Third Base (The Boys of Summer Book 1) (2 page)

“W
hy do you read that shit?”

Steve Bainbridge, centerfielder for my team, the Boston Renegades, throws a ball at me, causing me to drop my phone so I can catch it. I’d rather replace a cracked screen on my phone than take a ball to the face. Having a busted lip or black eye isn’t my idea of a good time. He picks it up before I can and scrolls through the blog post I had been reading. The BoRe blogger hates me and I can’t figure out why.

“Well, at least you’re not being called out for retirement three weeks into the season.” Bainbridge hands me my phone and sighs. This is my second season in the league and he’s been a mentor to me. Toward the end of last season, I had a lot going for me until I messed up one night. Bainbridge was there to help get my ass out of hot water before our general manager, Ryan Stone, could kick me off the team. The incident in question? I bought a minor some drinks who was celebrating her birthday, and she was in the bar. Apparently she had snuck in, but because I’m a major league baseball player, the district attorney thought he’d try to make an example out of me. Thankfully, the Renegades have a stellar legal team and I was able to get away with a few hours of community service.

Hard lesson learned. In fact, I’ve had to learn a few over the year - for instance, tweeting out my address isn’t the smartest thing to do. Women of all ages show up wearing next to nothing, and when your mom answers the door…let’s just say there are things even she shouldn’t see.

“Are you done at the end of the season?” We prepare our whole lives for moments like this without even realizing it. Like when your best friend moves away, or the seniors on your team graduate. It’s really no different when someone retires or gets traded. Retirement is harder to deal with because guys usually move back to their hometown or their wife’s hometown and you don’t see them as often. At least with a trade, the next time you play that team, you can hang out.

“My wife… she gave me an ultimatum. I quit, or she walks with the kids.”

“Oh.”

“Nothing for you to worry about, kid,” he says, as he walks down the stairs and through the dugout, disappearing down the hall. Just a handful of the guys have wives on the team. It’s a low statistic according the BoRe blogger, citing that our General Manager is rebuilding a young team with talent that can last a few years. I think our GM wants to win and is doing everything he can to make sure it happens. It has nothing to do with age or marital status.

I pick up my glove and one of the loose balls sitting by my feet and toss it into the stands. We have two home games before we hit the road for six away and then back home for three before we get a day off. It’s the start of the season and I’m already looking forward to a day off.

Before each home game, a young fan, along with his or her family, is chosen to be our guest for the game. Not only do they gain early access to the ballpark for a tour, but if a few of us are here early, we’ll come out and throw the ball around for a little while so they can watch. The fan becomes our honorary bat boy or girl for game, going home with a ton of selfies with the players, autographs and souvenirs.

Tonight’s fan is a girl with pigtails and a thousand watt smile. Her Renegades hat sits on top of her head, barely hanging on. Her face lights up when she catches the ball easily in her glove and waves at me before turning to her parents with excitement. Being good to your fans is something my college coach instilled in me after every single game. It didn’t matter what test we had in the morning, what the weather was doing, how tired we were, or whether we got our asses beat – we’d stay to sign autographs and take pictures until the last fan left. Our boss, Ryan, feels the same way. He says fans make or break you and he’s right. That’s why the BoRe blogger gets under my skin so much. I don’t know who he is, but I’d like to meet him to find out what his beef is with me.

Reporters line the wall outside of our clubhouse, waiting for an interview. The media are allowed in the clubhouse until batting practice begins. Cal Diamond, our manager, has a list of guys who will talk each day, even though the media tries to get audio clips from everyone. I’ve yet to be chosen. I try not to let it bother me, but it does. I know I’m young and say stupid shit sometimes, but I don’t do it to be harmful to the team. My mouth just works faster than my brain. It’s something my agent says I need to work on. Stone says he’s looking for someone to come in and give us all some media training. In the meantime, I usually visit the trainer or go into our lounge before batting practice, which is off limits to the media.

They call my name. I wave and smile like I’ve been instructed and enter the clubhouse. It’s chaos in here, but it’s expected on game day. The Renegades are high energy, unlike some of the other teams out there. I’ve heard rumors that some clubhouses are quiet zones, the ‘zen’ zone. We tried that once last year and most of us fell asleep before the game started. The idea was quickly nixed and since then the clubhouse has been a mecca for craziness.

On any given day, this room is filled with towel snapping, raunchy jokes and guys running around bare-assed with only their jock straps on. The one rule we have in here: No women, no wives, no girlfriends, etc… Not because we walk around naked, but because we’re disgusting and our antics will give off a bad impression. We want the women to remember us for what we do on the field, not the shit in here. Besides, the wives have a pretty stellar lounge that they can hang in until the game starts.

I change quickly, slipping on my long sleeved jacket before heading back onto the field for warm-ups. It’s still downright cold in Boston. There are a few cheers as we start coming out of the dugout as season ticket holders arrive early. Kids line every available space in hopes of getting a high-five or to snag a fly ball from batting practice. After a while, you start to recognize the same faces. I look for one in particular that I’ve been looking at since the midway point of last season. She usually sits parallel to third base, behind the enemy. When I look over in between plays, I swear she’s staring at me. I can’t always tell, though, because she wears her Renegades hat low and I can’t see her eyes.

