Why we should(n't) follow our team captain

"Have you forgotten who's the team captain?" my grade school classmate Billy Honecker shouted at us as when we told little Linda Dawn to bunt toward third. He wanted her to hit the ball high to left field, but some of us knew she didn't have the strength to get it past second.

The team members huddled at the backstop.

"Look, her best bet to get on base is to hit it toward third," Wendy said. "Their weakest thrower is on third."

Billy shook his head.

"If she knocks it to left field, Scott can make it to home plate."

"She can't hit it that far," Wendy said. "She'll just knock up a pop fly that they'll catch for an easy out."

Billy's lips pursed tight. "I was named captain, and I say she should hit it to left field. Quit selling her short."

"No one's selling her short," I said. "We're just being realistic."

That's when Adrienne stepped forward. The western sky behind her was starting to cloud over as the corn tassels wavered in the growing wind.

"If we don't quit fighting among ourselves, we'll never win," she said.

I found myself torn. But having confidence in Linda being able to do her best ap-pealed to my sense of romanticism, in much the same way as Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" does today.

"Let's give Billy's call a try," I said.

So Linda hit a pop fly, which was caught by the shortstop.

That's when the ninth man in our lineup, cross-eyed Colin, came up to bat.

"Hit it to left field," Billy shouted. Wendy and I rolled our eyes.

Adrienne sneered at us.

"If we lose, it'll be all your fault," she said.

So I cheered Colin on to hit the ball hard. For some reason, though, he still struck out.

Maybe I just didn't cheer loud enough.

(originally published Jan. 30, 2005)