"Brunette" Water Color Painting by Janet Butler

T he sweat poured off Amber’s face, wetting her hair as the smoke-like steam wafted above her head highlighted by fluorescent light. Amber stood on the pitching mound—she was fourteen and facing Angel, the biggest, baddest homerun hitter in the league—even in Marion County, FL.

There were five teams on that league; the Colts, the Giants, The Gators, and a couple more that never amounted to much. Amber pitched for the Gators.

“Amber, strike her out!” yelled Stacy at first base.

“I will,” Amber yelled back, shaking the sweat out of her face.

Angel stood there on the plate, tapping her bat against her heels like a pro. She was swinging practice swings and pointing over the fence as if she was Babe Ruth incarnate in her maroon and gold Colt’s uniform. Amber slapped the white softball against the leather glove that still had her father’s name on it from when he used it. She stepped back a little standing on the plastic white marker that reminds a pitcher just how far away the batter is—just how hard it is to hit the strike zone. She grinned at Angel. Amber wiped sweat from her eyes on the sleeve of her orange and blue uniform, leaving a white makeup mark that never washes out.
Cat calls of “hey batter, batter, swing!” rang out from the backfield, but psyche-outs never worked on Angel Bailey.

Angel finally finished her show, and it was time for Amber’s to begin.

Amber looked around, checking the runners on the bases. Any one of them could steal the next base at any second. She’d catch them in the corner of her eye. Most didn’t try to steal bases on Amber; they thought she had eyes in the back of her head. It was just really good peripheral vision.

Amber took her stance—knees together—ankles together—ball in her right hand—glove on her left. Her hands positioned just right at the front of her chest. Right between the one and the three on her orange and blue softball shirt.

This was fast pitch softball where pitching speeds reached up to 96 miles per hour. Amber was just about to pitch the ball when the runner on first took a try at stealing to second base. The girl had barely made it off the bag when Amber threw the ball to the first baseman, which tagged the runner out in what seemed split seconds. The new girl on the Colts just learned a valuable lesson.

Two outs, one to go then it would be the Gators’ turn at bat. Amber began her ritual again. She knew every square inch of that white ball with its red stitching in a figure eight like shape around the ball. Amber felt each stitch and knew how to find the “sweet spot.” The spot where the fingers should go to throw the nastiest curve ball a girl can possibly throw. She let it rip.

“Strike one!” The umpire yelled out.

Angel glared at Amber. A snarled, mean look of disgust crawled across Angel’s face. It was time for a change up, Amber thought. She turned the ball on its side gripping the edges of the skinniest parts of the stitching.
This will be a knuckle ball.

“Strike two!” the umpire rang out.

Angel was fire mad. Amber swore she saw a flame or two coming out of Angel’s left ear. Angel got ready and Amber decided on another curve ball.

Amber stepped back and threw the ball with everything she had; trying to strike a star hitter out was not an easy task.

The ball flew towards Angel, aimed perfectly at the strike zone. Angel swung at it with all her might, putting every ounce of strength and anger into that swing. The bat made contact with the ball. A white flash went flying in the air, straight at Amber’s face. Before Amber could think, she reached up with her bare right hand and caught the ball as it slammed her hand into her forehead. Angel fumed as she went back to the dugout, throwing her bat onto the ground.

Amber walked proudly off the mound, shaking her numbed hand, with a devilish grin.