Slow Contact Hitter
August 2, 2022 – Columbia, South Carolina, USA
“I’m turning it all the way up to 90,” Lyle announced to his friend, Colin, as he adjusted the speed setting on the batting cage’s pitching machine.
“You’re going to whiff on everything,” Colin replied with a laugh from behind the cage’s protective fence.
Lyle stepped into position, and just as his friend predicted, swung late. He made contact only with air as the first three baseballs flew past him. He had grown used to slower and fatter softballs, playing on a league team organized by his boss. His high school baseball days were a distant memory. Now, the only time he tracked a ball moving close to 90 miles-per-hour was when he and Colin paid for a night at the batting cages.
“I need to anticipate. Start swinging while it’s still in the machine,” Lyle said, mostly to himself. He choked up on the bat in his hands. He threw his arms forward as he caught the first glimpse of a ball. CRACK! The pitch glanced sideways from the bat and ricocheted off a steel support pole. Lyle felt a blow to his helmet right above the left ear hole. He dropped to one knee and squeezed his eyelids shut. A halo of light flashed inside his head.
“You okay? Lyle?” Colin’s words sounded slow, like a recording being played at half speed.
Lyle opened his eyes in time to see the next pitch leave the machine. The ball crawled through the humid air. Lyle’s head felt heavy as he turned to look at the control dial. It was still set to 90 mph. The next two balls also moved impossibly slow.
Colin continued to ask in a drawn-out voice if Lyle was alright. Lyle ignored him and his own well-being and strained to get to his feet. His bat felt like a sledgehammer as he raised it to his shoulder and crouched into a batting stance.
Lyle watched the seams of the next ball spin as it left the batting machine. He had time to track its exact path and he pulled hard on his bat to intercept. It felt like swinging through water, but the ball and bat made clean contact. The ball shot forward.
“Hey! You hit one! Where did that come from?” called Colin with stretched-out words.
Lyle hefted the bat back to his shoulder and hit the next ball. Then the next and the next. When they appeared to move so slow, he could not miss. It was only a matter of intersecting the flight path with the heavy bat.
“How are you doing this? What happened?” shouted Colin.
Lyle turned around to reply, his own words coming out like he was imitating a foghorn. “Something happened to my head. When that ball hit me, everything slowed down. Or maybe my brain sped up.”
“You could play in the majors! Break all the hitting records!”
“Ha. I’m too old for that.”
“Not if you can make contact every time. I could talk to Hunter Henry. You know, the guy who’s dating my sister and manages the Single A team. He could get you started and then move you up to the big leagues.”
Lyle smiled at the idea. “It would be cool to play for real. I wonder if I should talk to a doctor first.”
Over the next few days, Lyle adapted to the world around him moving at half speed. He saw a doctor who concluded there was nothing obviously wrong with his brain and the sensation he was feeling would probably fade. At the same time, Colin cornered Hunter Henry at a family dinner and pestered him about a miracle hitter who was going to bat over .500 in the majors.
Lyle and Colin showed up at Grainger Field, home of the minor league Class A Columbia Fireflies, in the middle of the day. They wore shorts and extra-large T-shirts to cover their pear-shaped torsos. As they strolled toward the net set up behind home plate, Colin spotted Hunter.
“Here he is! My friend Lyle!” Colin called excitedly. “Prepare to be amazed!”
Hunter was younger than Colin and Lyle and full of nervous energy. He looked lean in his Fireflies uniform, with a dark tan on his arms and face. He took one look at Lyle and spit on the ground. “Since I promised to take a look, let’s get this over with.”
Colin continued to talk up Lyle. “Something weird happened to his brain. Pitches look slow. He can hit anything. Get on base every time. You’ll see. You’ll want him on your roster.”
“I’m not looking to sign anyone this late in the season. For everyone dreaming about playing pro ball, we have walk-on tryouts in the spring.”
Colin acted like he did not hear Hunter’s discouraging words. He turned to Lyle and said, “Okay, show him what you got.”
