Popup to deep center, she gets a jump and rushes forward but hears the bench of boys yelling "Back! Back! Other way!" She rights course by slamming the breaks and twisting her body around. Ashamed and shocked by her misjudgment, she mumbles "oh no!" and runs head-down backwards with all she's got. An oversized hat falls off in the wind. She trips but steadies herself and finally reaches a spot where she anticipates the ball. Plants her feet, squares up, shields the sun, opens her glove just slightly. Bends her knees and says a quick "I got it!" in a voice too quiet for anyone to hear. She reaches up, tilting back. The ball flies overhead, wildly miscalculated. She is airborne, trying the impossible. The ball sails past her, falling a mile away and rolling to a stop in dog you-know-what, her least favorite. But she scrambles to her feet and finds the ball, grips it, fires it in. Her throw is a bullet, a perfect shot. The greedy base-runner is stretching for an inside-the-park home run, but her throw is there. The play at the plate. When the dust settles, the umpire makes the call. Back in the outfield, she can't see or hear the call. All she can hear is her own pulse and the frantic hope that she did okay. She did great.