Nasrallah 1

Peake Nasrallah
Todd Seabrook
CRW 3110

Take It All In
I bobbed a little as the bass hit His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
looking down I felt the pressure of the moment weigh on my back like the weighted vest
I often wore to train on the weekends. Theres vomit on his sweater already, moms
spaghetti. I kept my eyes focused on the plate as I approached, the pine tar adhering to
my fingers when I gripped the handle of the bat.
JAAAYYYY WIIILLLLSSSOOONNN!!
The announcer sung my name charismatically. The gray, tightly fitted pants of the
catcher guarded the plate in the same manner a picket fence would shield a vicious dog
from the next door neighbors. Hes nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready
to drop bombs, I took a swing to get my feel and the sweet spot punched through the air,
synchronizing with the shudder of the bass coming through the loud speakers. But he
keeps on forgetting! Eminems words buzzed through my head making me feel like I was
capable of anything. Two taps on the plate, an adjustment of my helmet, a vigorous spit
over my left shoulder, and I was ready as the walk-up song faded queuing the pitcher to
wind up for the play.
After a brief glance in the direction of second base, the pitcher executed: the ball
left the three-fingered grip of its former possessor like a bullet leaves the barrel of a
sniper rifle. I could see the ball as if it was frozen in time, stuck mid-air between the

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pitchers mound and home plate. SMASH! The swing I took couldve easily ripped
through the windshield of a car causing glass to shatter into little pieces and that thin UV
protectant film to crack in a violent fashion. Despite that power, the smash I heard was
the sound of the maple wood bat breaking apart in front of my eyes. The Louis Slugger
logo was splintered in half where the bat had been blown apart by its contact with the
ball.
Goddamnit, I muttered with a sigh of defeat watching the ball awkwardly soar
over the foul line. Our team needed at least a homerun to win the game in the bottom of
the ninth inning that night. I knew the manager was in the dugout repeating to himself
Dont screw this up. Jay. Our ball boy tossed me another slugger so I could finish the
job I was there to do. I swung it through the air furiously as if daring it to break this time.
The catcher shifted his crouch back from the plate and gave the pitcher a signal I hadnt
seen before. The pitcher was cocked and ready before I could even find my stance on the
left side of the plate.
I remembered what my brother had said to me the night before he died. It was one
of those teaching moments for him because he had made it to the Majors. We were back
at home, Mom and Dad out at some blues fest in town, making use of the back porch that
overlooked the cotton fields. Six pack of Miller Lite and a fifth of Tennessee Honey
adorned the little table that separated the ancient rocking chairs on our back deck. Pat, I
said, after taking a swig of my beer. I rocked back in forth for a moment before I spoke.
What goes through your mind as you walk up to the plate? Pat was a short stop for the
Atlanta Braves where he played since hed been recruited out of high school six years
ago. He lived the American dream: a dream that I never foresaw for a member of my

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South Georgia redneck family. We lived on a 10-acre lot just outside of Thomasville. Dad
ran a trucking business making frequent trips to Tallahassee and Mom was still teaching
British literature at Thomas University. Patrick stared intently out into the fields, I just
take it all in, he let out a sigh, you just gotta let the moment consume you.
Take it all in.
I tapped the plate again as the pitcher made an adjustment. Then came the wind
up. The pitcher fired. A low ball to the right corner of the plate, I read the pitch like that
little piece of paper in a fortune cookie: calculating my fate.
Not a strike. Not even close.
I thought to myself long before the ball was in swinging distance. Leaning back
on my left foot, I let my bat relax as the ball pounded into the catchers glove behind me.
The umpire motioned for the walk and I tossed the bat uselessly aside, striding towards
first base. Our catcher, Diablo, was up next. He was a solid hitter with a .332 average
sitting just above my .311. I could picture my brother walking up, he had the same long,
dark brown hair, but always had a mouth full of sunflower seeds. Hed plant his feet
methodically on the right side of the plate spitting shells right under the nose of the
catcher out of the corner of his lips. Catchers hated him, but everyone else was his best
friend. Why couldnt I be like my big brother?
BAM! Diablo hit a low ground ball towards second. The baseman dove, the tip of
his glove brushing the ball just out of reach. I dashed for second hearing the stadium
noise intensify with each step. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the outfielder
scoop the baseball in fluid motion reminding me of when Pat and I use to play Wall Ball
in the dirt driveway as kids. Pat had mastered the art of snatching the ball and hurling it

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in the direction of the garage door in a single move. It was an art. His dream for me was
to play his favorite sport. Baseball was everything for him and I shared his passion.
Though hed try to hide it, Pat would be very proud to watch me out on the field, lunging
at second base as if it was the only thing that would save me from a tragic death.
Safe!
The umpire waved his arms dramatically indicating my accomplishment. Diablo
landed first. I was safe on second. Our worst batter, Deandre, was now walking up to the
plate. His average dropped significantly in the last three weeks, in spite of our current
winning streak. The pitch fired and the hitter caught a piece of the ball sending it into foul
territory over the fence behind. The catcher repositioned, the pitcher wound up, and the
umpire fixed his mask for the next pitch. It shot out with a slower speed, catching the
batter off guard. I could tell he wasnt ready with the little shimmy he made with his feet
along the plate. The ball dipped then swooped a high curve just inside the strike zone.
The bat didnt move from its resting spot on the shoulder of its holder. Strike! The catcher
held two fingers down with his left hand and one finger with his right, the pitcher nodded
to confirm.
This time I could see my brother in the form of the manager. He altered his gaze
in my direction and winked as he often did revealing a small version of his toothy smile.
Thats when I noticed it. His lips were moving. He was mouthing words at me. Was my
dead brother trying to tell me something? I squinted in an attempt to decipher the motion
of his lips. Ssssssttttt what was he saying?
****