Lyle felt embarrassed as Hunter handed him a bat and he walked to home plate. One of the Firefly coaches stood on the pitcher’s mound with a pitching machine. He fed in a ball and it spun toward Lyle. He could tell it was traveling around 70 mph, even slower than at the batting cages. He tugged his bat into position and easily made contact. The ball flew gently past the infield. Lyle repeated the action until Hunter called, “Turn up the speed.”
Lyle handled the speedier balls, popping them into the outfield grass.
“See, he can hit anything!” Colin shouted.
“Throw him a few!” Hunter called to the coach on the mound. “Hitting against the machine is one thing. A real arm is different.”
The coach pushed aside the pitching machine and tossed change-up and curveball pitches at Lyle. He knocked them all into the field, even those well outside the strike zone.
“Run out the next one!” Hunter called to Lyle. “Let’s see how long it takes you to reach first base.”
Lyle sent the next pitch looping beyond second base. He dropped the heavy bat and trudged down the first base line. It felt like running in a swimming pool. He reached the base and doubled over from heavy breathing.
Hunter turned to Colin and said, “He’s not much of an athlete. And doesn’t hit with much power. Barely clears the infield.”
“But he can hit anything. Every time.”
Hunter stopped shaking his head. A grin slowly raised his lips. He obviously had an idea. He walked toward Lyle and called out, “You think you can purposely hit fouls?”
“I think so.”
“Let’s see.”
Lyle returned to the batter’s box. As the next pitches drifted toward him, he made sure they bounced off his bat at bad angles. Some careened directly behind him. Others sailed sharply left or right, outside the field of play.
Hunter continued grinning. “You sure you can keep that up?”
“If you want me to.”
“I’m thinking of an experiment. You willing to try something? Get a chance at being a pro ball player?”
Even with the world still moving slowly around him, the next two days were a dreamy blur for Lyle. He signed a contract for the minimum league salary and the equipment manager for the Fireflies found him a uniform. He was quietly introduced to his new teammates as an experiment. He was twice their age, and they kept their distance.
On the night of his first game, Lyle floated into the team’s dugout and stared out at the illuminated field. The smell of cut grass hung in the thick air and mingled with the smell of popcorn. Mumbled crowd noise was punctuated by the POP of practice pitches hitting a catcher’s mitt. Lyle could not imagine a better place in the world. He spotted Colin sitting close to third base.
Hunter sauntered over and reminded Lyle of the strategy. “You’re the leadoff hitter. Your job is to wear out their starting pitcher. He’s a hard thrower and they’ll pull him once his pitch count gets too high. Foul off everything.”
“What if I know I can get on base?”
“Keep fouling. No hits.”
Lyle sat on the bench as his teammates recorded three quick outs in the top of the first inning. Then he grabbed a bat and walked out to hit. The scoreboard flashed his stats: no at bats for the season. Several thousand fans wondered why he was in the game, but they cheered anyway. To Lyle’s ears, they sounded like the deep roar of ocean waves.
On the pitcher’s mound for the Charleston RiverDogs was a six-foot four-inch kid, right out of high school. He smirked when he sized up Lyle. It was the same smirk Lyle had seen from his fellow Fireflies.
The kid wound up and threw his whole body into a pitch which tracked down the middle of home plate. Lyle leaned forward and pulled his bat down. The ball spiraled backward into the protective screen. Foul. Strike one. The next pitch produced the same result. Foul. Strike two. Then eight more pitches and eight more fouls. The count stayed at no balls and two strikes.
The young pitcher grew frustrated. He tried curve balls and changeups way out of the strike zone. Lyle acted like it was no big deal to reach out his bat and send the balls flying into foul territory. He glanced at Hunter who smiled and clapped his hands together.
When the pitch count reached 40, the kid on the mound was unmistakably flustered. He wiped the sweat from his face and shook his head at the catcher. The crowd began to boo each new foul which held up the game. Lyle figured it was time to move things along. He sent the next pitch looping lazily over the third baseman and then scrambled with every ounce of available energy to first base. He barely beat a throw from the left fielder.
Lyle turned in a circle and waved triumphantly at the cheering crowd. Hunter called time out and stormed onto the field.
“I got a hit!” Lyle proudly shouted at his manager.
Hunter scowled. “You weren’t supposed to get a hit. Anyone can get a hit. You were supposed to turn his arm into a noodle.”
