An ongoing exercise in creative nonfiction.
In the waning light of a Bloomington summer, the stage was set for a clash of titans: the decisive showdown between Coach Tommy's Rockies and Coach Jax's Swaggers, two teams that epitomized Michael Jordan's axiom for athletic excellence: "Practice like you've never won, play like you've never lost."
The episode from two weeks prior, when Coach Jax had cunningly manipulated the rulebook to eke out a hollow win against the shorthanded Rockies, remained fresh in everyone's memory.
That bitter forfeit had crystallized the Rockies' resolve, solidifying their commitment to baseball. As the regular season neared its conclusion, both teams demonstrated such exceptional skill and teamwork that their status as the premier squads in the league was beyond dispute.
Being on top of the league's pecking order wasn't all beer and skittles. Both teams found themselves in the crosshairs of the self-appointed moral umpires. You'd think these keyboard warriors were watching a criminal syndicate rather than a youth league ballgame.
To hear them tell it, every stolen base was grand larceny, every high-five was a slap in the face of the less fortunate, and every victory was an endorsement of cutthroat capitalism run amok. Ah, the trials of winning in an age when you're damned if you're competent. But anyone who knows the first thing about competitive sports—or life, for that matter—gets it: this sort of brow-furrowing scrutiny comes with the territory when you're actually good at something.
Tommy, a connoisseur of both language and baseball, found it instructive to explore the subtle differences and close relationship between the words sportsmanship and gamesmanship:
sports·man·ship (spȯrts' mən ship), n. the practice or skill of treating others fairly and maintaining an ethical approach in competitive situations; upholding the spirit and rules of the game with grace, courtesy, and a sense of fair play. games·man·ship (gāmz' mən ship), n. the art of gaining a competitive edge within the rules and framework of a game, but sometimes pushing the boundaries of sportsmanship; employing strategic maneuvers to outwit or unsettle the opponent. |
In Tommy's final analysis, mastering the minutiae of the rulebook was hardly ruthless pedanticism—it was strategic necessity. He saw a reflection of his own cunning in Coach Jax, a rival who stretched his tactical wits in the same way his father-in-law Bernie did during their knock-down, drag-out Monopoly duels. Tommy recognized that a bit of cutthroat determination was essential for culling the weak links and setting the table for a showdown of titans. Far from a vice, instilling this competitive fire in his players felt like a duty, especially in a country he thought was losing its backbone.
The Lollipop Guild, that notorious trio of pint-sized Swaggers, had vexed many a pitcher with their diminutive strike zones. Yet today, the Rockies' arms met the challenge. They weren't perfect, but they managed to cut the Guild's bases-on-balls by half.
That didn't mean the Swaggers were entirely contained. Their stronger hitters lived by baseball's venerable mantra,
"Hit it where they ain't." —Yogi Berra
But fewer walks meant fewer runs on those hits. Moreover, when the Swaggers tried and failed to find those elusive gaps, the Rockies' fielders didn't just meet the challenge—they owned it.
Evoking the cannon-arm accuracy of Roberto Clemente . . .
. . . the ground-covering acrobatics of Ozzie Smith . . .
. . . and the cat-like reflexes of Brooks Robinson . . .
. . . their defensive gems continually froze the Swaggers' offense in its tracks. It was a tribute to the Rockies' renewed dedication—and availability—at each team practice since their demoralizing, shorthanded forfeit.
On this day, the Rockies proved unbreakable. The Swaggers would find no easy scores; any runs had to be hard-earned. Fortunately for the Rockies, their own offense was firing on all cylinders, answering any runs the Swaggers put on the board, and then some.
In the top of the fourth, Tris, Tommy's son, delivered a clutch triple that cleared the bases. By the end of their half of the inning, the scoreboard flashed 16 to 12 in favor of the Rockies.
Tommy and his assistant coach Jerry shared a knowing glance over the moment's significance: a win here would mark their first victory over the Swaggers, the only team that had defeated the Rockies during the entire season.
Huddling his team in the dugout at mid-inning, Tommy's intensity approached the level of a revivalist preacher. "They think they are the best in the league, but last time I looked they were in second place."
The Rockies cheered him on, and feeling the adrenaline rush, he only got edgier and skirted the edge of appropriate language toward his young charges: "Now let's go rock them till they cry for mama, and knock the swag out of those Swaggers!"
Sensing that Tommy's rallying cry had hovered dangerously close to crossing a line, Coach Jerry exhaled quietly, relieved that Tommy's impassioned directive hadn't quite reached the ears of the more vigilant parents in the stands.
When Tyrus took the mound, he felt uplifted by this latest in the season-long series of Tommy's pep talks—talks the team had affectionately nicknamed "voodoo" for their near-magical ability to ignite game-changing rallies.
Tommy understood the transformative power of a dopamine rush. This chemical jolt to the brain is often associated with pleasure, motivation, and reward. He'd seen it turn average players into stars under pressure. This wasn't just psychological fluff; it was a tangible, neurochemical boost. It could—and did—make his Rockies perform like champions when it mattered most. And that was his secret voodoo.
