These are the times that make men. The times that summon the gnashing of teeth and the biting of tongues and the clenching of fists. The times that simmer in stomachs and decimate antacid supplies on a global scale.

This is the bottom of the ninth. With the bases loaded, one out, and the pitcher’s spot due up. There’s nothing but goose eggs on the scoreboard. Not a single ass touches a single seat in any single section of the stadium. 

These are the times, my friends. The times that separate the nimble from the nameless rabble of ticket-buying peasants.

“Get me Crumpet,” he says. Old Tip McGrue. Never managed a team besides the Homesteaders in a fifty year career, and never lost an argument either. When it comes to anything from a blown call to a bag of sunflower seeds, he doesn’t linger on the figurative.

“You mean Wally Crumpet?” Young Charlie Gillis, McGrue’s intern of a bench coach, whose opinions are like mosquitoes in that they’re annoying and McGrue is known to swat at them.

“Yes, Wally Crumpet. You know another one?”

“No. But do you think Crumpet’s the man for this spot? I mean, he kind of overthinks things.”

“What are you talking about? Who cares about thinking? The kid can hit.”

“Then why do you make him sit every game?”

“Because he’s a pain in the ass. Now go get him.”

Gillis scribbles a few notes on his scorecard. “Crumpet!” At the far end of the bench, all the way down by the water cooler and the tobacco puddles, a lanky hayseed with a tangle of sweat-soaked, blonde hair springs to life. His spikes scuttle across the cement steps until he stands at attention in front of Gillis.

“Yes, sir?”

“Grab a bat. You’re up.” Crumpet’s whole face goes flush. He stands motionless with his shoulders slumped forward. “You alright, kid?” Crumpet nods and lumbers over to the rack to grab a stick. He stuffs the curly mop inside a batting helmet and begins his ascent up the dugout steps. The stadium erupts the moment he steps on the turf. But then he feels a hand on his shoulder. He stops. Turns around. McGrue stares at him with the eyes of a bloodhound.

“You know what we want up there?” McGrue asks.

Crumpet stares down at his bat. A crease forms between his eyebrows.“Not really...I guess...hit the ball?”

McGrue takes a deep breath. “No, Crumpet. I don’t want you to hit the ball.”

“So, go up there and swing and miss? Got it.” Crumpet turns and heads for the plate. McGrue grabs him by the shoulder.

“No, Crumpet. I don’t want you to swing and miss, you moron.”

“So just stand there?”

McGrue rips the ball cap off his head and grabs a fistful of gray hair. He takes another deep breath. “Listen close, Crumpet. I want you to go up there and bunt. The suicide is on.”

Crumpet’s face goes limp. He looks down at the ground and kicks a clump of orange dirt through the grass. “Look, Coach. I care about this team and all...but suicide? Don’t you think we’re taking this too far?”

McGrue slaps Crumpet across the face with his hat. “You idiot! I mean the squeeze play. We’re pulling the squeeze play.”

“Look, you gotta be more clear. Are we pulling or squeezing, Coach?”

“Just get up there!”

“And you still want me to swing and miss? And then squeeze, push, and pull? Do I have that right?”

The home plate umpire approaches, a squat mound of a man that one might mistake for a potbelly stove. “Look, I’m gonna need a batter,” he says, and McGrue grunts something under his breath and nods.

“Crumpet, if you don’t go up there and bunt the ball, they’re gonna have to take you outta here on a stretcher. Mark my words, son.”

“So now you want me to stretch, too? Sir, I don’t know how you expect me to stretch, squeeze, push, pull, swing, and miss all in one at-bat. Would it be too much trouble to ask for a clearer explanation so I could--” 

“I’ll give you an explanation!” McGrue lifts a portly leg and kicks Crumpet right in the ass, and the pinch hitter wobbles in the direction of home plate. “Just bunt the Goddam ball, Crumpet! Bunt it, you sonuvabitch! The squeeze is on!!! The squeeze is ON!! You got that?!?!”

If Crumpet did not get the message, at least McGrue could rest easy knowing the opposing manager, their catcher, pitcher, entire starting lineup, half of their bench players, and at least the first twenty rows of spectators behind the backstop had all received it.

Then good, old Wally Crumpet digs his spikes into the batter’s box. He glances down at the  Homesteader runner bouncing off of third base. He locks eyes with the stubble-faced pitcher. 

And then the windup. 

And the pitch. 

And, just as McGrue had so artfully explained, Crumpet pivots his feet. He holds the bat out in front of the plate and hides one hand behind the barrel. He feels the ground rumble under him as a teammate gallops down the baseline. He follows the spinning red twine as it circles closer and closer and closer. 

Then he stretches and squeezes and pushes and pulls. He reaches far across the plate for the ball. He reaches and he reaches and he reaches.

But it all amounts to one thing: a swing and a miss. 

A pitch out.

Disaster.

The runner breaks stride in front of the catcher like a lame horse. The mitt taps against his chest and the potbelly stove of an umpire shouts, “You’re out!!” Then thousands and thousands of ticket-buying peasants go silent all at once and place their asses in seats in every single section of the stadium.

These are the times that try men’s souls. The times that devour. Digest. The times that make men mute to reason and deaf to logic. The times that challenge all there is and all we think we know. These are the times that castigate the nimble and multiply the peasantry. 

This is the time to take the bat off your shoulder.