“I thought I did enough. The crowd wasn’t happy. So I got on base.”
“I don’t care. You’re here to do one job. Getting on base doesn’t matter. Go back to the bench. I’m putting in a pinch runner because I don’t think you could make it around the bases.”
Lyle watched the rest of the game from the dugout. He cheered for his team but had no hope of seeing more action on the field.
At the start of the next night’s game, Lyle kept to Hunter’s instructions. No matter how much the crowd booed, he stuck out his bat and fouled off pitches. The count got to 53 before four pitches were too outside for Lyle to reach. He dropped his bat and strolled to first base on a walk. He shrugged his shoulders toward Hunter to show there was nothing he could do but take the gift. Hunter immediately pulled him for a pinch runner and he sat the rest of the night.
By the fourth game with the RiverDogs, their manager figured out Hunter’s strategy. Instead of letting Lyle wear out their starting pitcher, he was immediately walked with four lazy pitches way out of the strike zone. The Fireflies’ next games were against the Myrtle Beach Pelicans. The RiverDogs warned the Pelicans about Lyle, the fouling machine. He stepped up to the plate for his first at-bat and was promptly walked.
Lyle showed up for the next game worried about his baseball future. He was not surprised when Hunter took him aside and said, “I’m afraid the experiment is over. I can’t keep playing you.”
“I did everything you wanted. I get on base every time.”
“It was fun while it lasted, but I can only have a certain number of players and you’re too one dimensional. The whole point of the minor leagues is to develop players for the majors. They’re looking for well-rounded kids, not middle-aged gimmicks.”
“But I can get on base. I can give you a hit any time you need one.”
“I’m not so sure. You’ve got no power. You’re too slow to run or be out in the field. And I answer to management. They’ll ask why I’m wasting a roster spot.”
Lyle hung his head but could not argue his case. He simply asked, “Could I have one more at bat? Let me swing away?”
“We’ll see.”
Lyle stayed close to Hunter in the dugout so he would not be forgotten. In the bottom of the 6th inning, the Fireflies had two outs and the bases loaded. Hunter did not have faith in his next batter. He turned to Lyle and said, “I must be crazy. Get out there and see what you can do.”
“Swing away?”
“Get on base.”
Myrtle Beach was in a tight situation. They recognized Lyle as the foul machine, but if Lyle walked, he would force in a run. The pitcher decided to throw strikes and attempt to get an out.
Lyle watched the first ball leave the pitcher’s hand and knew it was heading right over the plate. He had plenty of time to bring his bat around and aim carefully toward the third base line. The ball hopped off his bat and landed fair, just in front of the grass outfield. Then it slowly rolled toward the low wall beyond the dugout.
The stadium exploded with noise and chaos. The three men on base lurched forward. A Myrtle Beach outfielder sprinted for the ball from a dead stop. Lyle dropped his bat and chugged toward first base as if he was dragging cinderblocks. The first base coach gave him the sign to keep running so he gasped and wheezed his way to second.
The Myrtle Beach players were most concerned about the runners in front of Lyle. A wild throw to home plate got lost in the backstop fence. The third base coach waved for Lyle to keep moving. He rumbled around second like he was halfway through a marathon. When he finally got close to third, the coach yelled for him to slide. He awkwardly launched himself headfirst and desperately reached for the bag.
The throw to third was low and off the mark. The ball hit Lyle in the helmet, right above the left ear hole and dribbled to the ground. The umpire yelled, “Safe!” Lyle squeezed his eyes shut and the flashing halo was back in his brain. He rose unsteadily and realized the crowd sounded different. The tone was higher.
Lyle glanced around and the other players moved at normal speed. The switch in his brain had flipped back.
The crowd screamed and clapped as Lyle got to his feet. He knew he was living the last minute of a dream. He spotted Colin holding up a phone to record the scene. In another year, they would be the only ones who cared about what happened, no matter how much they talked about it during future softball games.
But somewhere, Lyle’s record as a pro would be recorded. Since the walks did not count, his official stats would be two at bats and two hits. A perfect 1.000 batting average. He could hit anything.
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