Against the Shift

Against The Shift

By Greg Easterling

Ricky Flores approached the plate in a tight game. This at-bat would define him as either the hero he wanted to be or the big-game choker he didn’t.

His Blue Devils were fighting for their lives in the high school regional tournament against the top-seeded Panthers. They found themselves down two runs in the final inning. Runners waited on first and third with two outs. A gapper could tie the game; an out would end it, as well as their season. Win or go home.

Ricky had enjoyed a pretty good game so far; he was two-for-three with a run scored. Not bad for a kid with one hand.

A lawnmower had amputated his left hand when he was six years old, but Ricky hadn’t let the tragedy limit him; by the time he entered high school, he excelled on the track, tennis court, and baseball diamond.

The one-handed athlete played solid defense in center field and had a decent, if unspectacular, .305 batting average. Due to his disability, his plate appearances tended to fascinate spectators, who stopped whatever they were doing to watch the one-handed kid hit. Ricky wielded the bat in his right hand like a club and rested it on his shoulder until the pitcher went into his motion. Then he hefted the cudgel off his shoulder, causing veins as big as night crawlers to crisscross his muscular forearm. When the ball left the pitcher’s hand, Ricky began his swing, hips opening first, then shoulders following. His finely tuned hand-to-eye coordination made a task that might be the most difficult feat in sports—hitting a baseball—look almost effortless. Ricky was a tough out, and opponents only saw him as disabled until his first plate appearance; from then on, he was a baseball player.

***

As Ricky neared the batter’s box, the Panthers’ manager, Coach Stevens, paced inside his dugout like a caged tiger. Suddenly, he spun toward his startled scorekeeper and snatched the score book from the boy’s hand. The coach stared at the page and then he smiled, something he rarely did in-game, because the book exposed the one-handed kid’s Achilles heel. R. Flores, according to the score book, had hit the ball to right field every previous at-bat. Evidently, without a left hand, the Flores kid physically could not pull the ball to left field. Hitting a baseball one-handed was still impressive, but the boy could only slap the ball to the opposite field. Right field. And that was a very useful piece of information. A game-changing piece of information.

Coach Stevens immediately called time out and marched to the pitcher’s mound. He waved his boys in from their positions, and they huddled around him. The coach plucked the baseball from the pitcher’s hand and dropped it into the glove of Sammy Lane, his all-district third baseman.

“Warm up, Sammy,” he ordered. “Carter, nice job today. You’re going to third.”

A murmur from the crowd indicated that many of the spectators understood the move. The Panthers were going to use Sammy, the hardest thrower on the team, to close out the victory and bring home another trophy for the Panthers’ crowded trophy case.

Sammy flashed an easy smile. He had earned a reputation for being supremely confident, and he had the skill to back it up.

“It ain’t bragging if it’s true,” Sammy would drawl, politely dismissive of those who thought he was too cocky. Today, his shatterproof confidence, along with his amazing fastball, all but assured a win for the Panthers. The one-handed Blue Devils hitter didn’t stand a chance.

While Sammy threw warmup pitches, Coach Stevens motioned for the rest of his players to lean in close.

“Boys, that batter only hits to right field. We’re gonna stop him with a shift.”

The players looked at him blankly; they had never practiced a shift, or even discussed it.

“Why not play him straight up, Coach?” Amari asked. Amari was the shortstop and the team captain, and he wasn’t afraid to speak for the team when needed. Several of his teammates nodded in agreement.

“You want to win, don’t you? The kid can only hit to right field, so we’re gonna stack the side he hits to.”

“Okay, but is it fair to shift on a disabled kid?” Zack, the first baseman, asked.

“He isn’t disabled, Zack. He has two more hits than you do today.”

The players looked uncomfortable. It was clear they didn’t want to do this.

Amari spoke again. “Just thinking out loud here, but that dude can’t touch Sammy’s fastball. We could all chill in the dugout and still win.”

Coach Stevens glowered at his boys and thrust a finger towards Ricky, who by now was taking a few practice swings beside home plate. “You guys don’t seem to understand. That kid’s the enemy. He wants to prevent you from winning the championship, and he’s fully capable of doing that.”

Sammy finished his warmups and joined them in the huddle. The home plate umpire approached, attempting to move things along. He probably had a couple of cold beers waiting for him at home.

“Let’s go, Coach. We have a game to play.”

