The Baseball Player Next Door

Inning 8 ★ Bring it Home!

"We're fucked," I declared. The older lady two seats from me tossed me a nasty look. The bleachers were mostly empty and it was not my fault she'd chosen to sit so close to me.

"How many runs do you think they'll score this inning?"

I pondered my friend's question. "I'd say a conservative three, but that's not the problem. McCann is not a terrible pitcher, so it will take the full batting lineup a couple of innings to get a feel for his style. After that it'll be slaughter."

I was right on the money. By the top of the fifth inning they were 11 to our big fat 0.

Ellen had at some point given up making detailed notes or recording video on her cell because she was just that embarrassed for our performance. I was too, and I couldn't help on two occasions screaming a lot of vitriol at our own bench. This was worse than I'd anticipated.

"What is my dad doing?" I asked her, flailing my arms around. "Does he think that just because it's a friendly the result won't matter? The first game sets the pace for our season!"

"Carpe diem, my friend." Ellie gave me such a strong pat in the back that it made me cough. "Go seize the motherfucking game."

I shot up to my feet. She was right. My dad may be a stubborn bull but so was I, and I'd had enough of sitting by and letting the game stretch into a tragedy. It was going to be called soon, making a season comeback from such opening humiliation all the more difficult.

I splashed puddles of water on my way downstairs. No one blocked my entrance to the dugout, and sixteen pairs of eyes turned to me. I stood in front of my dad, hands on my hips.

"Are you going to listen to me now?"

His eyebrows went up; the movement pushed his cap farther up his hairline. "Excuse me?"

"The first game is crucial for the team's spirit, and you're choosing to throw it."

He folded his arms. "I am not choosing to throw it."

"Well, if it's not that then the alternative is that they simply suck."

This caught the boys' attention even more. The farthest ones from us better positioned themselves to see their coach's reaction. Even in the dimly lit dugout I could tell that my dad's color was rising dangerously close to his hair color. But I suspected I looked similar.

"Go back to your seat, Peyton. We will speak about this at home."

"No, we won't, because you'll run away from me again, so I'll say what I have to say in front of everybody because you've let me no other choice." I only caught Anthony's thumb up before taking a deep breath to continue. "This current team sucks, yes. But that's because we've all been wrapped up in our grief and no one's managed to give us a wake up call.

"Well," I paused to point at the pitch. "This is going to be a wake up call. It's either going to make us or break us. But if you don't do anything at all to even try to put up a fight, I can guarantee you that it's going to break us."

There was a low murmur of agreement from the bench. My dad looked at them, half angry and half pleading.

It was Santiago who broke the silence. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. Looking ahead at McCann's pitch, he said, "You know her, Cliff. She won't go away until she has her say. And she's far from done."

My lips pursed. He was by far smarter than my dad for understanding my nature and not trying to evade it.

My dad exhaled his frustration. "What do you want?"

"You need to switch the lineup entirely. The reason why the team sucks is because you're not using the individuals for the good of the whole."

My dad had an unexpected reaction then. He laughed.