It was the first time I had pitched into extra innings. Most pitchers can’t make it past the seventh and into the eighth, but I had managed my pitches wisely and still had gas in my tank. The sun was starting to go down, so the players were finally getting a break from the blaze on our backs. The dirt was soft from the infielders’ tracks, left from scooping up grounders and turning double plays. The mound was given a cavity from the drive of my foot along the rubber. I could see from where I was standing that the batters box was in terrible condition from all the different players digging in, trying to get the comfortable stance they wanted. I finished my warm-up pitches and my team was set in place, ready for anything that was to come their way. It was time to begin the eighth inning.Waiting for the batter to step into the box, I began to take deep breaths as I gripped the laces of the ball, knowing exactly where my hands were, from the years I had played. I could feel the leather on it was shabby from the overuse of it, the results of a long game. The umpire told the batter it was time to start so he stepped into the box. He swiped the dirt from the front to the back trying to fill in the crevices that were left before him. When he felt comfortable enough he got into his stance so I did the same. I looked at the rubber and then placed my feet where the dirt had memorized the pattern of my pitching motion. I put the ball in the glove, placing my hand in it, holding the grip of a fastball and then setting my glove close to my face, peering over the tip of it to see the catcher give me the sign.My catcher gave me the sign for the pitch to be outside. I nodded my head and began my wind-up. I kept my eyes on my target as I kicked my leg up and began moving towards the plate. I dropped my hand behind me, holding the ball tight and thrusting as hard as I could, at the glove. I could feel the laces slip off my fingers as the ball was hurling directly at my catcher. While the ball was about to cross the plate, the batter swung as hard as he could, leaving the catcher without a ball in his hand. It was a hard hit ball that skimmed off the dirt in the direction of the second baseman, who made the play calmly and tossed the ball to the first baseman with plenty of time to spare. The batter, frustrated, slammed his helmet onto the ground and began the slow jog back to the dugout as our fans cheered. It was time for the next batter.I took another deep breath and stepped back on the rubber as my next victim stepped in, ready to fire a shot for a hit. Painting the outside corner of the plate, the batter swung over the ball. I could see the embarrassment in his eyes as he looked back at me and I knew I had him. I got the next sign from the catcher and this time it was different. I nodded my head anyways and started the pitch. I dropped my hand and thrusted to the plate just like usual but my hand flipped the ball downwards, creating a curveball. The laces on the beat-up ball did their job and made the ball drop almost immediately when it left my hand. The batter saw it coming in and knew it was a curve but didn’t have the reaction time to swing at it, leaving him flatfooted in the box. The ball floated into the hands of the catcher and the umpire named the pitch a strike. I went back up the mound and repeated the same steps: receive, place, and pitch. The curve on the next pitch had the steepest drop yet as it headed straight for the dirt, but the batter was fooled and swung at it anyway. That was strike three and I was now only one out away from winning the game.The next batter stepped into the box. I could tell he didn’t want to be the last out and I could see the determination. I preceded through the steps and the first pitch I threw was drilled into the gap. I turned around to see the ball shooting through the air as my outfielders were sprinting trying to chase it down. They couldn’t get to it in time and the ball rolled to the fence. The batter was sprinting at an amazing speed around the bases and was heading for third by the time the ball was being thrown in. The relay between the left fielder, shortstop, and third baseman wasn’t fast enough to catch him in time. He slid into third base, but the call was clear that the tag didn’t make it in time. Now it was time for me to forget about what just happened and focus on the next thing.The next batter was the clean-up guy and my coach wasn’t going to let him get a hit. The catcher was giving me the sign to throw outside pitches so he couldn’t hit them. The only problem was that none of them crossed the plate. The batter was walked and he went to first base. The opposing team was now jumping up and down, cheering as loudly as they could for their teammate to get a hit. I looked back at the scoreboard to see the only thing that reassured me: A winning score. I managed to push all the extra noise to the side, blocking the cheers. I focused on the catcher, looking deeply at the brown leather glove on his hand, and as I began the pitch, I tried to find the Rawlings sign in the middle of his hand. I dropped my hand behind me and forwarded my body as fast as I could right at the glove. I felt the laces scrape my fingertips (instead of roll) telling me that it was the hardest pitch I’ve thrown that day, but the batter didn’t seem to mind the speed.He drove the ball to the center fielder. The ball was deep but I had the pleasant sound of my teammate calling for the ball. I started a half-jog behind the plate for a back-up just in case of a bad throw and was relieved. The baserunners were still running like they were supposed to do since there were two outs and the runner on third crossed the plate. I hadn’t quite turned around yet when I heard cheers, but the cheers weren’t from the fans on our side. It was from the opposing fans. I turned around to see my teammate on a race for the rolling ball that had passed him. He had misjudged the ball and it was the game-changing mistake. He tried to throw in the ball to get the second runner before he touched home but it was too late.The opposing team was going crazy and went to celebrate their accomplishment with the player who got the game-winning hit. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t help but drop my head as I walked back to the dugout.I had fans saying “good job” but I didn’t pay any attention to anyone or anything except my feet. Before I came off the field I went and told my center fielder “good game” and that it was just one mistake of many during the game. As I looked at him I could see disappointment in his eyes. He told me he was sorry but said “thank you” and walked away from everybody. I was still in shock with what happened, but my coach had a very valuable lesson that he taught us after that game.I learned that one mistake in a game is not more important than another. My centerfielder had only made one mistake, but it was a lot clearer to see because it looked like it cost us the game. But the reality was that everybody that day had made a mistake that led to the loss of the game. In a team game there is never one person to take all the blame for a loss. Everybody has an equal part in a game and you win as a team and lose as a team.When I got home, I went back to my room and was getting ready for bed when I saw a book on my dresser that I hadn’t seen in a while. The name of the book was It Ain’t Over ‘Til It’s Over. I had a hard pause to think about it and it led me to a great deal of respect for the team to which we lost. They never quit even when they were in a bad situation. They didn’t let their heads fall or quit playing their hardest. They kept marching no matter the situation. They did something that is hard to do but they understood they still had a chance.They understood that the unlikely is still possible. 78Ben Stallsmith is a writing intern at 78 Magazine. Ben is a rising eleventh grader at Walker High School in Jasper.