The Perfect Game

“This isn’t about you. You’re thinking too much.” She sloughed me off with a wave of her hand.



“You better be right.” I sighed, wondering how long I had to stay. I avoided looking anywhere near the team’s dugout, afraid of who might be looking back at me, when Melissa called me on it.



“He won’t see you, Cass. You can look in there. Hell, you can even photograph the dugout. He won’t know,” she informed me, her face serious.



“How is that even possible?” I gave Melissa my best duh look.



“Because Jack’s all business out here. He doesn’t look in the stands. Ever. And I mean, ever. Last year this girl took her freaking top off and screamed Jack’s name like a lunatic the entire time he was up to bat. He didn’t move a muscle to look in her direction. I could light your ass on fire and he wouldn’t even know.”



I laughed super loud. “Please don’t test that theory.”



“Look around, Cassie. I’m pretty sure this is the one thing in life he takes seriously.” Melissa leaned back into her seat, taking a sip of the soda she’d just bought from a roaming vendor.



I scanned the crowd and noticed that we were surrounded by what appeared to be major league scouts. Each carried their own radar gun to measure the speed of Jack’s pitches, and notepads to write everything down. There was a forest of television and press cameras lined up on tripods behind home plate. It was the closest thing to a media circus I’d ever seen. And I currently held my own professional-sized camera, which definitely helped us fit in with all the madness.



“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Fullton Field!” The announcer’s voice filled the air, as the cheers slowly died down in volume.



“Here to sing the national anthem is our very own Fullton State student, Laura Malloy!” Cheers reenergized the atmosphere as Laura smiled nervously before closing her eyes tightly and singing the opening words in perfect pitch.



I instinctively grabbed my camera and adjusted the lens, focusing on the emotions of her face, and snapped multiple pictures. When she finished, I watched as she walked toward the players lined up along the third base line and smiled hopefully at Jack. I secretly loved it when he didn’t acknowledge her.



“We have a sold-out crowd tonight, folks, and we all know why! Taking the mound against our rivals from Florida is the one and only Jack Carter!” The announcer enunciated Jack’s name like he was the savior of the free world, like he’d cured cancer, or delivered rainbows to colorless skies everywhere.



No, I take it back.



He said Jack’s name like Jack was a hero.



And I guess in a way he was. He brought media attention to the school and recognition to the baseball program. That attention translated into revenue for the school and top baseball prospects all wanted to play here. Jack was this university’s very own marketing machine.



The school worshipped him. It wasn’t just the girls on campus who wanted to be around him, it was everyone. I never realized the extent of his popularity before tonight.



“Now taking the field, your Fullton State Outlaws!” The announcer’s voice paused before continuing. “And now taking the mound, Jack Car-terrrrr!” He dragged out Jack’s last name, just like the wrestling announcers on TV.



The stadium erupted with ear-piercing shouts, howls, cheers, and screams. I looked at Melissa, shock clearly written all over my face, and she laughed, having witnessed this all before.



Jack walked confidently toward the dirt mound, his white-and-blue pinstriped sliding pants hugging his body in all the right places. I watched as his thigh muscles contracted against his pants with each step he took, and admired how good his butt looked in his uniform. His upper body was unfortunately hidden underneath a loose-fitting dark blue jersey with orange and white lettering.



His face looked different, more focused. This wasn’t the playful guy from the student union anymore. This was the confident, serious baseball player.



“What’cha smiling at?” Melissa’s voice cut through my inner dialogue.



I quickly dropped the smile I didn’t know I was wearing. “Nothing,” I snapped, and looked away, embarrassed.



“It’s irritating how good he looks in his uniform, right?”



I jerked my head back toward her. “Seriously. Why does he have to be so hot?”



“’Cause he’s a jerk. Jerks are always hot,” Melissa reminded me with a nod.



Jack stood on top of the pitcher’s mound, his left cleat kicking at the dirt in front of him. He placed his toes on the white rubber, dropped his glove hand to his knee, and gripped the ball with his left. His eyes focused solely on his catcher squatting sixty feet away. With a brief nod he leaned back, his body performing a motion so fluid and smooth it looked like it was made for him.



When his left hand released the ball, it flew by at a speed so quick I could barely make out anything but a white blur. The sound of the ball impacting against the catcher’s mitt was so loud it echoed against the backstop. The batter stepped out from the batter’s box and looked nervously at his coach before stepping back in. Two more pitches screamed by and that was out number one of the night.



“Strike three! You’re out!” the umpire shouted enthusiastically and the crowd cheered wildly.



The scouts in the stands huddled together, comparing the red “ 97 94 ” digital readout on their radar gun screens.



“Holy shit, that was ninety- seven four miles an hour,” I said out loud, my mouth slightly open.



