Safe At Home (Touchdown Edition)

Chapter 1: The Field

"Get in a line everyone. Let's pick 'em." My brother Joe pointed and shouted, directing traffic as he tried to organize the group of noisy boys surrounding him. "Let's move, the sun goes down in two hours."

Playing, and winning, on "The Field" meant everything to us back then. Most of the neighborhood kids would find their way to the Field pretty much every day. We'd play for hours. Sometimes we'd play Home Run Derby, sometimes we'd have fielding practice, and sometimes, when enough kids showed up, we'd play real games. When the score was close, which it almost always was, we'd stay out until the darkness blanketed our smiling faces. By the end of a long afternoon, the moon and the streetlights barely shone upon the ball as it hopped through the infield or soared into the air.

The Field was a strip of beat-up grass located across the street from our apartment. The area was about one quarter of the size of a football field and it was poorly maintained. Weeds poked through the choppy sod like warts on a frog's back. Big holes made the most agile of runners look clumsy while trying to stay within the baseline, a challenge that was rarely met.

Despite the odd dimensions and lame conditions of the Field, most of our free time was spent there. Its closeness to so many of the neighborhood homes combined with the shaded open space drew a swarm of local kids. Finding any vacated area in the southern region of Arizona was difficult, especially in our little town. I lived with my mother, father, and two older brothers in Tierra de Sueno, which, when translated from Spanish to English, means dreamland . Our apartment was on the second floor, behind a tall wooden fence that acted as the border on the left field foul line. Hitting one over that rickety fence always counted as an automatic out because it usually meant that we'd lost another baseball. The hitter got his punishment by having to climb the splintery barrier to try and fetch the ball. The ball almost always ended up hidden deep in the bushes that separated the fence from our apartment.

Out of necessity, right field included a section of the street. Teams always had to place one or two outfielders near the foul line depending on the amount of cars parked there. Although it didn't happen often, a cracked windshield or a dented car door made for a quick end to an exciting game.

Despite the odd boundaries of the Field, there was nothing that compared to the feeling you got when the center of the bat connected with the heart of the ball. Yet, to be a successful, you couldn't always swing for the fences. You had to learn to time your swing just right so you could drive the ball to center, the only portion of the Field that allowed for a home run. If you hit the ball too far or long down the left field line, you were picking splinters out of your hands from climbing the fence. And if you sliced it too hard to right field, you were counting your allowance money to pay for car damage.

When I made my way into the field I usually played center. As a center fielder, my heart would race when I snared a line drive in the webbing of my glove, or threw a perfect strike to home plate, nailing the runner dead in his tracks. Chasing down fly balls in the pothole-infested outfield required a lot of skill. Playing out there was the only time I didn't mind the guys referring to me as a ballerina, tiptoeing gracefully around potholes and in between cars.

The outfield was uneven and unkempt, but was located far enough away from screaming line drives and scorching one-hoppers to make the few kids who were afraid of the ball feel pretty safe. Only the bravest of the boys brought their gloves into the infield. Ground balls on the Field bounced around like a fly trapped in between a screen and a window. "Danger," and "dentist" were two buzzwords for anyone positioned in front of the baselines.

While the brave ones lined up in the infield, only the very best players lined up in right field. That was the sole spot on our neighborhood turf where errors weren't tolerated. Like a hockey goalie swallowing up a puck, right fielders on the Field had to guard parked cars from flying baseballs. Most of the time that job included bracing a hip on the car's side door and leaping or lunging in whatever direction the ball was headed. A bad play from a right fielder was disastrous.

Although I was never asked to play right field, I wasn't concerned about getting not being picked to play either. I was probably right about in the middle of the pack in terms of skills. My oldest brother, Jose, who we called Joe, organized most of the games and would usually stick me in center field. Even though I was the only girl on the block, Joe and my other brother, Carlos, got me into most games. I was a short and skinny nine-year-old girl, but they knew I was athletic and tough. I had the cuts, scrapes, and bruises to prove it. Being the youngest, the smallest, and the only girl out there never slowed me down. In fact, I think being the underdog made me fight twice as hard.

But on this particular day, I wasn't even given the chance to compete. Home Run Derby was the game of the day, and Joe, my know-it-all brother, pushed me away. He stuck out his bony chest and raised his chin arrogantly, his jet-black, flattop hair shining in the sun. "Sorry, Selena, today is only for the big boys. Maybe tomorrow." He dismissed me without a second thought, turning to the crowd of boys. "Come on guys, line up and let's pick 'em." Joe looked up at the sun once more to remind the noisy crowd that they were racing against time.

