I Know What I Like

I like trotting out to the infield, getting the feel of my cleats in the dirt. I like taking the slow, rolling warm-up toss from the first baseman and slinging it right back. I like pounding the leather of my glove, readying it for its future occupant. I like the ever-so-slight taste of dirt in my mouth. I like looking at the other team's third base coach, who seems to have an easy-going, "We shouldn't have a problem scoring on these guys" look on his face. I like knowing that smug look won't last long.

I like the butterflies in my stomach as my pitcher winds up to make the pitch. I like the tension in my legs as I take a step forward into a half-squat, anticipating the pitch being hit to me at third base. I like the split-second of time that elapses between my recognition that the ball has been hit and the realization that the ball has been hit at me. I like watching the ball bound toward my glove and find a temporary resting place. I like feeling the seams underneath my fingers as the ball rolls off of them on its way to first base. I like seeing the umpire cock his arm into a right angle: "OUT!"

I like sitting in the dugout, waiting for my turn to bat, clapping and shouting "Let's go!" and "Come on!" to my teammate in the batter's box. I like selecting just the right bat and taking practice swings in the on deck circle. I like taking both right-handed and left-handed swings, imagining that the other team is getting nervous trying to decide which way I'm going to come up to bat. I like high five-ing my teammate as he walks past me after scoring a run.

I like stepping into the batter's box, eyeing home plate and fixing myself just the right distance from the both the plate and the catcher. I like looking back at the catcher as he sets up and the umpire as he gets ready to crouch. I like surveying the outfield, looking for the one gap in the defense that I'm going to exploit. I like looking at the pitcher who mistakenly thinks he can get me out. I like the tingle in my hands as the pitcher goes into his motion.

I like the non-feeling of hitting the ball squarely on the sweet spot of the bat, a feeling that would seem jolting and violent, but turns out to be completely missing. I like seeing the ball arc into the gap that I had picked out just seconds earlier. I like seeing the outfielders converge and run towards the outfield wall as the ball skips past them and just keeps rolling.

I like the feeling of my legs pumping, trying to make my body move at maximum speed. I like putting my head down in complete concentration on swinging my arms and alternating my legs. I like hearing the opposing team's bench collectively moan as I round first base. I like hearing my teammates yelling "Run! Run! All the way!" I like knowing that the third base coach will be frantically waving me around even before I've looked up to see him doing exactly that. I like knowing that I'm running as fast as I possibly can and I don't even have to break stride in order to hit the inside corner of the second base bag. I like the growing feeling of urgency as I rush past third base, knowing that relay throws are madly trying to catch up to me. I like the feeling of my legs turning to rubber, yet still charging as hard as can be for the last few strides to home plate.

I like seeing the eyes of the catcher and umpire tracking the ball as it hurtles toward its final destination. I like the feeling of hard earth hitting my leg as I slide past the catcher and his desperate attempt to tag me out. I like the cloud of dust that arises and the hazy figure of the umpire stretching his arms out wide, signaling what I knew to be true before I had even reached first base: "SAFE!"

I like the feeling of being out of breath, panting out "Thank You"s to my teammates who push out congratulatory knuckles to be bumped. I like sitting back down in the dugout, eager for it to start all over again.

I like baseball.