She’s always in a black and white BoRe baseball shirt with her long hair pulled back. I’ve noticed that she changes the color from blonde to brown depending on the season, but it’s always long. She’s always in the same seat for every home game, which leads me to believe she’s a season ticket holder, even though, by all accounts, she seems too young to be able to afford tickets this close to the field. It also hasn’t escaped my notice that the seat next to her is always empty. It should also be noted that I look for her each time I walk out of the dugout and walk to home plate, or when I finish warming up in between innings. There’s just something about her that keeps me interested, even though I don’t know her name, or anything about her.

What I
do
know and like is how she’s at every home game, wearing her Renegades gear. I really like that she’s a baseball fan, but more importantly that she never brings a guy with her, leading me to believe she’s single. I also like that she’s a mystery - I know finding out who she is wouldn’t be hard. I could send an usher to get her, or ask the office who the seats belong to. One of these days I’ll hit up the usher because asking the front office seems like a bad idea. I don’t want the ladies teasing me, and even though they’re nice and motherly, they’ll tease the crap out of me for showing interest in someone.

As soon as I step out onto the track, I’m looking in her direction. Her seat is still empty, but it’s early. We have two hours before the first pitch. I won’t start to worry yet. I’ve grown accustomed to having her there, even though I know in the back of my mind I’m making up most of the subtle looks I get from her.

“Looking for your girlfriend?” Travis Kidd, our left fielder, slaps me on my ass as he walks by. He turns and makes a lewd gesture with his hand and mouth. I throw a ball at his head, but he dodges it easily and starts laughing as he walks toward centerfield for warm-ups.

Each game, we meet out in centerfield to stretch for fifteen minutes as a team before breaking off into individual warm-ups. By team, I mean mostly starters and a few of the pitchers that will be working tonight. The rest of the guys linger in the clubhouse until it’s time to work on individual stuff.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, as I catch up with him. He puts his arm around me and makes stupid eyes at me.

“I see you looking at her, grabbing your meat diddler in between batters.”

“There are
thousands
of people in the stands, I could be looking at anyone. Besides, every time I look back you’re touching your schlong dangler, so don’t even think about giving me any shit.”

He shrugs. “I see her looking at you, too.”

“Really?” I ask, pausing mid-stride.

“Nope, but you just affirmed my suspicions that you’re into her.”

I shake my head and push him away. He stumbles a few steps before righting himself. “Ask her out,” he says in his infinite wisdom.

“Nah, it’ll just be more fuel for the BoRe blogger and Stone is already annoyed with me. He doesn’t need a reason to trade me.”

Kidd bellows out a laugh, bending over and holding his stomach. I’m not sure why it’s so funny – the thought of me being traded – but you don’t see me laughing.

“Dude, even if you started dating the fan, Stone isn’t going to trade you.” He puts his arm around me and turns me toward the stands. “More than half the people in the stands are wearing your jersey. You’re his young rising star, and aside from screwing up last year, which really wasn’t your fault, you’re the golden ticket.”

Growing up, I knew I wanted to play baseball. I didn’t care who drafted me, but I knew that once I had a team, it’s where I wanted to stay. I worked my ass off in high school, earning a Division One scholarship to Oregon State. My junior year, we won the national championship and from then on, I knew nothing was out of my reach.

“I want to be the next Derek Jeter.” I imagine legions of fans standing and cheering for me as I tip my hat to them in thanks.

“No, you don’t. You want to be Ethan Davenport. Be you, no one else.”

He slaps me on the shoulder with his glove, leaving me to look out over the stadium. People file in as the smell of hotdogs and popcorn moves through the air. Their laughter mixes with the music, creating a happy ambience. Without even thinking, my eyes travel over to where I’ll spend half the night. I’m out too far to see, but everything tells me that the first seat in row C, section sixty-five is occupied.

It’s game night at Lowery Field and the Boston Renegades are about to take on the Baltimore Orioles.

A
fter the National Anthem, we take the field. Kids are standing up and dancing, trying to get on the Jumbo Tron. I remember trying to do the same thing when I was a kid and my dad would take me to the Seattle Mariners games. I always tried to get on, or get a high-five from the Mariners’ Moose. Small moments like that can make a kid’s night at the ballpark. Catching a home run or a foul ball is the icing on the cake.

As I’m jogging to third, I let my eyes wander to the fans. She’s there with her ball cap on; the seat next to her is still empty. The slight movement of her head has me thinking that she’s watching me. I purposely walk over to the Orioles’ dugout and talk to one of my buddies from college, Justin Shaw. He’s a relief pitcher and I’ll likely be facing him tonight.

“Shaw,” I say as I quickly glance over the top of the dugout and our eyes meet. I smile and she turns away but not before I see a slight grin. Justin comes out of the dugout and we bro hug – something I probably should’ve done before the game, but she wasn’t sitting there then.