SAFE AT HOME
JENNIFER IACOPELLI
My older sister has always been great. It’s like a universal truth. The Earth revolves around the sun. What goes up must come down, because, you know, gravity. And Meredith Hancock is great.
Great at what?
Great at everything.
Great at school, near the top of her class since kindergarten; great at baseball, leading our town’s All-Star team to the Little League World Series when she was twelve. She was the only middle school girl on varsity cross-country and basketball and, of course, softball, once she swapped over to play with the other girls. All-State as an eighth grader, All-Region as a freshman, and then All-American honors rolling in by her sophomore and junior years.
Like I said, great.
But I’m not sure I understood just how great until right now, playing against her in a national championship game at Hall of Fame Stadium in Oklahoma City, the capital of fastpitch softball. It’s not even because of the home run she blasted off my best curveball last inning to put her team ahead. Though, yeah, my neck is still feeling the whiplash of watching the laser beam she rocketed disappear over the left field fence.
No, it’s from where I’m standing in the on-deck circle while she’s squatting behind home plate and she frames a pitch that’s clearly outside so well even the umpire behind her is fooled into thinking it’s a strike. The same way she’s done the whole game. The whole tournament, really. She’s the best player in this thing and it’s not close. And that’s saying something at the Amateur Softball Association’s 18-Under Gold Nationals, the most elite club fastpitch softball tournament in the country.
“Strike three!” the ump yells, but no one is even listening to him because Meredith shifts her weight down, pivots on her knee, and fires a laser beam to third, where the runner, my teammate Kiera, drifted just a little too far away from the base. Kiera dives back, but way too late.
“Out!” the field umpire calls as the girl who caught the ball checks the other runner, Hayden, at first. She gets back to the base without a throw, but the damage is done.
The crowd in the stands explodes behind us. It’s mostly our families and the players from the teams already eliminated and their families. And the college coaches here to scout. Not that I’m thinking about them. Or whether or not my parents are cheering.
I’ve always wondered who they’d root for if Meredith and I played against each other.
I’m absolutely never going to ask.
It’s a pretty good life philosophy: Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.
That’s not important now, though. What’s important is what just happened, because ten seconds ago we had the upper hand.
We had runners on first and third, nobody out, and one of our best hitters up at the plate. We were a fly ball away from tying the game, an extra base hit away from scoring two runs—Hayden’s superfast, she’ll score on anything in the gap—and walking off this field National Champions.
But that was then.
Now?
We’re down to our final out.
And I’m up to bat.
Tying run on first.
Winning run at the plate.
No pressure.
It’s not like I’m the only rising sophomore on a team full of almost seniors, facing one of the best pitchers in the country, my sister’s best friend, Nora.
“Hey, we got two down!” Meredith says from out in front of home plate, standing tall, nearly six feet in her cleats. Her catcher’s mask is up, revealing her face to her teammates like the field general she’s been since the first time she put on that equipment. She’s holding a hand in the air, waving it to the outfielders, pointer and pinkie fingers raised. Her face is streaked with dirt. So is her uniform, the black material and maroon lettering of the famous California Diamond Queens—the oldest and most prestigious travel softball club in the country, the team I didn’t make, thanks to Nora being completely dominant—almost disappearing under it. Her light brown hair, the same color as mine, is pasted against her forehead in the Oklahoma heat. It’s been unforgiving this past week, but it’s almost over now.
Bottom of the seventh.
Two outs.
Championship on the line.
I glance back at my dugout, my teammates lined up against the fence, fingers twined in the chain link, desperate to do something to change what just happened, but the only person who can do that is me.
And I’m just Molly. The other Hancock.
And yeah, maybe I’m good. Really good. But the SoCal Heat didn’t pull me up from their 16-Under team for my bat. I’m not a bad hitter, but I’m mostly here because one of their pitchers got hurt right before the tournament. I half expected Coach to pinch-hit for me. But asking someone to come off the bench cold and face down a girl who’ll play for UCLA next year? That’s asking a lot of anyone.
Copyright © 2024 by Dahlia Adler and Jennifer Iacopelli