Coach Stevens ignored the ump. He met the eye of every player before continuing. “What’s that hitter’s weakness? Anyone?”

Sammy spoke up. “He can’t pull a fastball.”

Coach snapped his fingers and nodded. “He can’t pull a fastball. Right! Knowing that, what are we going to do?”

“I’m gonna blow three fastballs by him and then you’re taking us out for pizza.” It was Sammy again, sounding relaxed and confident, like always.

The boys laughed, relieving some of the tension. The umpire leaned in. “Now, Coach.”

“Okay, okay, we’re almost done.” Coach Stevens turned back to his team, his eyes intense. “I want all three outfielders right of center. In the off chance the hitter actually gets his bat on one of Sammy’s heaters, you guys will be there to make sure the ball doesn’t find a place to land.”

Three players nodded, and the coach continued. “Infielders, listen up. They have runners on first and third, so we can’t shift the third baseman. Carter, stay close to the bag, keep the runner close.”

“Yes sir.”

“Amari, you’re going to set up behind second. If the runner goes, you’re taking the throw, so stay in the dirt. Spencer, position yourself in the outfield grass halfway between first and second. Panthers on three.”

“Panthers!” the boys yelled in unison as they broke the huddle and sprinted to their shift positions.

Coach Stevens added some parting advice, yelling loud enough for his entire team to hear, “Boys, we only need one out. Just one, so be sharp!” Then he turned to Sammy and lowered his voice.

“Nothing but four-seam fastballs. Throw it by him.”

“My two-seam moved good during warmups,” Sammy replied.

“I don’t want movement. I want speed. If you throw anything but a four-seamer, I’ll drop you down to JV.”

Sammy grinned. “Sure thing, Coach. I’ll just grip it and rip it.” Coach Stevens nodded, satisfied.

***

Meanwhile, across the diamond in the Blue Devils’ dugout, Coach Hendricks had observed the mound conference intently and then watched as the Panthers’ players repositioned themselves. Many high school coaches considered it a bush league strategy, but in reality, whether a strategy was acceptable or not was often a matter of perspective. If it helped win a game, a coach was more likely to approve than when the same strategy put him at a disadvantage. This one put Coach Hendricks at a distinct disadvantage.

“Classy, Stevens,” he yelled across the diamond. “You’re always classy!” He waved Ricky over.

“See that? That’s a shift. They’re trying to take right field away from you. Ignore it, okay? Just hit it hard.”

Ricky’s jaw clenched as he scanned right field. “What should I do? I can’t pull it against that guy. That’s Sammy Lane!”

Coach Hendricks shrugged. “I know who he is. So what? You’ve faced hard throwers before.”

“Not against a shift,” Ricky grumbled.

The coach grabbed Ricky by both shoulders and looked him square in the eye. “Listen to me, son. You can hit him. Just wait for your pitch and drive it. It’ll fall.”

Ricky peered past the coach at right field again. Panther fielders seemed to be everywhere, like ants at a picnic.

“But Coach, there’s no place to hit it.”

“You got this,” Hendricks replied, emphasizing each word. “Don’t worry about where the fielders are. Your eyes need to watch the ball, nothing else.”

Ricky didn’t feel as confident as his coach sounded. “Yeah, but—”

Hendricks cut him off. “Don’t let them get in your head. Can you control where they position their players?”

“No sir.”

“What can you control?

“Wait for my pitch. Hit it hard.”

“There you go then. Barrel it up. A line drive could tie the game. They only have three outfielders, and they can’t be everywhere.” Coach Hendricks contorted his mouth in a poor attempt at a smile and marched to the first base coach’s box.

***

Ricky stood alone with his nerves. It was time to become the hero or the chump.

He trotted back to the plate and stepped inside the batter’s box. He dug his cleats into the dirt and rested the bat on his shoulder. Then he took a calming breath, blew it out slowly, and met the eyes of Sammy Lane.

Sammy stood on the mound, casually bouncing a rosin bag in his hand. He waited until Ricky dug in, then tossed the rosin bag carelessly to the ground, where it created a small dust cloud. He stepped to the rubber, and his expression grew serious.

Ricky’s muscles tensed, ready for action. Sixty feet away, Sammy pounded the baseball into his glove. Sammy flashed Ricky a quick smile, then became all business again, as if he flipped a switch.

***

Three pitches, then off to the pizza party. That’s what Sammy had said. Now it was time for him to back up his bravado.

