Third Base (The Boys of Summer Book 1) (28 page)

Bainbridge is currently on second, stuck in no man’s land unless one of us can single and move him to third. Kayden Cross went down swinging, giving us our first out of the inning. Preston Meyers is in a pitching duel right now, hitting foul ball after foul ball and barely staying alive. Baltimore is still using their starting pitcher who hasn’t slowed down and continues to throw heaters down the middle at ninety-eight miles per hour. One always hopes that by mid-game starting pitchers begin to wear out, allowing us to get the bat around quicker, but it seems as though Cross is just getting started.

Meyers hits a line drive toward the shortstop, freezing Bainbridge on second. The throw to first isn’t in time to get Meyers, making him safe. The fans cheer, but the Skipper for Baltimore comes out of the dugout, clearly not happy with the call. While the umpires get together to discuss it, I wander over to Meyers to chat for a minute.

“Nice hit.”

He shakes his head, taking off his batting gloves and handing them to our first base coach, Shawn Smith.

“He’s throwing heat, but its garbage. His slider sucks right now. Wait for the fast ball.” His words are quick and rushed, trying to keep our conversation to ourselves without their first baseman rushing off to tell his pitcher.

The instant replay airs on the Jumbo Tron, much to the delight of the fans. Meyers is safe by at least one full step and the umpires agree after they review the footage over by the dugout. The home ump calls the game back into play and my music comes on.

I can hear John heckling the pitcher. It makes me smile that since the first time I made sure he could get to a game, he hasn’t missed one yet and has even taken to talking about my stats when I come over for lunch. I know Daisy’s happy he’s getting this opportunity and thanks me every opportunity she gets.

In two weeks she’s meeting my parents. I know it’s early, but my mom is right when she says you just know when you’ve found your “one”. Since I’ve been with Daisy, my nervous twitch has lessened. So much so that even our General Manager has asked about it, wondering if I needed to take a piss test to see what kind of drugs I’m on.

When I look at Daisy, I don’t see a summer fling or someone I’m with just to pass the time. I see someone who I can come home to every night and wake up with each morning. I see the woman that I want to spend all my free time with and when we’re not together I count the hours until we are.

And now, when she’s yelling at me to keep my eye on the ball and to swing through, instead of being mad at her heckling, I want to kiss her and thank her for being the support that I need.

Standing in the box, I stare down the pitcher, showing him my bat. I dig my right foot into the dirt and move some away with my left before resting it on my shoulder. My first two pitches are high and outside, and well out of my strike zone. I step out of the box and readjust my batting gloves while the catcher jogs out to the mound. I can’t imagine they’re intentionally walking me with my batting average being less than stellar right now. I’m not a threat up here and they’re better off pitching to me. With my luck it could be in their favor and I’d hit into a double play.

As much as I want to look at Daisy right now, I don’t. My focus needs to be on the game, my bat and mostly the pitcher. Meyers’ words are on auto play through my head as I step back in, repeating my ritual.

The next pitch is high and inside, brushing me off the plate. The crowd surrounding me has a few choice words for the pitcher, who is stoic. It’s the way he should be, no emotion. Maybe he felt like I was crowding the plate and is sending me a subtle reminder that this is his territory right now. What he’s forgetting is that I own him with a count of three and zero. As far as I’m concerned, I’m about to take a walk to first base, loading the bases for Singleton.

The pitch is delivered, and the ball is the fucking meatball I’ve been waiting for all night. This is that moment when I can either stand here and take the strike, because that is what’s expected of me and I’ll still be ahead in the count, or I can swing for the fences.

If I swing, it has to be full on through the hips with a follow through so hard that the bat is smacking against my shoulder blades. I need to make him pay for giving me the fastball I love so much, the one right down the middle.

The motion of my bat is automatic, as if it knows it wants a piece of that white-leather-red-stitched ball flying toward us. My eyes follow the ball as it smacks hard against the grain of my Louisville. The deafening crack has the catcher saying, “Oh shit.” I let out a battle cry as the bat hits my shoulders before it slowly comes back around and hangs to my side as I watch the ball fly to dead center. The Oriole outfielders are running back, both left and center, wondering which one is going to catch it. Meyers and Bainbridge are tagged and ready to run on the catch; Bainbridge will score easily.

The crowd is hushed as we all watch the ball sail through the air, no doubt each of us wondering if it has enough height to clear the wall. The centerfielder crashes into the wall just as the ball clears the boundaries. Everyone erupts as I drop the bat and take my required run around the bases, slapping hands with our first and third base coaches when I run by them.

