Don’t Run on Riley Wolff

The flag high atop the lone mast on the far side of the outfield fence hung limp and unruffled. Any flowing air ran light, unhurried, unlikely to affect the flight path of a well-hit ball. The late spring Carolina sun shone brightly. Scarcely a cloud wandered the sky.

Riley Wolff tugged on the brim of his baseball cap, and then adjusted his sunglasses. His gloved hand rested just above his hip, cocked casually. From his position in right field, the flaming sun stared him right in the eyes. Wayside High’s baseball diamond was constructed such that any contact sending a ball more than a few feet into the air would bring his gaze—at least, for an instant—directly into the harsh glare. But Riley knew that once he had a bead on any flyer headed towards him, the possibility of a few, brief moments of sun-induced blindness would hardly make a difference.

It was the opening round of state playoffs. The Wayside High Buccaneers held the number two seed. During Riley’s freshman year, the varsity team, with a similar ranking, had won the championship. Riley had spent that season competing alongside his friends on the JV squad, but the varsity coaching staff, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to call him up to the big time once the playoffs began, hoping to utilize his scorching speed along the basepaths. Throughout that stretch of highly contested, highly publicized games, the coaches requested his baserunning services again and again, and again and again Riley delivered with impressive effect, scoring when able and swiping a number of bags along the way.

Then, as a rugged sophomore, Riley began to round into form, showing even more flashes of brilliance. He, along with a few of his JV buddies from the previous year, had secured a spot on the varsity roster from opening day, the coach penciling Riley in as the starting right fielder. However, the team’s season was a letdown. The Bucs’ lineup from the previous year, consisting of a talented core of seniors who had roamed the same elementary school halls, played practical jokes on each other on the same class field trips, attended the same cotillion classes forced on them by their parents—and, perhaps most importantly—played on the same teams since their t-ball and Little League days, had all graduated to the college ranks. The team that remained for Riley’s sophomore season lacked the same firepower, or camaraderie.

They lost in the second round.

But this year was different. With the previous season under their belts, the squad was more experienced, more polished, more grounded, more cohesive. The coaching staff spotted championship potential early on, though they would never admit it aloud.

Riley’s lips hinted at a smile as he slid his hand back into his leather glove, stilling all other movement. The third batter of the inning finally approached the plate. At the top of the second, with only one out, the game was just beginning. Neither team had scored, but the opposition was threatening with a runner on second base.

The baserunner, who had ripped a double after a quick, three-pitch strikeout of his teammate to begin the inning, did not appear keen to try sneaking to third on a steal attempt. The pitcher on the mound—Riley’s pal, Dylan—kept a watchful eye anyway. In the outfield, Riley crouched into his ready stance as Dylan wound up and hurled the ball toward home plate.

“Strike one!”

From right field, Riley could barely make out the call, which was muffled by the claps and cheers of those watching the game.

“Yeah, Dylan! That’s how you do it! Take it to ’em now!”

One particular voice from the stands bordering the infield was always clearer to Riley than any other, including the umpire’s. It was the father of one of his squadmates—Josh Fisher, the third baseman. Mr. Fisher’s animated shouts were a regular feature of Bucs games—as was the other players’ jesting of Josh for his father’s fanatical style.

Riley stilled again. Waiting.

On the mound, Dylan coiled tightly, raising his knee to his chest, before he unleashed.

The batter swung.

Plink.

Riley heard the flaky sound of the accelerated pitch making uneven contact with the bat, sending the ball almost immediately out of play. Foul.

“That’s two!” announced the home plate ump.

“Yep, that’s right! That’s two!” The cheering of the other spectators did little to drown out Mr. Fisher’s commentary.

Relaxing again, Riley looked toward the crowd. The game had begun more than an hour after school had let out, so he was surprised at the number of people—adults, children, even fellow students—who had decided it was worth their time to come and show their support. The bleachers were packed, and even more had brought chairs or blankets, while still others stood along the fences or lounged in the surrounding grass. As far as Riley could tell, the opposing team had also drawn a healthy showing, but the Buccaneer faithful outnumbered them five to one.

Riley returned his attention to the infield.

Dylan readied. Threw.

“Ball!”

“Hey, that’s alright, that’s alright!” Mr. Fisher called from somewhere amidst the crowd. “Make ’em sweat a little!”

On impulse, Riley edged his gaze upward, chancing a fleeting glance at the ball of white light in the late afternoon sky. Even with his shades on, the sun blinded him, and he saw nothing but white even as he looked away. Like sticking your hand on the stove, he thought. Everyone tells you it’s gonna hurt, but you’re curious anyway. Riley smirked and shook his head, falling into his crouch again as his vision began to clear.

He watched Dylan once again confirm the opposing team’s baserunner was sticking close to second. Either the kid really didn’t want to chance being picked off, or he was simply too lazy to take a bigger lead off the bag.

Dylan cut his eyes back to home plate. Riley did the same.

The wind up.

