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Chapter 3: Designated Runner




      "All right ladies," declares Coach Zerilla as the whole team stands along the left field foul line at the end of the second practice, "let’s see what we've got on the basepaths!"

"Aw Z, we already know the Dukes are plodders," groans senior first baseman Duke Schneider packing his second cheek with chew to buy some time before the annual team sprint.

"Here, here," laughs junior catcher Duke Shumate plopping down on the dry grass to take off shin guards, his cardinal red practice jersey and gray polyester pants darkened with sweat . "I second that emotion."

"One forty-yarder and we'll call it a day," Coach Z concedes before adding "but any loafers and you'll all do it again."



     This was the shot I hadn’t gotten at Louisville football camp earlier that week. I’d been the fastest short sprinter on high school teams, only overtaken beyond fifty yards by the track team record holder for the hundred-yard dash. I’d even worked on sprint form over the summer hoping to shave a tenth or two off my forty-yard dash speed.

     The two Dukes at first base and catcher were team leaders for their extra-base hitting and easygoing natures. They were shaped a little like manatees with bulging midsections, and, fortunately for me, they were just as slow from here to there.

     Our centerfielder was a fifth year senior who’d been the fastest player on the previous season’s football team. Chris Beauchamps was a lithe wide receiver from New Orleans who’d clocked in at 4.35 in the forty. He’d be our leadoff hitter and main base stealer for Coach Z’s small ball managing style that emphasized getting runners into scoring position at second or third base for Brett Goff and the Dukes to drive home.



     “Got room here?” I ask wedging a shoulder between Bo-hawks and that scholarship shortstop Richie Cunningham.

“On your mark,” calls Coach Murray holding up an arm at the forty-yard mark he’d stepped off from the foul line

“Get set,” he croaks as we assume various stances, mine being the sprinter’s crouch I’d worked on all summer.

“Go!” he shouts, but I’m off with the arm drop a split second before the sound arrives.

     The forty players trundle across left field in matching reds and grays, but I don’t see any of them except the hands pumping along beside me.

“4.4” calls Coach Murray as the Dukes take up the rear along with Cunningham.

“We just found our designated runner,” Coach Z proclaims as I huff into my knees pretending not to hear.



 

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