After a homerun, stepping on home plate is something different. Your team is there to meet you, to celebrate with you. When you turn to see the scoreboard, what was just a zero now reads three. We’re now only down one run and we need to hold them so we can come back and win this thing.

We’re pumped when we return to the dugout, cheering Singleton on. When he takes the first pitch and hits it out of the park into right field the announcer is yelling, “BACK-TO-BACK HOMERUNS!” and now we’re meeting him at home plate. That’s when I glance at Daisy and John who are both cheering, right along with everyone else in the stadium. She doesn’t see me staring, giving me a brief moment to just look at her.

There’s a soft glow about her, which could be the overhead lights, but I don’t think it is. I think she looks happy and I hope it’s because of me.

We lose.

Singleton’s homerun was as close as we got. We gave up two more runs, losing four to six. And now I’m sitting at a long table, dirty and sweaty, waiting for a press conference to start. Right now I’d like to go back to the time when I didn’t have press access so I could be in the shower or resting in the whirlpool instead of here.

My name gets called, and I take a drink of water, waiting for their question.

“How did the homerun feel tonight?”

Who comes up with these questions?

“Uh… I guess it felt good. I mean it brought in some runs and built some momentum.”

The next question goes to Bainbridge and the following question to Manager Diamond. I sit there, wondering why the hell I’m here. I can’t provide an eloquent answer and honestly, all the cameras make me slightly nervous.

“Ethan, are you looking forward to the All-Star break?”

“Yes,” I say into the microphone. “It’s a good time for us to regroup and have a little fun.”

Diamond excuses Bainbridge and me from the press conference while he stays to finish up. Surely, they’re going to attack him more than they will us. They know if they’re not nice, we’ll stop speaking. Diamond, on the other hand, doesn’t have a choice. It’s his job, whether he likes it or not.

The temperament in the clubhouse is somber. Everyone is quiet and a few of the guys are already gone. I don’t blame them for bailing after the game. It’s what I wanted to do. No one wants to hang out right now because we’re all feeling the same. We’re all tired of getting so close, only to lose.

I throw my shit into my locker and kick my stool across the room, lucky that only a few of my teammates are still here and I didn’t hit anyone with it.

“You’re not the only one who’s pissed,” Jasper Jacobson, our catcher, says as he starts getting dressed. “We’re on the same team here, Davenport. Sure, you brought in the runs, but it’s a fucking team effort.”

He’s slamming shit around and muttering under his breath. I realize in this moment that I need to keep my mouth shut because bringing up his stats probably wouldn’t be a good idea right now. One of the runs tonight was on a pass ball that he let go through his legs and I felt that the effort put in on his part was lacking.

Unfortunately, he sees me smirk and is now in my face.

“You have a problem, rookie?” he spits out, going chest to chest with me.

“I’m not a rookie,” I say, stepping forward, showing him that I’m not going to back down from him or anyone else who wants a piece of me.

“You’re a cocky son of a bitch, that’s what you are. You think your shit don’t stink, but let me tell you something sophomore, punks like you are a dime a dozen.”

I’m not even sure what his problem is. I kicked my stool across an empty room and it landed nowhere near him. He plays a different position, so it’s not like he’s backing me up. My batting average is better than his and maybe that’s why he’s jealous. He could want to be in the third spot in the rotation and if that’s the case, he needs to speak to Diamond about that.

“If we’re a dime a dozen, you’d think we’d be all over the place. I don’t know what your problem is, Jacobson, but it’s not me.”

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Diamond says, as he walks in.

“Just talking, Skip,” Jacobson says, waiting for Diamond to walk into his office. Once the door slams shut, his attention is back on me.

“You’re my fucking problem.” He puffs his chest out before storming away.

“What was that about?” Bainbridge asks after coming out of the bathroom.

I shake my head and grab my clothes. At this point, I’ll change when I get home. I need to go pick up Daisy. I
need
Daisy.

“I kicked my stool across the floor and he jumped on my shit.”

“I know you’re frustrated and you expect us to win, but sometimes teams have to take some lumps. We’re going to bounce back. We’ll dominate. We’ll be on top again.” Bainbridge squeezes my shoulder as he passes by. I hear a faint knock on Diamond’s door and wonder if Bainbridge will be around for when we bounce back.

A
side from being well under five hundred, I’m doing remarkably well. The batting title is within my reach but I know that unless we make the post season, I’ll be an afterthought. At this point, we’re not even close to making the post season because the teams from Texas are fucking killing everyone right now. We can’t even put together a winning streak, but we can sure as hell lose multiple games in a row.