Any personal inconsistencies have always been compensated for with big moments. At second base, my nickname was “Hoover,” a flattering name, being after that red vacuum. The other second baseman, a kid named Michael, was a much better player, far better at the plate, and all things considered, just as good at playing infield, if not better. But the one thing I had on him, the one thing he lacked, was that star power; that ability to make a gigantic play exactly when needed. This particular game on this hot July afternoon was for the tournament championship. It was bottom of the seventh, the final inning, and I was on second base. Our coach, a little guy named Lou, had Michael playing second base earlier in the game to try and obtain an early lead with the bats, to then use myself in the final innings for purposes of defense. We were playing a team called “Magic,” also a very talented team with a lot of power at the plate. And for whatever reason, despite being little-league, Lou had a serious grudge against the coach of this team and against the team in general. It was some real The Bad News Bears shit. Strike three was a high fastball. Mad that he went for it, the batter raised the aluminum above his head and tomahawked the bat down onto home plate. I wiped a drop of sweat that rolled down my brow and turned to throw two fingers in the air, indicating to the outfield that we had two men gone. We were winning 5-4. They had a runner on second and third base. For the Magic, a base hit would win the game. I looked toward home plate and saw a kid named Ricky walking up to bat. He was a classmate that I had been competing with for the past several years pertaining to athletic prowess, all the way back to grade school. There he was, apparently walking in slow motion. He stepped up to the plate and kicked some dirt forward with his cleats. Prior to this baseball game, in a grade school “Olympics” competition, he beat me by a half-step in the 40-yard dash, taking the first place trophy for the entire event. He was also a very strong hitter, standing in the 3-spot. Before it even happened, before his bat even touched the ball, I knew a line shot was coming to me. Our ace, coach Lou's son, wound up and threw the first pitch, which Ricky took for a ball. He then a took a nasty cut for a strike and with that one, had he connected, the ball game would have been over, no doubt. That cut was taking it fucking yard, no question. On the third pitch, this fucker rocketed off the metal in one of the loudest clinging sounds I ever heard off the bat, looking like the nastiest slider I had ever seen as it whizzed toward me. I immediately knew that it was going to be a very difficult play, an extremely difficult one-hop. The thing about a one-hop is, you cannot retreat or stumble backwards on it. You have to attack the ball, go toward it, time the bounce, and take the punishment. I took two or three quick steps to my left, right before the ball skidded the brown gravel, dusting my jersey and my face. I got my body down in front of it, knowing that I would not be able to glove it and also knowing that the worst thing in the world to happen at that moment would be for that ball to get behind me. It took a very funny bounce. It looked like it was spinning and curving so hard to my left side, that when it skimmed the gravel and clipped whatever rock it did, it completely changed direction to the right, clipping my right shoulder and shooting high into the air toward the sky right above me, a clear blue canvas behind it. Spinning rapidly, all I could do was wait for it to get in my reach. I had only a quarter second to glance down the baseline. In my left peripheral, I saw Ricky steaming toward first, just as I had seen him not too long ago beating me in the 40-yard dash, except this time, he was running so hard and fast that his helmet was coming off his head. I knew I had to bare hand it. If I gloved it first, he would beat me to the base. When it finally got close enough and within my grasp, I reached up for it, it touched my hands, and rolled perfectly into my grip. My pointer and middle finger made into a “V” across the seams, as if I were throwing a fastball. In a single motion, like a performer of some kind, I whipped the ball toward the first baseman, slightly high and hot, but apparently with just the right amount of mustard. Steve, the first baseman, took a hard step forward and reached high, gloving it. I looked at Ricky's feet, hearing the glove pop before seeing his foot touch first base. The umpire pumped his arm forward and called him out. I punched the inside of my glove in excitement and then pointed at Steve in admiration, very grateful that he caught the high zipper of a toss I made over. I then looked to my right and saw Lou making a beeline after me, screaming in elation. I laughed as the coach tossed me in the air and as our team huddled up in victory. Star power.