NAOMI
"Do not be a bother," Naomi thought.
Her bright eyes lowered to her cleats. They were polished to perfection, but such was always the case. The custodians tasked with their cleanliness made sure of it. The janitors always spent hours ensuring the cleanliness of her clothes, the functionality of her gear, and the neatness of the fields she stood in. This tale was repeated for every student standing with her, but only Naomi's consideration was granted. Baseball was the sport of the day so filth was an imminent fact, but the freckled girl swore to take on no more dirt than what was absolutely needed. Do not be a bother, she thought. Not to anyone. Not ever.
Naomi was in shackles, but her peers thrashed through the dust without a care. Plumes of red sand caked their clothes, but, as the lone unsullied, Naomi looked at them without a hint judgment. How could she when the looked so happy?
Naomi and her classmates were commanded to enter the field and tow the white line until their coaches arrived. Said coaches resided in a trailer a short walk beyond the fence, the only refuge from the scorching summer sun beyond the dugouts. The temperature scathed the skin and the spice-laced breeze only made it worse. The lot of them choked on the summer dust in exaggerated fashion, leaving Naomi as the pinnacle of poise. Even 20 minutes after the designated time, far beyond the point where the whiniest students were vindicated by their peers, Naomi simply adjusted her cap and fluffed the sweat from her long frizzy hair.
Of all the students on the baseball line, none bore skin darker than a peachy pink. Blonde hair, blue eyes, brunette locks and hazel gazes were but a few combinations among the varied students. They were all fair of tone, but Naomi was the only one kissed by fire. She was peppered in ginger freckles and her heat-trapping hair was a mane of silken flame that could not be tamed. Even now, Naomi wild hair blocked her view of the emerging instructors despite her being the first to notice their approach.
The slam of the door interrupted her classmate's loose chatter. Naomi remained the lone stoic with arms crossed behind her back and her feet shoulder-width apart. Her peers were a fumbling mess in comparison and their failure, or rather Naomi's success, highlighted the sun-kissed girl. Of course, this was not the first time.
"Caitlyn," howled the head coach.
The boom in their call pinched her classmates' senses in an ill way. Naomi raised her bright eyes to meet the authority that beckoned her. Her peers knew the exact phrase that would follow so well that some mockingly recited it.
"Since you are the only one who understands the value of bearing, you will assume command of class today," Said the head coach.
"Yes, Coach!" Naomi's confirmation was powerful.
She stepped forward in flawless practice, did the proper salute, and performed an about-face with the crisp satisfaction of a craftsman cutting soap. The coaches would leave her to lead, but only after wiping the drops of sweat from their brow and disappearing into their air-conditioned trailer. Now, standing as the leader of the student body, Naomi's gave her peers a big bright smile.
"Okay then. You know what to do guys. We're just playing baseball, so we'll start by picking team captains. But first, let us all agree on one rule. To have FUN!" Naomi pumped a fist to rile up her audience, but most were already gone. What little of her forces remained simply cringed before breaking ranks as unceremoniously as the others.
"D-do not forget to drink water guys! I will also need two team captains to step up so we can form" --
"We already have team captains and teams," shouted a sharp tongued classmate.
"Oh. Right. I'm sorry," Said Naomi. Alone in the field, she knew to leave them to it.
. . .
The game commenced with the bang of the first batting. High the baseballs flew as screams from the winning team followed the ball over the fence. It looked like yet another home for the star of the game, a blond haired batter with eyes of hazel-gold and the physic of sculpted rendition. He dashed to first base, second base, then third. After a long stride, the blond batter could see the dust-stained square: Home. As he sped from one corner to the next, those in the outfield scrambled to stop the golden gallant.
One girl vaulted over the fence of wired green and tossed the ball into the field with the snap of a pro. Another caught the projectile and threw it into the mittens of their teammate with similar skill. A chain reaction followed, sending the ball closer to the blonde batter that struck it. By the time the running man had reached the third plate, he was well within range of what needed to be one more flawless toss. All it would take now was a well-aimed hurl of the ball, and the race to homerun would be dashed at the climax.
The winning team filled the dugout with cheers for their chosen athlete. He was so close now, but so was the ball. The outfield team sent the sphere flying, and, like the bullet of a gun, it was aimed at the unfortunate target. He was a single stride away, but the speeding ball remained a blur behind him. The golden boy skid to his target, causing a plume of red to rise, and the ball whiffed into the obscurity. Everyone bit their tongues as they waited for the veil to clear, then , when the hot wind shifted, the results were revealed. The ball rolled out from the opposite end of the field after smashing against the fence. As for the blonde batter, he stood on home base with a single fist in the air. He made it, and for the third time today no less.
The dugout became a mosh pit of victory cheers! Boy's howled, girls screamed, and they all raved with revelry. Taunts were fired and warnings given that victory was inevitable. The losing team collectively tsked their teeth. Desperate actions had to be taken now, if not for the win then as vengeance for the disrespect shown by the opposing team. To concoct their comeback they retreated to the privacy of the outfield.
The losing team had to acknowledge the blonde batter. He was a true athlete. They all witnessed the lean tendons in his arm ripple as his bat was swung, and it hit its mark the first time every time. They could tolerate his skill, even admire it, if the blonde batter was not allowed to bat in place of everyone on the opposing team. The only excuse given was some nonsense about letting the prodigious player practice for when he goes pro. That is what they said, but the losing team had been soaking in their own sweat long enough to know that the members of the opposing team did not want to leave the shade of the dugouts. The tall blonde gladly went to bat too, round after round, just so he could show off. Now he had three clean shots beneath his cap, and he was none the worse for wear. The team in the outfield could not boast the same, so, with raked teeth and a roll of their eyes, the call went out.