I looked over at Carlos, hoping he'd plead my case. Carlos usually treated me better than Joe, but when we were out on the Field, he always went along with our brother's tough guy attitude. Surely, the fact that Carlos was four inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than our big brother had something to do with this. My next option was to run home and tell Mom what had happened. I knew she would make it all right. But she was working downtown, cleaning houses for some rich people. I was stuck at the mercy of my brothers and I didn't know what to do.

My mind raced as I stared at the big rock that sat on the edge of the Field. It represented the only visible landscape in the otherwise desolate area. It served as a backstop for our bizarre-shaped diamond. The boulder towered over me, and it had a crevice in its side that looked like a set of big lips. A year earlier, Cole and Micah, the boys who lived next door, had colored the gap with red spray paint, making it look like bright red lipstick.

As the boys finally formed the line that Joe had commanded, they began to choose teams. I jumped up on top of the big rock behind them, sat down, and dangled my feet over the side where the lips showed. The boys continued to pick teams, unfazed by my attempt to get their attention. I desperately tried to think of a way to get into the game as I chewed on my fingernails. On top of that giant rock, I felt like a queen on a throne. And I started thinking like one. A few of the boys below me looked up to see what I was doing. I twisted my thick, black hair around my index finger as my mind raced. With each thought my short legs swung faster and faster across the pretend lips. Within a few seconds I had devised the perfect way to make sure that I would get a chance to play.

I pushed myself off the rock and landed feet first in the thick clump of grass in front of the boys. Although I ran toward them, they still tried to ignore me. That is, until I made a challenge that changed everything.

"I bet I can hit the ball farther than you, Joe." I spoke loudly, pointing at him in front of everyone. This comment immediately drew the attention of the entire crowd. "Well?" I said, putting my hands on my hips.

"Ooooh." Sergio Lopez shot a sharp look at my brother, trying to egg him on. "Now that's a challenge, Joe."

"You get one pitch and I get three," I continued. "If I lose, I won't bug you to let me play ever again, but if I win, you have to promise that from now on, I always get to play!"

After I had spoken those words I wanted them back. What if Joe hit the ball farther than me? He was the best player on the Field, after all. If I quit now, I would probably get the chance to play tomorrow, or the next day. But if I lost, would I ever get the chance to play on The Field again? I had to take back my offer. "Wait, Joe, I--" my voice quivered and then stopped.

"See, I knew it," he said. "Now you're being smart, Selena. You don't want to play against me."

His cocky attitude made me want to scream. I couldn't back down now. "Yes I do." I moved to about three inches from my brother and stood on my tiptoes, in an attempt to look eye to eye with him. "Unless, I mean--" I grinned.

"Unless what?" He prodded.

"Unless, you're too scared--too chicken." I raised my eyebrows at my brother and laughed as I said, "Are you too chicken, Joe?"

I could see that Joe was fuming now. Sergio looked over at him and started flapping his arms up and down, imitating the movements of a chicken. "Buck, buck, buck, buck, buck!" I heard a few other boys jump in.

I smiled as I twisted and fiddled with the ribbons and bows that Mom had strewn through my hair. Even when I didn't come home looking like the poster child for a laundry detergent commercial, I had to have my nightly hair washing. Each morning before school, she would take the time to put ribbons in my hair. Every time I got nervous or excited about something I would run my fingers through the ribbons and I could almost hear Mom's voice saying, "Mi hija, you can do anything you set your mind to." Mi hija is an endearing way, in Spanish, to say my daughter . Mom always called me that.

"Buck, buck, buck, buck, buck." Carlos joined Sergio.

"Shut up, Carlos." Joe shot a tough guy look over at Carlos, who quickly went mute. Joe then moved closer to me, whispering so that only I could hear. "Okay, Selena, but just remember, you asked for this. It's time I teach you a lesson, little girl." Joe glanced at the crowd of about fifteen boys who were gathered around us at home plate. "Let's play ball." He smiled nervously again, knowing deep down that this was not a winning situation for him. On one hand, he could not turn down my challenge in front of all these people, especially after all the chicken stuff. But if he accepted it, and beat his baby sister, whom he was more than a foot taller, he would still look foolish.

