Page 51 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)
One. More. Out.
Coach calls for time and starts walking out to the circle after the umpire stops play. I jog up to where Erica is filling in the line she’s dug with her drag toe. The rest of the infielders converge on the circle, knowing that Coach only has a few seconds to discuss the next play with us.
“Erica, you’re doing great.”
Erica’s sharp nod indicates she disagrees but doesn’t want to argue with Coach when time is precious.
“You have a whole team of top-tier talent behind you. Use them.”
Erica lifts her chin in acknowledgment. She walked the last batter, and the two runners on base—the tying run and the winning run—advanced to scoring position on a rise ball that got away from her during this at-bat.
“Let’s end this right here, ladies.” Coach claps, and the umpire signals that our last timeout is over. The infielders tap Erica’s shoulders with their gloves before jogging back to their positions, and I cover my mouth with mine .
“Take her inside,” is all I say before jogging back to my position behind the plate.
The home plate umpire gives Erica the go-ahead to pitch again, and the batter steps back into the box. I nod just enough for Erica to see and shift my weight into my left leg as Erica goes into her wind up.
Erica’s curveball meets the opposing player’s bat and takes off like a rocket in a line drive to the left side of the field.
I step in front of the plate and watch in what feels like slow motion as the ball hits the dirt in a shallow bounce.
But the glove of our shortstop materializes, stopping the yellow ball from making it into the outfield and ending the game.
She recovers from her dive and launches the ball toward first base from her knees.
Ninety feet has never looked so far.
The runner on third barrels toward me while the yellow ball flies through the air toward our first baseman, who’s stretched out to receive it.
In a game of seconds, this throw takes hours.
Until the ball smacks into the first baseman’s glove a step before the batter touches the base.
The umpire signals the out.
Team USA has won gold.
I pull my mask off as I run to the circle, dropping both my mitt and mask to lift Erica off her feet.
The infielders converge on us, joining the hug.
The outfielders reach the circle at the same time the rest of the team does from the dugout, and our circle of hugs collapses into a dog pile.
My team’s screams of victory drown out every other sound as Erica and I embrace underneath the weight of our teammates.
Slowly, the weight lifts, and our teammates pull us to our feet, tears streaming down all of our faces.
The national team coaches walk out of the dugout to join our celebration as the Olympic committee begins setting up for the medal ceremony.
In a daze, I spin around, congratulating every teammate who comes within view.
We won.
It’s been a rocky road to get here. After softball was taken out of the Olympic program for two iterations of the Games and only added back to the program provisionally in 2020, I thought I would never get to play in this competition.
I was happy with the time I’d spent on the national team, competing internationally at other events, but to be here at these Games was a pipe dream.
And a dream I can now say is a reality.
As my team celebrates behind me, I look to the stadium seats above the third base dugout, where Trace—my best friend, my husband —is jumping up and down with Erica’s parents and my sister and my Storm teammates. Tears streak his cheeks, and when he looks at me, a fresh wave rolls down his face.
Trace places his hand over his heart and blows me a kiss.
He’s been there every step of the way on this road to the Olympics over the last few years—every invitation to try out for Team USA, every international competition, every tear-filled night after a loss.
I could have done it without him, but it would have been a dark and lonely road, one that would have taken more than I had to give to walk it.
I turn away from Trace when they call for the teams to exit the field so the podium can be set up for the medal ceremony.
I follow my team back into the locker room where we change into our Team USA warm up gear.
Our reactions to the reality that we just came back after softball’s intermittent appearances at the Olympics over the last two decades and won the gold vary from stunned silence to absolutely pumped to quiet tears .
Only a few minutes later, we’re escorted back to the field, where we enter with the teams of the two countries who won bronze and silver. Their names and numbers are announced as each player on their respective teams steps onto the podium and are presented their medals.
“Now presenting your Olympic champions, the United States of America.”
As one, my teammates and I step onto the highest level of the podium. As one, we bow to the loud cheering of the stadium.
“Number twenty-nine, Naomi Baer.”
I dip my head so the medal can be placed around my neck and raise my hands in a wave to the crowd.
The announcers continue down the line, and each of my teammates receives her well-earned Olympic Gold.
The exact words of the presenters are lost to the swirling emotions in my head, but applause fills the stadium as fifteen gold medals on thick ribbon, each one showcasing the same iconic interlocking rings that stretch across the fence at centerfield, find their way around fifteen American necks.
My tears don’t fall until the national anthem begins playing and we turn to face the flag with our hands over our hearts.
What an honor it has been to play for my country over the last decade. But there is no greater honor than bringing softball’s Olympic Gold back to Team USA after twenty-four years.
Except, maybe, knowing that Trace is mine forever.
My eyes jump to him in the stands for a fraction of a second, only to find him watching me with tears in his own eyes.
Focusing back on the flag as the anthem crescendos, I know there will be time for me and Trace later, but for now, it’s my time to shine.