As soon as I stepped on to the field in a baseball uniform ready to warm up with the team, it felt like home. I could hear balls landing “thwack” into gloves. Pitchers were warming up with catchers. I looked around the stands and fans were milling around. Some were eating hot dogs while others were drinking beer. All of the best minor league memories came flooding back.

I thought about my first game in the minors. I hit a home run in my second time at bat. When I returned to the dugout after rounding the bases, my manager said, “It looks like you might really have a future, Blake. Keep your eyes on the prize and you just might make the big time in a couple of years.”

He foreshadowed how my minor league career fell apart. I didn’t keep my eyes focused enough on the future. Instead, I got distracted kissing Andy, and my leg shattered.

Pete walked up to me waving a hand in front of my face. He asked, “Are you still with us, Blake? You seem a little bit distracted.”

I grinned. “Oh, I was just lost for a second in remembering my minor league days. Those really were some good times.”

He said, “Well, hopefully you’ve got a lot more to come with us. I’m putting you third in the batting lineup. Do you think that will work?”

That was my position in the Soft Serves lineup. I batted third just in front of Billy. I saw Billy’s face for a moment in my mind. He whispered to me at the last practice saying, “We’re the best one-two punch in the league, Powell. We can win it all.”

I chased the thoughts of softball out of my mind and said to Pete, “Yeah, that works. I don’t think you will be disappointed.”

We were playing as the visiting team which meant we batted first in the game. The first two batters were down on strikes, but I looped a ball into center field and it fell in front of the charging outfielder. It wasn’t a spectacular hit, but it was solid. The opposing pitcher glared at me as I took a lead off first base, and I gave him my poker face stare back.

Unfortunately, my first time on base in my new baseball league didn’t last long. The next batter hit a ground ball to the shortstop, and I got thrown out at second in a fielder’s choice play.

I jogged toward the dugout as my teammates were taking the field. Pete tossed my glove to me, and I lined up with the rest of the infield. There was something more slick and efficient about the baseball squad compared with our ragtag group of softball players.

I got my chance to prove myself to the baseball team in the ninth inning. The game was tied up 5-5 and my teammates were already buzzing about the possibility of extra innings. Pete tried to drum up confidence in scoring at least one run and then holding off the opposition in their final time at bat. I added my voice to that side of the argument.

The first batter who strode to the plate struck out. It didn’t give us a good start on scoring that run, and a joint moan rose from the team as the third strike was called.

Then I was on deck as the third batter in the inning. Pete whispered in my ear while I was leaving the dugout. He said, “Just get on base Powell. You don’t need anything fancy. We just need base runners.”

I nodded in agreement and shouldered my bat. Standing on deck, I took practice swings while our next batter squared off at home plate.

It only seemed like seconds before the count was already two balls and two strikes. I didn’t want to bat with the possibility that I could be the third out for my new team in such a clutch position. Batting with at least one runner on and only one out was a much better psychologically.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get a choice in those matters. I cringed when I watched the pop-up leave the bat of the man before me. It drifted high and then came back down directly into the glove of the second baseman.

I was up with two outs in the ninth inning, no one on base, and my team tied. Pete’s words echoed in my ear. “Just get on base.”

I jumped on the first pitch with the intent of plugging a hole with a line drive. Unfortunately, I was slow getting around on the ball, and I drove a foul just to the right of first base.

Words and phrases like, “Straighten it out Powell,” filtered out of my team’s dugout.

The next pitch was an obvious ball even before it left the pitcher’s hand. I watched as it tailed off the outside of the plate and listened to the umpire calling it a ball.

My gut told me that the pitcher might fire a fastball down the middle for his third pitch. He would pack it with heat in an effort to prevent me from getting around on the pitch even if I managed to hit it.

The instinct was correct, and I think the pitcher made a mistake. It was just too perfect of a pitched ball. I set aside any strategy of hitting just a single and threw my weight into the meat of the bat.

I knew when I heard the bat hit the ball that it was going to put us into the lead. I dropped the bat and jogged toward first base. The ball sailed over the right center fence and my team charged out of the dugout on to the field.

Pete was the first to greet me after I crossed home plate. He gave me a massive bear hug while other players pounded me on the head. I was a hero in my first game with the team.

We still had half an inning to play out, but it felt like a formality. One runner reached base for our opponents in the bottom of the ninth with a walk, but he was stranded when the final batter struck out.

Pete and John insisted that I join them for a drink in a nearby bar simply called Balls. They explained that it changed its name when the stadium built. While we all walked to our cars, I spotted a familiar pair headed my way. I waved off Pete and John saying I would be at the bar shortly and met with two of my new fans.

Joey and Shane were nearly overcome with excitement. Shane said, “You were amazing Mr. Powell! Could you sign some autographs for us?”

I chuckled softly. “I’m really just a regular guy, but yeah, I’ll be happy to sign things for you.”

Shane held out a flyer advertising the league. I quickly scrawled my name and wishes for the best of luck in the future. Then Joey pulled a bright, white, new baseball from his jacket pocket. He said, “I’ve been saving this one for an autograph. I want it to be yours.”

I took the ball from him and carefully signed it. Then I said, “We should exchange phone numbers. I would like to hit balls in the batting cages together again if the two of you are up for it.”

Joey said, “Wow, yeah. That would be amazing, but give the phone number to Shane. He’s a little more…reliable. I would probably figure out a way to lose it even if it was already in my phone.”

I reached out and gave Joey a hug saying, “I’ll do that. You guys are great. I sincerely mean that. You’ll probably both be out here in a uniform someday.”

Shane whispered, “If Joey doesn’t make it the majors.”

I grinned. “Help him give it his best. You never know what might happen.”

Pete and John were already in the midst of a rowdy celebration when I joined them in the bar. They bought a round of drinks for everybody, and the response was loud and upbeat.

When I walked through the door, Pete announced in a loud voice, “This man hit the winning home run!”

John followed the statement by striking a batting stance and then swinging and shading his eyes to watch the ball sail toward the fence. The rest of the crowd raised beer bottles and rocks glasses while shouting out a cheer.

Pete grabbed my shoulder and said, “Welcome home Powell, these guys are the best! Whatever you want, the drink is on me. Pick your poison.”

I grabbed a local beer and leaned back against the bar watching the riled up crowd. John stepped up next to me and said, “That was an awesome start today. I’ve got a line of text messages on my phone asking about you. There is really a big buzz. I can’t wait to see how the rest of the season plays out.”