“I told you he’s good.”



I focused my camera on the pitching mound, with Jack’s feet and the bottom of his glove dangling in the viewfinder. Click. Then I moved the lens up to view his bare left hand, gripping the baseball between three fingers, the red-stitched seam barely visible. Click. He brought his glove up to his face and all features except his brown eyes disappeared behind it. Click. His face twisted as he released the powerful pitch, his eyes never leaving their target. Click. Sweaty dark hair briefly saw light as Jack removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Click.



When the inning ended, I watched Jack jog off the field and into the dugout, never once looking into the stands. He instantly reappeared, a dark blue helmet on his head, two bats in hand. He swung the bats around like a windmill, stretching his shoulders. And when he bent over to stretch his hamstrings, girlish screams filled the air, along with flashes of light.



“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I shook my head, looking around at the people taking pictures.



“Spectacle,” was all Melissa said with a laugh.



Jack stepped around home plate and into the batter’s box, his demeanor completely relaxed. Since he was left-handed, the front of him was in full view, as opposed to the back of all the right-handed hitters. I started to grab my camera, but then shoved it back on my lap instead. I had enough pictures of Jack for one night.



The opposing pitcher went through his motion and as he released the ball, Jack took a small step forward before his hips twisted with his swing. The ping of the ball against the metal bat quickly disappeared amidst all the cheering. Jack easily rounded first base and picked up speed as he raced toward second. The outfielder fired the ball at the shortstop as Jack slid headfirst into the bag, a cloud of dust encircling him.



“Safe!” The umpire shouted his call, his arms outstretched on either side of his body.



Jack planted both feet on top of the dusty base and brushed the dirt off his chest before dipping down the belt of his pants and allowing clumps of dirt to fall out. I was completely turned on.



I suck, I suck, I suck.



I overheard one scout ask another, “What did you clock him to first?” Referring to Jack’s base running speed from home plate to first base.



The other scout glanced at his stopwatch. “Four point one.” The first scout nodded his head in agreement and scribbled down more notes.



The photographer in me couldn’t hold out any longer. I zoomed in on Jack’s hands, now covered in batting gloves as he stepped away from second base with three long strides. Click. The dark of his eyes, now shadowed from his helmet, gave him an almost ominous appearance. Click.



“Gonna make a Jack photo album for yourself later?” Melissa flicked a finger at my shoulder as she teased me.



“You’re the one who said I needed to work on my action shots!” I whisper-shouted.



“I didn’t say they all had to be of Jack.”



“Shit.” I snapped the lens cap on and quickly flipped the power button into the Off position, where it stayed for the remainder of the game.



When it finally ended, Jack had pitched all nine innings and only gave up one run and three hits. The final score was eight to one, us. I grabbed my camera and shoved it into my purse before looking back at the team celebrating on the field. The coach pulled Jack aside and escorted him over to the press area where he was besieged by reporters, scouts, and fans.



Jack glanced up from the field and directly into my eyes. That single look stopped me in my tracks, and I was slammed into by the man walking behind me. Jack smiled and turned his attention back toward the cameras and journalists.



FOUR



I strolled through the tree-lined campus, following the cement pathway that would eventually lead me to the Trunk offices. I’d joined the award-winning student-run magazine at the insistence of my visual communications professor. Even though I was required to take writing classes with my major, my focus was on the visual reporting side of things. I yearned to improve my craft, bringing life-changing visuals to accompanying articles.



I spotted the one-story brick building up ahead. All the newer buildings on campus were constructed with red and white brick, while the original buildings were large white stucco structures. It never made sense to me why they wouldn’t at least attempt to match the newer buildings with the older ones.



I pulled the tinted glass door open and a gush of air conditioning greeted my face. I moved my sunglasses on top of my head, pulling my long hair back with them as I rounded the corner.



“Hey, Dani,” I said as I entered, not wanting to startle Danielle, who squinted at the computer before she looked up.



“Hey, Cassie, come look at this.” She waved me over, her expression still tight. I peered around her puffy brown ponytail and over her shoulder at the photograph on the screen. “I need this picture to have more expression. It’s not giving me what I want. What am I missing?”



I looked at the eight-year-old boy standing in front of spilled water buckets, his expression sorrowful. “First of all, I don’t think it should be in black and white. The details get lost in this photo. May I?” I pointed at the seat she occupied.



“Please.” She jumped up from the seat as we switched positions.



I reopened the original picture in the photo editing software and manipulated the colors before pointing to the screen. “Look at the dirty rug hanging behind him. I barely noticed it in black and white. The cracks in the buckets, and the rubble at his feet,” I paused, “were all lost before. This picture needs to be in color. This picture deserves to be in color.”