Then, there was the unthinkable. He could lose.

Feeling the pressure of the situation, he addressed the crowd once more. "I'll even bat left-handed, to give her a chance." Everyone smiled at this show of sportsmanship. The truth was, they were all secretly hoping that Joe, the biggest and oldest boy on the Field, would lose.

I reached down and grabbed the smallest aluminum bat from the pile of five. From experience I realized that being the youngest had one distinct advantage--I got to go first. I loved a challenge, but I thrived even more off the chance to put pressure on my opponent. I dug my dirty white tennis shoes into the lumpy grass and barked at Joe, "I'm ready." The group of boys stood a few feet behind me at home plate as Joe marched over to the pitcher's mound.

He lofted the first pitch softly into the air and my uppercut swing sent the baseball looping high, but not far. Shoot. That wasn't going to do it. Even left-handed, my brother would be able to hit the ball farther than that. "That was just the first one." I explained to the crowd. "Give me another one, Joe."

The second pitch was a bit inside and the ball weakly bounced off the handle of my bat. That one was even shorter than my first swing. Joe was really smiling now, knowing that if I didn't make good contact with this next pitch he would beat me very easily, and do so left-handed. "All right, this is it. Now I'm serious." I said, trying to convince myself. The crowd settled back a few feet, obviously disappointed by my first two swings. They knew that there was no chance I was going to beat Joe without an awesome final swing.

I pounded the bat into the ground three times, refocusing. "Keep your eye on the ball, Selena," I told myself. Snapping the bat back into position, I intensely watched Joe's right hand. The third pitch came in a little low, but that forced me to level out my swing. As I extended my short arms, the ball hit the "sweet spot" of my bat and shot forty feet in the air, sailing into center field and rolling another fifteen feet after it hit the ground. It was probably the farthest ball I had ever hit.

I have to mention that smacking a baseball perfectly on the "sweet spot" is probably the greatest feeling in the world. And after experiencing it in front of everyone, I desperately wanted more.

"Whoooa!!" reacted the neighborhood boys who stood behind me.

"Uh-oh, Joe." Sergio laughed and looked over at my brother.

"Big hit, Selena!" Carlos slapped me five.

I raised my right arm and pointed at the ball. "I think that's a winner! But you better leave it there just in case the "Incredible Hulk" gets lucky."

The look on Joe's face reflected his nervousness, but he tried to mask it, lifting his head high. "Give me any bat. It doesn't matter."

Sergio tossed him the "Big Barrel," the bat known for its fat head. "Show us what you've got, Joe."

Joe flipped the bat awkwardly over his left shoulder. He took a few practice swings, but each one sent the bat wobbling in different directions. He was no switch hitter. Everyone knew that.

"Now, remember, only one swing," I chuckled.

All eyes focused on Joe. Carlos wound up and delivered a pitch in the dirt, which Joe was smart enough not to swing at. "Sorry Joe," Carlos winked at me, letting me know that he was doing whatever he could to help me win. I knew that his next pitch was going to have to be over the plate, or Carlos would really hear it from Joe. Sure enough, I was right. Carlos let go of a straight pitch that headed right down the middle of the plate. As the ball reached the batter's box Joe swung the heavy bat with all his might and connected solidly with the ball. At first I thought for sure that his ball was going to fly past mine. Luckily for me though, the ball connected with the top half of his bat and sailed straight up into the air. It flew like a bird for about seventy feet and then plopped straight down near second base, well short of my blast.

"That was a terrible pitch, Carlos!" Joe yelled in embarrassment as he walked up to Carlos and gave him a shove.

I skipped over to Joe to shake his hand, but he scampered away, finding a spot within the crowd of boys. "Go away, Selana." He acted like a wounded soldier looking for the protection of his troops.

My light brown face beamed as I announced, "Well, looks like I'll be seeing you guys tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the next!"

Watching my cocky brother wilt was rewarding, but the greatest prize I earned that day on the Field was the respect of the neighborhood boys. After seeing me take on Joe, the biggest and toughest guy out there, everyone agreed that this little girl could play. No longer was I the last player picked on the Field. And, to my surprise, there were no more whispers of, "Just let her get on base." The "pitch underhand to Selena" rule was wiped out, too.

Baseball truly became the focus of my life. Winning that bet with Joe started it all. From that day on, more than anything else, I wanted to be a baseball player.