He pressed his foot against the rubber and settled. As he focused, everything melted from view except a single spot centered in the catcher’s mitt. It wouldn’t have mattered if Babe Ruth himself waited in the batter’s box. Sammy’s only thought was to hit that spot. If he could do that, he would win.

His eyes locked on the mitt, and his hand reached into his glove and found the baseball. He spun the seams until they lined up perfectly against his calloused fingers. He had gripped a baseball precisely like this thousands of times before: a four-seam fastball.

Sammy stilled, looking perfectly relaxed, and the spectators hushed expectantly. For five beats of his heart, he was as still as a statue. Then his peripheral vision picked up movement near third base and he eyeballed the runner. The guy didn’t look like a threat to steal home, and it seemed unlikely the other team would take such a risk when down by two runs, but Sammy had seen crazier things. He stepped off the rubber, and the runner scampered back to the bag.

Satisfied the kid wasn’t a threat to steal home, Sammy stepped to the rubber again and focused on the catcher’s mitt. The catcher wanted high heat. Sammy nodded. He froze the runner at third with another glance, then his body exploded into action. He pulled the ball out of his glove and drew his arm back. His back leg launched his body violently forward, toward his waiting catcher; his arm catapulted forward and snapped off the pitch with the speed of a striking snake.

***

At the exact moment Sammy pulled his arm back, Ricky’s bat rose off his shoulder as if it had a mind of its own. As the ball left Sammy’s hand, Ricky began his swing. The pitch was chest high and on him before he could get his bat around. He almost broke his wrist trying to catch up to the pitch, which had easily overpowered him. The ball struck the mitt with a loud pop.

“Stee-rike!”

Ricky muttered something, shaking his head as if trying to clear it after a boxer’s punch.

The catcher laughed. “No pressure, Twenty-one. No one expects you to touch it.”

Ricky ignored the dig. His concern right now wasn’t the catcher, it was finding a way to put the ball in play.

The next two pitches were fastballs, and each one blew past Ricky before he could turn on them. Fortunately for him, both pitches had been out of the strike zone.

The catcher joked between every pitch. “The most beautiful sound in the world is a fastball popping my glove, don’t you think?”

Ricky continued to ignore him. “How am I going to hit this guy?” he thought with increasing desperation.

The next pitch was another fastball, right down the middle, and Ricky succeeded in getting his bat on it. He swung late again, though, and fouled the ball out of play behind the first base dugout.

Just one hit. All we need is one hit.

He scrutinized the six Panthers who crowded the right side of the field and lived in his head. He muttered to himself again.

The umpire indicated the count was 2-and-2. There were two outs and two runners on base. The Blue Devils needed two runs. It seemed that twos were wild, and the cards were stacked against him.

Sammy and Ricky squared off for pitch number five. It was another ball: full count. In the bleachers behind home plate, spectators’ nerves ramped up to match the tension on the field.

***

Coach Hendricks called time, and Ricky trotted over to him.

“Ricky, this right here is the ball game. Next pitch decides who wins. This is what you’ve been dreaming of your whole life.”

Ricky swallowed the lump in his throat and studied his feet.

“Barrel it up,” Hendricks continued, “and then run like a scalded cat.”

“Do you think he’ll throw a changeup? I think I can pull an off-speed pitch.”

“He won’t throw you nothing off-speed. Even my mama knows he’s bringing the heat.”

Ricky looked frustrated. “You saw him blow his fastball by me. I can’t get around on it.”

Instead of disagreeing, Coach Hendricks nodded, looking thoughtful. Then suddenly, he brightened.

“You’re gonna win this game, Ricky! Hang on.” The coach darted into the dugout and returned with a bat.

“Use this one. It’s three inches shorter than your bat, and a lot lighter.”

Ricky looked puzzled. “You want me to use a Little League bat?”

“It’s within regs.”

Ricky hefted the bat. Trying to hit a baseball with it would be like swatting it with a baton. “Coach, it’s too small.”

“Ricky, go win us this ball game.”

***

Across the diamond, Coach Stevens watched the Blue Devils coach make his player change bats with a full count and the game on the line. Maybe Hendricks was desperate or was trying some psychological voodoo on the boy. Or maybe he convinced him it was a magic bat.

Stevens chuckled. Whatever the rationale, it wouldn’t be enough. Sammy was throwing bb’s.

