The Trade(126)

We’re down by one run. Marcus is on first, just barely squeaking out a single with his hustle down the line and we have one out in the bottom of the ninth. I’ve had trouble hitting off Toronto’s closer all season, grounding out almost every single time, which I’m sure is what they’re counting on right now, forcing the double play, going home with the W and preventing us from clinching our division title tonight.

That won’t be happening, not now, not when my teammates are in the dugout behind me, screaming and yelling my name to take charge, proving that they have my back no matter what.

I dig my feet into the batter’s box, ready myself, and look to the pitcher. Two balls, one strike. It’s a tricky count because the pitcher doesn’t want to get another ball, but they also have a leg up on me with one strike. He’s going outside, I can feel it in my bones. I can feel it in the way I can sense the catcher moving behind me. Being a left-handed hitter in a park with a deep left field, it would be smart to pitch me outside, not inside when right field has a short porch, one that I’ve taken advantage of many times.

Standing tall and setting his hands, Yang looks over to Marcus, checking his lead at first and then looks back at me. His foot rises and he sends a screaming fastball to the outside corner of the plate. Waiting a millisecond, I let the ball travel into the strike zone, just deep enough to punch it to the opposite side of the field. I take off running as the crowd falls silent. Marcus is on the run, and I look up at the ball in time to see it sail over the left field wall.

Holy Fuck.

And then there’s cheers . . . but only for a second before the fans realize exactly what happened. The guy they hate, the guy they can’t stand, he just secured the division title for their team. I round second as a collection of boos sound off in the stadium and I’m just . . . fuck . . . it’s funny.

Really?

They hate me that much?

When I round third, I fist-bump my third base coach and see my teammates jumping up and down like maniacs at home plate, sunflower seeds and gum being flung all over the field. And there’s a giant cooler of Gatorade waiting to be poured over my head.

They start chanting “the boss,” and when I hit home plate, for the first time this season, I allow myself to enjoy the moment. I chuck my helmet, spread my arms wide, and let the Gatorade be dumped over me as my foot touches home plate. The guys then jump on top of me. Jason kisses my cheek, Maddox shakes my shoulders, and it’s one of the best moments I’ve ever experienced as the fans boo me. They boo me so fucking hard.

We’re headed to the playoffs. Fucking long-ass season, and we’re now headed to the playoffs. We have the W this year. It’s going to be a long October, but I can feel it. We’re going to the World Series.

“Cory, the on-field correspondent would like to talk to you.”

I glance to where they have an old Rebels player posed with a mic in front of his mouth, waiting to project my voice to the entire stadium. This is the first time they’ve asked me to talk, and I feel like I shouldn’t. Maddox and Jason notice my hesitation and quickly get behind me, propelling me toward Hank waiting with a mic.

“We’re behind you,” Jason says, and he’s right, I can feel Jason and Maddox standing behind me, followed by the rest of my team.

It’s such an overwhelming feeling, knowing how far I’ve come from last season to now, to have the respect of the guys I can call brothers on the field. It means everything to me, and even though the fans still seem to hate me, it doesn’t really matter at this point.

When the boos grow exponentially louder, Maddox leans into my ear and says, “Fuck them. Literally . . . fuck them.”

I chuckle just as Hank’s mic goes live and he asks, “Cory Potter, you just hit a walk-off homerun to win the division title for the Rebels. What are you feeling?”

The boos still sound off as I try to talk over them into the mic. Hands on my hips, head bent forward, I say, “Just happy I had a piece in helping this team make it to the playoffs this year.”

“I wouldn’t say just a piece. You’re leading the entire league in homeruns, batting average, and RBIs, a record-breaking season as an individual player and at thirty-five, how do you do it?”

I grip Hank on the shoulder and say, “I don’t know, why don’t you ask the media? They sure seem to know exactly what I’m doing all the time.”

Jason hollers behind me as Maddox laughs loud enough for me to hear him over the crowd.

Hank smiles and then looks up at the stands, the noise growing. Shaking his head, he says, “What do you have to say to the fans that continue to boo you despite the accomplishments you’ve achieved this year for their team?”

Looking out at the packed stadium, I take a second to soak it all in. The hatred, the name-calling, the false reports, the horrendous pictures that have been spread all over the Internet. Then I catch Maddox out of the corner of my eye. He gives me a brief nod, before I take a deep breath and lean down to the mic again.

“What do I have to say to the fans that keep booing me?” Smiling, I say, “They can take the bat I just used to hit this team to victory and shove it right up their asses.” Straightening, I lift both hands and flip off the entire stadium right before my teammates all pile on top of me, all laughing and offering me praises for finally sticking it to the tenth man.

And it takes me a second to hear it past the riot of my teammates, but once it dies down, for the first time since I stepped foot in this stadium, I’m not hearing a collection of boos. They’re cheering? Fucking cheering?