pitch get in my head. The next onewillbe mine.

The pitcher winds up again, then sends a curveball my way. It dips low and away at the last second. I fight the natural urge to swing and am rewarded for my efforts.Ball one.

Asthe catcher throws a new ball out to the pitcher, I take the brief respite to scan the field. What I want is to send the ball between the second and third bases, straight into the outfield. That’ll give me the opportunity to make it to first, send Joe Bryce to third, and allow Javi Morales to come home.

Another mean fastball is thrown at me. As it inches closer, I already know that this is the one.

My hips rotate powerfully as my arm swings forward. When the ball meets the bat with a satisfying crack, it’s music to my ears.

The bat goes flying out of my hands, clattering somewhere behind me as I take off toward first base. My eyes stay locked on the ball—a perfect line drive slicing through the afternoon sun—as it hurtles deep into the outfield.

My long legs propel me forward, cleats digging into the packed dirt with each powerful stride. I barely register the burn in my quads and glutes because the only thing on my mind is not messing up this chance.

Reaching first, I risk a glance at the outfield. The center fielder lunges to make the catch, but it’s far enough out of reach that he lands face-first in the grass, empty-handed. Our first base coach urges me to keep running, so I do.

Knowing when to quit while I’m ahead, I come to a screeching halt at second base.

I bend over, hands on my knees, as I catch my breath. I did it. I came through in the clutch.

Suddenly, the pressure, the expectations, and the uncertainty are gone. In its place is pure joy for playing the game I love with the guys I’d go to war for.

For the tiniest of seconds, I let myself imagine what it might be like to do this for a living. And God, does it feel good.

After fieldinga few questions from the press, I hit the showers. Everyone is in full post-victory mode—we endedup winning 5-1. Jokes fly through the steamy air and more than one ass receives a celebratory slap. Javi Morales, our shortstop, starts singing a horribly off-key rendition of “We Are the Champions,” and it quickly turns into a choir of jocks.

And because this is New York, that song quickly turns into Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” complete with a dong-filled kick line.

Daniel nudges me with his elbow as he runs his fingers through his soapy hair. “You were on fire out there, man.”

I grab my bar of soap and wash under my arms. “It was a team effort.”

Daniel shakes his head, sending shampoo suds in every direction. “Don’t be so modest, Charlie. Those scouts couldn’t take their eyes off you.”

My stomach flip-flops at the word “scouts.” After all the worrying I’d been doing over the past few days, it all ended up being for naught.

I dominated out there. On the mound, at the plate. If they weren’t thinking of signing me come the summer, they certainly are now.

“Did you hear the crowd chanting your name?” Daniel continues. “They love you, man.”

It’s true—the chanting of my name was insane. I never expected anything like that, especially as a college player. Growing up, I focused on playing the game I loved. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine having real, honest-to-God fans who know my name and stats and want my autograph.

When I first arrived at Ashford, I was a nobody. A small-town kid way out of his depth at a big fancy college in New York. I was extremely nervous during those initial weeks of practice, terrified that I wouldn’t measure up to the other players who were all experienced and talented. I kept my head down, worked my butt off, and prayed no one would realize I had no idea what I was doing half the time.

But slowly, I found my groove. My pitching got more accurateand my batting more powerful. The coaches took notice, and I got more playing time. And somewhere along the way, I guess other people noticed too.

First, it was little kids running up to me after games, their eyes wide as they shyly asked for a high five or a selfie. I was blown away when it happened. Like, who am I to warrant that kind of attention and admiration?