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I shuttered recalling the last time I heard that sound out of my brother. I could feel
the heat rising to my temples as I felt the pain of the moment return to me. We had been
driving for hours on I-75 going northbound through central Florida making our way back
to Georgia from the beach. I distinctly remember glancing at the digital clock, which read
1:17am on the radio of my 1994 GMC Sierra. That truck had served my family without
fail for the 213,646 miles displayed by the little white numbers on the odometer, I read
two weeks later on the insurance claim. My dad had even recommended we drive it
instead of my brothers little white Audi so that we would be safer.
Safer.
That word echoed in my brain and I thought of the sound of the golf balls we used
to tee off into the train tunnel on the other side of town. Each tink of the ball on concrete
reflected my dads words eerily. The night was unusually foggy and my brother was
behind the wheel of that truck he commonly referred to as the Shit-mobile. The truck
barely got up to 80 miles per hour and would shake vigorously whenever it reached that
speed. With nothing, but tractor-trailers on the road at that hour, my brother decided to
push the shit-mobile to its limits. It was rattling so violently, I thought the truck was
about to blast off like a rocket.
Dude, you gotta slow down, this shit might lift off! I said half joking. Jay,
youre damn lucky we left my whip back at home, youd be glued to your seat right now,
literally. Pat responded mocking my wide-eyed expression. Gripping the handle above
the window, I watched Pat veer across into left lane, only to notice his expression quickly
transform. I shifted my gaze in time to see the bright red brake lights and the face of
death glared back.

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PAT!
I screamed, yet it didnt seem to matter. My big brother had already begun to
swerve smashing his foot against the brake pedal. The brakes squealed then I felt the
truck lurch as if someone had hit us from behind. My brother made a sound I couldnt
discern, SSSSSTTTTT I heard my brother attempt to get the words out of his mouth.
The brakes had failed, yet this fact didnt occur to me as Pat and I were rotating in the
midst of crunching metal and shattering glass moments later. The truck rolled four times
and I watched my phone slip out of my pocket, the screen shattering above my head
when the vehicle finally came to a halt, upside down. I woke up in an ambulance an hour
later with a vague memory of the sound that came from my brothers mouth. Too my
dismay, I found out in a few minutes that that was the last sound I would ever hear him
make.
****
I snapped back, the horrible memory felt like it had taken place last week, yet it
was almost 3 years ago. I glanced back at the manager, the image of my brother
broadcasted over his lanky body, his mouth was still forming a word I couldnt quite
understand. His teeth touched his tongue indicating an L? Or was it? Sssstttteee... Oh!
Steal!
I looked up at the scoreboard: full count. Bases were loaded. The hitter swayed
nervously. I made eye contact with Diablo leading first base so far that Coach was
sweating profusely in the dugout. He motioned with his eyes in my direction and I read
his lips as they moved silently.
Steal.

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The pitcher was focused on his next throw beaming with an intense expression
towards the catchers hands. Pat loved to steal bases. Hed do it just for fun, scaring the
coaches often and accepting a curse from the baseman or a keep your pants on! from
the dugout. If he was here now, I knew what hed do.
The board displayed two outs. The pitcher was cocked for his next throw, but
jumped as Diablo took off to take second. I found myself in a full sprint to third, every
muscle in my body working as hard as possible, my heart pumping wildly as I tracked
across the white line. Pats words were jogging through my brain repeatedly as I tore each
step through dirt. It was like someone had filmed him that night and was replaying the
video at high speed. Shit! The third basemans jaw hung open in a stupefied expression.
I skidded. First my hands, then my stomach, and finally my legs hit the powdery dirt
sliding over third base untouched.
What the hell had happened?
But my question was answered immediately as I witnessed the pitcher run
frantically in the opposite direction of home plate. The pitcher had thrown a stray ball
over the second baseman with the failed purpose of forcing Diablo out. The pitcher was
spooked mid-throw by Diablos rocket propelled take off to steal base. After realizing
their catastrophic error, I was back on my feet sprinting towards home for the win. The
outfielder had captured the ball and launched it with the last effort of preventing a
homerun.
SSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!!

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The sound of the fine dirt braising against my white uniform was the only thing I
could hear in that moment. The ball whizzed just over my head into the catchers glove
simultaneously. I took it all in.
The crowd exploded into cheering and applause, but stopped suddenly to see the
umpire hesitate on the call. He pulled off his mask looking up in disbelief. He turned
towards the other umpire, asking for his opinion. The umpire returned a confused look,
but nodded and motioned for safe.
RRRRRAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
The stadium shook wildly as the fans jumped out of their seats high fiving,
screaming, and punching the air to celebrate the victory. The crowd belted out the war
chant at maximum intensity.
I froze in disbelief. I had just won my first playoff game in the Bigs: the Atlanta
Braves were long due. I paused as the revelry commenced around me, savoring the
moment as you would a sirloin tip steak. It felt like yesterday that I was in the stands of
this very stadium screaming my lungs out for Pat as he claimed the winning score.
I dared a glance at the pitcher, but his face turned towards me with a recognizable
expression. It was my brother again, a vivid projection of my imagination. He performed
his familiar wink grinning this time from ear to ear. He gazed into my eyes almost into
my soul Now, let this moment consume you, he said this time with perfect clarity. The
burden of his passing faded instantly and I returned his smile: my first genuine expression
of happiness since his death. My brother wasnt gone because this was his game. I knew
in that brief reflection as my teammates ran past me yelling and jumping into a pile on

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the pitchers mound that my brother would always be there, winking at me from across
the field.