"Caitlyn! We need you to pitch the ball," said the losing team captain.
Naomi looked up from the furthest end of the outfield, a spot she had been instructed to 'guard' should the ball fly that way. Boos blasted from the winning team. They rejected her outright, but Naomi looked to her teammates for final approval. When she saw them, many seemed even less enthused than the opposing team. Surely, she heard wrong.
"Naomi Saint Caitlyn! Get out here and come pitch," said the losing team captain.
"Time out," called the winning team captain. The captain of the winning team crawled out of the dugout, patted at the heat that suddenly peppered his cool skin, and ran into the field. The team leads were soon toe-to-toe. "We agreed not to use her! Follow the damn rules."
"Sure. Because you guys are following the rules by letting someone like Griffin the Gold bat three times in a row," the losing leader rebutted.
"Griffon's practicing for"--
"Bullshit! You've got your secret weapon, and we've got ours. Now piss off."
"Caitlyn is not just some secret weapon, she's just a nuke! Mutually assured destruction! No one's gonna have fun if she"--
"Caitlyn! get out here and be quick about it," said the losing team captain.
Naomi quickly responded to the inclusion with a smile. She then tilted her cap to fasten it tight, pressed down her frizzy hair and took point at the center of the field. No one asked if she was ready. They simply set up the next round with a grumble under their collective breath. The ball was finally given to the sun-kissed girl, and she gave a beaming smile to the tosser only to receive a snark-laced acknowledgment. Naomi smiled on regardless, even as her teammates trickled off the field. The blonde batter soon stepped forth. He was eager to claim a fourth victory.
"I'm on a roll, Caitlyn," said the blonde batter. He slammed the steel bat against the dirt, before assuming his stance with a shimmy of his rump. "At this rate, not even you will be able to douse this hot streak. Unless you wanted to, of course."
Naomi fluttered, but not in any way she found comfortable. Her smile spread large once again, and she let out a giggle as plastic as the base on which the batter stood. "Let's just have fun playing, Griffin," she said.
The blonde batter shook his head, before banging his bat against the ground for a second time. With such a strong showing so far, he was looking for the girl's best. His smirk demanded it. Naomi would heed the call, but first she stretched by winding and rolling her arm. A pop ran through her joints and her muscles eased. Naomi then tapped the dirt beneath her feet to confirm that the surface was solid and that her cleats were secure in their grip. She then took a breath. In. Then out. She was ready.
Naomi began to move like a steady stream. The slow glide of her hand was followed by a high rise of the foot. It was the very first sign of her infamous pitch that no one, no matter how they felt about her, dared to miss. Everyone on and off the field went silent at the spectacle. The instructors poked their heads out of the trailer, and the wind ceased as if it were a spectator in its own right. The pitcher's dance was mesmerizing, so no one noticed when the ball spun in the umpire's mitten with the exception of the catcher himself.
"Damn," said the umpire. The trauma in his bones forced him to suck in air, and he waved his wrist just to see if it was still attached. To his relief the umpire could still claim two hands, but that was all he could take. "I'm done! Someone switch with me," said the umpire.
The catcher threw down his mask, but no one took his stead. Silence rang and, with the pause of the game, the wind whistled once again. In the face of the students' fear, the coaches had no choice. One took the gear and stepped up to the plate: a man dense in muscle and stout of form. He seemed the most suited for the task of umpire but, when Naomi hurled the ball and struck the second strike, the old sportsman had to stand up and take a breather. His hand felt a bit out of place after catching her powerful throw.
"I guess that's strike two," Naomi said. No one else made the call, so she felt the need. The ball was tossed back to her, and the sun-kissed girl caught it with ease. She would adjust her cap before casting the final pitch and, in that moment, the blonde batter had been utterly deflated.
He did not see the first throw and failed to swing at the second. The ball just seemed to whizz by like a bullet near the ear. Only the pride of his past deeds kept him upright, but, as he watched Naomi spin her arm, the blonde batter saw the shortening fuse of a cannon. His fire would fizzle out when the sun-kissed girl stepped forward to throw the final pitch. He tried to ready himself but, just like that, Naomi cocked her arm and flicked the ball from her fingers with the stopping power of a ballistic missile. The blond batter lost all poise. He panicked and, as a result, swung a wild swing. Bat met ball in a thunderous clap, but the sheer weight of her throw disarmed him and sent the bat flying. The steel stick bounced against the fencing while the ball careened in the opposite end of the sky. It was messy, but it was a hit.
The the blonde batter fumbled into a sprint. He ran with the panic of prey and closed his eyes to everything outside of the goal: first base. He reached it and dashed to the next plate, then the next, then the next! Home! He was home! He made it, and screamed with praise and relief. That is until he saw the others staring, not at him, but at the pitcher.
"You didn't even make it to first base, Griffin," said the coach.
"What!? But I ran so fast," said the blonde batter.
"Not fast enough," said the coach.
The large umpire then pointed to Naomi at the far end of the field. From there she held up her mitts revealing a ball that had been long caught. Naomi would then toss the ball across that great diamond. A pitch that no one received.
. . .
Thank You for Reading Chapter Two. I know it is a bit of a departure from the first chapter, but you have officially met the second point-of-view character: Naomi. I hope you liked what you read of her.