***

Ricky stepped into the batter’s box and dug in again. The bat felt like a toy on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, held it a moment, then blew it out. His eyes locked on Sammy’s glove, the glove that held the baseball he had to hit.

We just need one hit. Just one. Be the hero!

Ricky set himself, muscles tense and ready.

***

For the sixth time, Sammy’s hand spun the ball until he found his grip. Once more, he focused on the catcher’s mitt, and the rest of the world faded from view. His fingers squeezed the seams.

One more strike, then it’s pizza time.

Sammy eyed the third base runner one last time. Then he straightened, paused, and exploded toward the plate. His arm rocketed forward, and he snapped off his best pitch of the game. It was pure lightning.

***

As Sammy began his motion, Ricky’s bat rose off his shoulder. When the ball left Sammy’s hand, Ricky began his swing. This time, his hips turned a fraction of a second sooner, and he slashed the undersized bat through the strike zone like a sword. Bat met ball with a delicious craaack!

At the sound, both coaches stared wide-eyed in disbelief. In the bleachers, the spectators rose to their feet, all of them screaming for their team. The Blue Devils faithful hoped for a miracle.

Ricky had pulled the pitch to left field—against the shift! He hadn’t hit it hard, but he charged the ball with just enough juice to arc over the outstretched glove of the third baseman. It landed in short left field near the foul line and rolled lazily toward the outfield wall, with no one nearby.

The orderly rhythm of the at-bat instantly erupted into pandemonium. The shortstop and left fielder sprinted after the ball while the runners tore down the base paths. Ricky did indeed run like a scalded cat, his helmet flying off his head as he dashed toward first base.

The lead runner crossed home plate to deafening cheers. It was a one run game! The din rattled the dugout roofs.

But the game wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot. The Blue Devils needed two to tie it up. The second runner rounded second base and sped toward third with a head of steam.

Ricky barreled around first base at full speed and headed for second. He had done his part: he had put the ball in play and was now relegated to being nothing more than a spectator. If Zane, the second runner, scored, the game would be tied, with Ricky in scoring position at second base. If Zane got tagged out at the plate, the game and season would be over. So much would be decided in the next few moments!

“Run, Zane, run!” Coach Hendricks yelled.

“Home!” Coach Stevens screamed. “The play’s at home!”

Zane rounded third about the same time Amari, the Panthers’ shortstop, reached the ball. The Blue Devils’ third base coach windmilled his arm frantically, urging Zane to keep going.

“Home!” Coach Stevens screamed again. Amari launched a high, arcing throw toward the plate. The catcher tossed his mask and set up beside the plate to receive it.

Zane was more than halfway home, but he was gassed, and the ball quickly gained on him. Every spectator screamed encouragement to their team.

“Run, Zane! RUN!”

“Tag him! TAG HIM!”

Zane was mere steps from the plate when the ball passed over his left shoulder and bounced in front of the catcher. Zane began his slide, aiming for the outside edge of the plate. The catcher snagged the ball cleanly on the short hop and snapped his glove toward the plate.

Zane slid. The catcher, spinning and off balance, swiped desperately at him. Zane stretched his foot out as far as he could and dragged it across the corner of the plate as he slid by. The catcher sprawled in the dirt. A cloud of dust enveloped the boys in an orange fog. The spectators went silent, waiting for the call. It had been close!

The umpire crouched near home plate in a wide stance. He peered into the settling dust, eying the plate, then each boy, hesitating to make a call. The whole world seemed to pause.

Then the catcher rolled onto his back and held his mitt aloft—with the ball tucked safely inside. Zane’s chin dropped to his chest.

“Heeeee’s out!” the umpire yelled, punching the air emphatically to signal the third out.

Silence gave way to a thunderous eruption from the stands, as people released their pent-up emotions in either victory or defeat. Coach Stevens thrust his hands skyward in triumph. Coach Hendricks bent at the waist, rested his hands on his knees, and stared at the ground.

The Panthers rushed the field, piling up on the pitcher’s mound in jubilation and relief. At the bottom of the pile was Sammy, smiling like always, smiling like he never had a doubt.

Meanwhile, Coach Hendricks shuffled into the Blue Devils’ subdued dugout, joining his boys to share their disappointment. They had been so close!

And Ricky, though he had beaten the shift, crumpled in the dirt near second base and let the tears flow.