Starting catcher Mike Chantry hollered the upcoming batting order when we got in from the field. Chantry, equal parts rah-rah guy and team leader, was the opposite of everything I represented on our team. He seemed destined to play at a four-year school after Broome and treated the game like a job. Through all the reckless nights we had in Binghamton, not once can I remember him having a beer, smokin’ a doobie, or mingling with the handful of cleat chasers that followed us like clockwork.

“Hansen! Pace! Pazzalia! — Sounds like runs, let’s go!”

This was the second game of a doubleheader, which to first-year players like myself, Brian Hansen, and Nik Pace, meant we’d be starting. For whatever reason, college baseball normally dictates the second-year guy starting Game One, and the first-year guy doing the same in Game Two. Only the starriest of stars start both, and on a team that finished 9–21, we didn’t have too many of those.

Brian, a great defensive catcher and my best friend/roommate at the time, led off with a deep fly-out for the first out. Pace followed, and although he was the fourth member of our tight group of party animals — along with Bidwell and Hansen — it did him no favors as he grounded out to second.

Draped in my grey, heavy-duty №44 jersey, I stepped in from outside the fence and walked to the plate. The public address announcer botched my last name — something I’ve come to accept — and as the Erie fans realized who this new batter was, a second round of boos filled the Buffalo air.

The pitcher was a lanky right-handed arm who looked like a close relative to Machine Gun Kelly. He took whatever sign the catcher gave him and wound up for the offering.

As soon as the ball left his hand, it was clear to me what was going down. It hadn’t crossed my mind at all in the on-deck circle or when the boos rang down, but this bozo pitcher was throwing at me because of the tag I plopped on his chunky teammate.

Square in the shoulder.

“Take your base…”

The umpire obviously didn’t connect the dots, which is understandable because he’s probably not used to this kind of stuff at the D-III level. But I knew, and laughed as the 80-mph fastball rolled out in front of the plate.

I didn’t say anything to the pitcher. It would have been wrong to do so. He was sticking up for his teammate, and in our world, you learn at an early age that it’s always an eye for an eye, no matter what.

Baseball outsiders don’t understand, and that’s fine. It’s just another reason why our game is better than the rest, why it’s romantic and beautiful.

When I got to first base, the Erie first baseman engaged with me just like I always did with visitors of the bag. He acknowledged the beaning, exchanged a few kind words, and got ready for whoever was coming up after me.

It’s not clear if my teammates connected the events, and judging by the lack of warning, few likely did. But, regardless of comprehension or not, I took my lead and laughed as another unwritten baseball rule was taking place in the dugout behind me…

All I could hear was, “Don’t rub it!”, a tradition that has followed HBP’s for as long as I can remember. To an outsider, the exclamation is confounding, but to those inside the lines, it’s as ritual as the beaning itself.