Cloveshire Claws 5 — Branstead Briars 3

Hey! I’m Jade Chandlers. I’m a badger-folk, and the reserve catcher for one of the Eastwyn teams in the Wonderforest, the Cloveshire Claws.

Now, let me tell you something. The worst thing about being the reserve catcher is having the best seat in the dugout to watch somebody else do your job better than you.

“Strike one!”

The home-plate umpire’s voice carries across the field. A few Cloveshire parents clap from the stands, though most sound too nervous to put much force behind it.

“Can’t blame them. It’s the top of the ninth. No outs, and the bases are loaded.”

We started the inning with a two-run lead and have spent the last few minutes doing everything possible to make that lead feel imaginary. One clean hit could tie the game. Anything into the gap could hand Branstead the whole thing.

As expected, our catcher doesn’t seem worried.

She remains crouched behind the plate, mitt resting near her knee. Her black, wolfish ears angle toward the mound while the Briars’ batter steps out and adjusts his gloves. From the dugout, she looks so calm that I almost resent her for it.

The pitcher takes the return throw, wipes his palm against his trousers, and glances toward the runners. Our catcher gives him another sign.

He nods.

The next pitch catches the lower corner.

“Strike two!”

That fills the count. Now the Branstead side starts making noise. Their bench pounds the railing, their third-base coach claps at the runners, and the batter circles one foot through the dirt before settling back into the box.

She’s Cloveshire’s starting catcher and leadoff hitter, the one calling the defense whenever the game matters. Coach usually watches her workload closely. Today, he’s letting her stay behind the plate until the final out.

Oh, and did I mention that she is completely blind?

Yes. Completely!

I had the same question when I first met her: How does a blind girl catch pitches, track runners, call plays, and bat leadoff?

The honest answer is that I still don’t fully know.

I’ve heard pieces of the explanation. She reads sound, air movement, and vibrations in ways I can’t. I know she touches the dirt sometimes. I know unfamiliar fields give her trouble.

None of that explains how she seems to hold the whole diamond inside her head.

Maybe it doesn’t need to, because right now, with Branstead threatening to erase our lead, I trust her more than I trust anyone else on this field.

Our pitcher comes set.

The runner at third leans toward home. The one at second creeps several steps off the bag, while the runner on first bounces lightly on his toes.

Behind the plate, our catcher presses two fingers briefly into the dirt. Then, the pitcher begins his motion.

All three runners break with the pitch!

The batter swings and sends a hard line drive straight toward third.

Our third baseman catches it at chest height. The umpire’s fist shoots up.

“Out!”

“Bag!” our catcher shouts.

The runner who left third is already halfway home. Our third baseman wheels around and steps on the bag before he can scramble back.

“Out!”

“Second!” our catcher calls.

The throw flies across the infield. Branstead’s runner from second is still trying to reverse direction when our second baseman catches it and steps on the bag.

“And then…”

“Out!”

Three outs in less time than it takes most people to understand the first one.

The umpire throws up his fist and shouts, “That’s the ball game!”

For a moment, everyone on the field goes still, stunned by the play. Then the Cloveshire side erupts.

The families in the stands cheer. Our bench empties, and I run out with everyone else, laughing as the infielders crowd together. It’s only a scrimmage, so nobody dogpiles or cries over it. On his way over, Coach reminds us to chill because we haven’t won anything important.

He’s smiling when he says it, though.

But he’s smiling when he says it, though.

Our catcher gets surrounded first. Someone pats the top of her mask. Another teammate grabs her shoulders and demands to know how she knew the ball would go toward third.

She answers with something I can’t hear over everyone else.

Probably something like, “It was obvious.”

I stay near the edge of the group until it begins to thin. Then later, after the closing exchanges, the Branstead players gather their equipment. Our pitcher heads toward the dugout with an arm around one of the infielders, still talking through the play. Coach starts ordering us to collect loose balls before half of Cloveshire walks home with them.

Our catcher removes her mask and tucks it under one arm. As her dark hair clings to her forehead, I couldn’t help but admire how the red streaks in her hair made her look even better.

I approach before I can find a good reason to wait. “Hey, Morgan?”

She turns her face toward my voice. “Yeah?”

“Good work out there.”

She gives me a small nod. “Naturally.”

I laugh, then raise my right hand between us. “High five?”

Her brow lifts.

“My hand’s on your right,” I explain. “Around shoulder height. Maybe slightly lower. I’m not holding it too high or anything, so you can just—”

She chuckles, cutting me off. “Save it. You’ve been standing in the same place this whole time.”

“I was only making sure.”

“I know, I know.”

SMACK!

Her hand rises and meets mine cleanly.

After that, she adjusts the mask beneath her arm and heads for the dugout, leaving me standing near home plate with my hand still raised like an idiot.

Oh, yeah. This catcher that I’m talking about? Her name is Morgan.

She’s my senior in Cloveshire’s baseball club, our starting catcher, and the player I watch whenever I’m supposed to be studying something else. She’s the catcher I look up to, the one whose position I want to earn someday, and the person I keep finding excuses to speak with after practice.

And somewhere along the way, that becomes a problem.

Because I have a crush on her.