Facing Tyrus was Curtis, the Swaggers' star hitter and one of the league's shining talents. Their eyes locked in an intense showdown, a battle of wills encapsulated in the few seconds before the pitch. Tyrus unleashed a curveball of artistic perfection, baffling Curtis, who swung through nothing but empty air. Curtis gave Tyrus a nod in appreciation for the skillful pitch.
This welcome show of sportsmanship did not go unnoticed by Tommy. He was growing to appreciate this rivalry among equals much the same as he had his Monopoly rivalry with his father-in-law.
In the dugout, Jerry leaned in close to Tommy. "They're faltering," he whispered while covering his mouth, ensuring his lips weren't read.
"Time's also in our corner," Tommy responded, gesturing subtly toward the setting sun. Under league rules, no new inning could commence after 8:40 p.m. The clock read 8:35. If the game didn't advance to the fifth inning, the Rockies would secure the win.
The atmosphere on the field was electric, a palpable mix of tension and anticipation. Gabby, the Rockies' resident chatterbox in the infield, kept adrenaline levels high with his infectious, signature rallying cries. A narrow three-run lead was all that stood between the Rockies and their first-ever triumph over their nemesis, the Swaggers.
Once again, time was the Rockies' relentless foe, only now it couldn't move fast enough. According to league rules, a new inning couldn't start past 8:40 p.m. A slow roller back to the mound followed by a throw to first marked the Swaggers' final out. Checking his phone, Tommy saw it was 8:38—just under the wire for a new inning to start.
Tommy knew Coach Jax had an astute understanding of gametime dynamics and league rules. Last time, it provided him a win by forfeit; this time, it seemed the Swaggers had purposely gotten out in quick succession to wedge in one final inning before the witching hour. Thinking back to when Curtis struck out on three hittable pitches, it appeared to be at the instruction of his time-sensitive coach.
"Shrewd move," Tommy muttered under his breath.
"What's that?" Jerry asked.
"Nothing," Tommy replied, admiring the cunning strategy deployed by his counterpart on the opposing bench.
At that moment, Tripp, the by-the-book umpire who had a habit of—perhaps coincidentally—favoring the Swaggers, called both coaches over. "We've got time for one more inning," he announced.
Tommy had to smile; Tripp was as predictable as he was consistent.
A satisfied grin spread across Jax's face. "Great—let's play ball!"
As the sun retreated fully below the horizon, the unlit field grew increasingly shadowy. Visibility became a challenge, complicating both hitting and fielding. Though the Rockies' offense stalled in this difficult setting, the Swaggers, finding themselves similarly constrained, finally came alive. They shifted their strategy to one of discipline, barely swinging but drawing walks against the Rockies' visibly fatigued relievers. The tactic worked, allowing them to eke out a final score of 17 to 16.
The Rockies confronted an unexpected outcome: they would be entering the season-ending tournament in the number two spot.
Jerry exhaled, his face etched with resignation. "So, I guess we're the underdogs now."
A gleam shone in Tommy's eyes. "Exactly where we want to be. This team thrives when we're cornered—no prisoners taken, no mercy shown."
Jerry hesitated, his words tinged with apprehension. "The next team that underestimates us is playing with fire." His words came across as more of a dire warning of impending danger than as a prediction.
In response, Tommy's laugh—akin to a lethal growl—reverberated through the air. As if on cue, a cacophony of barks erupted from neighborhood dogs. "They won't be just playing with fire, Jerry. They'll be dancing in a field of land mines."
Jerry looked at Tommy with guarded concern. Was Tommy turning this child's game into something far more serious? Despite his reservations, he decided now was not the time to challenge his coaching partner. He didn't dare further ignite the volatile competitive atmosphere that hung in the evening air. It was precisely his ability to deescalate such emotionally charged situations that made him the ideal counterpart to the impassioned Tommy.
Meanwhile, Tommy's tactical mindset continued spinning at a fever pitch, like a military leader on the eve of a do-or-die campaign. Perhaps sliding into second place at the season's end provided the perfect smokescreen to make subsequent opponents underestimate his Rockies—doing so would be a fatal misjudgment.
Now, the Rockies were fully armed and dangerous, weaponized and poised to wreak havoc on any team that stood in their way. Ever since the first pitch of the season, Tommy had been singularly focused on preparing the Rockies for a tournament showdown that would make the game's historic rivalries look like child's play.
And what could be a more fitting conclusion than to vanquish their arch-nemeses, the Swaggers, in a final, winner-takes-all, double-elimination deathmatch? Any resistance by weaker opponents along the way would be met with scorched earth. For Tommy, the grand finale—his own day of reckoning—was imminent.
Tommy was resolute: Jax and his Swaggers would face their comeuppance, even if it consumed him.
Next (extra innings): "The Final Bell" . . .
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