The throw.

“Ball two!”

“String ’em out, Dylan! Give ’em the rope!”

Josh’s passionate father had received more than his share of warnings regarding his more colorful pronouncements during games. Earlier in the season, he had even reached the most rarefied level among high school spectators—to be thrown out for arguing with an umpire’s ruling. Riley had been in the dugout, about to take to the outfield, when it happened. He remembered glancing back to gauge Coach’s reaction as Josh’s father, still shouting, was escorted away.

The coach had tilted his ballcap down, attempting to hide his smile. His assistant coaches, seated alongside, laughed outright. The Bucs went on to win 14-2. As penance, Mr. Fisher treated the entire team to pizza afterwards.

Now, Riley shifted his gaze toward third, where Mr. Fisher’s son was staring resolutely toward home plate. Josh almost certainly knew he had once again drawn his teammates’ amused glances—he was simply trying his very best to ignore them.

On the mound, Dylan wound up and pitched towards his crouching catcher at home.

Ping!

The definitive echo of genuine contact. The ping! of a ball well-hit—an extra-baser if it fell into a gap, possibly even a home run if the batter had mustered enough power. In either case, the runner on second was set to tally the first score of the game.

Riley only caught a flash of the impacted ball as it exploded off the bat. Almost immediately it was swallowed up in the blazing, brilliant orb of fire in the sky. Still, he turned, taking quick strides toward the outfield wall, his back now facing both the infield and steadily rising ball.

As soon as the ball left the bat, Riley had unconsciously and instantaneously gauged its course and estimated loft time. That initial glimpse of the baseball lifting off, along with the solid reverberation of contact, was all he needed. Nevertheless, since Little League, multiple coaches had tried to warn him against taking his eyes off fly balls for any length of time—particularly the lengths to which he was prone: two, three, even four seconds on occasion.

Even his varsity coach expressed skepticism at first.

“You do that a lot?” he had asked after watching Riley snag a deep fly near the right side fence for the first time.

“I guess so,” Riley answered.

“And you still catch ’em?”

Riley nodded.

“I mean, you get to the ones you’re supposed to get to?”

“Yeah.”

Coach eyed him for a moment.

“Alright,” he said then, spitting out a sunflower seed shell. “Keep catchin’ ’em.”

And that was that.

Now, as he ran, Riley glanced over his shoulder. His eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, rapidly searched for the approaching ball, just as rapidly locating it. He then broke his gaze, turning yet again as he approached the warning track and outfield wall.

It wouldn’t be a home run, but it was a solid hit nonetheless.

A few more strides, and then he turned to face the infield again.

“Talk to me!” Riley called.

“Green! Green!” shouted Chris, approaching from center field.

Chris was watching second base. The opposing team’s baserunner would be taking off as soon as Riley made the catch.

Riley backed more, glove raised, eyes focused solely on the dropping ball.

Forty feet. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten. The fall was always slower than he anticipated.

He sprung forward as he caught it, his momentum carrying him as he quickly transferred the ball from his glove to his throwing hand, the exchange smooth, practiced, precise.

One step. Two. Another.

His right arm cocked back. His face reflected steely determination—brow drawn, mouth cinched, his unwavering gaze holding third base captive. There, Josh was already in position.

Continuing forward, Riley’s arm rocketed ahead, propelling his body further and launching the ball towards the infield. Riley followed his throwing motion all the way through to the end, his advancing energy and the force of his throw hurling him off-balance.

The speeding ball sliced through the air like a fat, white bullet, a steadily humming buzz saw, full power and no resonance, dangerous if interrupted. It moved unswerving on its frozen-rope path toward third base, producing a faint whoo as it zipped past Sammy, the shortstop, who wisely lowered his glove, letting it pass.

The opposing team’s runner labored as he ran the ninety feet from second base to third, glancing toward his third base coach for direction on whether or not he needed to slide.

His coach’s expression, however, was disconcerting—a blend of shock, horror, and confusion. Then, noticing his player barreling toward him at full speed—too close now to turn around and sprint back without getting caught in a rundown—the coach made the hasty, downward motion to slide.

For the third base umpire, the call was easy.

“Out!”

Double play. Side retired. The supporters ringing the field roared in approval.

“Holy…”

The opposing team’s third base coach, perhaps realizing he was in the vicinity of impressionable teenagers, let the rest of his thought hang unfinished.

“Yeah,” Josh agreed. “You may want to tell your guys not to try that again.”

He then held his gloved hand up in Riley’s direction. On the pitching mound, a grateful Dylan did the same. Riley responded with a small tug of his cap before exchanging a glovebump with Chris, the two of them beginning their trot in from the outfield. From a distance, one might barely make out their grins, though their caps and sunglasses obscured the rest of their features.

“Yep! That’s it! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” a certain someone bellowed over the raucous cheering of the crowd. “Y’all are gonna learn! Don’t run on that boy! Don’t run on Riley Wolff!” ▩

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