Epilogue 2 （Summer Again）
JEFF
Summer, again
The ball diamond is dusty. Not the well maintained red dirt of a pro field, but hard-packed, worn and cracked in places. Uneven running paths, but the chalk lines are fresh, and the sky…
I toss the ball I’m holding in the air and swing at it, the bat connecting with a satisfying thunk. It goes sailing into the near outfield.
Pulling another from the pouch on my belt, I do it again.
And again.
Thunk.
Thunk.
A truck pulls into the parking lot behind me, tires crunching on gravel.
Thunk.
I shield my eyes, watching as the final ball soars against the clouds.
Big sky country, indeed.
“Are you the coach?”
I turn around and nod at the mother who is dropping off her child. “Good morning. Hey there, young man. What’s your name?”
“Carter.”
“Nice to meet you, Carter. I’m Coach Rosehill. You can leave your stuff on the bench there. Run out into the outfield and find one of the balls I hit out there.”
He takes off, little feet churning.
One by one, the rest of the team arrives. Chasing after the balls is a good warm up, and then we move into some batting practice, then fielding drills.
There’s no analytics department.
No squad of assistant coaches.
It’s different.
But it’s also fantastic.
And when we’re done, the prettiest girl in the world is waiting with a big platter of orange wedges.
“I took some video,” Molly says when it’s just the two of us. She holds out an iPad.
So not no squad. My own analytics-and-media department of one.
As I take the iPad from her, the stroller parked in the shade of the bleachers starts rocking.
“Damn it, I thought he’d sleep longer,” she protests.
I tap the power button on the iPad.
Tape can wait. I take her hand as we approach the stroller together.
Gideon glares up at us as he kicks his feet, horrified to discover that he’s woken up strapped in to the Great Wheeled Prison.
“Come here, my little mister man.” I unbuckle him and lift him in the air.
His eyes light up as he takes in the diamond behind us. Grumpiness forgotten, he reaches for the chain link fence, as if he—at six months old—could climb over it and start playing baseball.
“Maybe the next one will be an artist or a lumberjack,” Molly says casually.
And it takes me a minute, because my tiny tank of a child is trying to rip his way out of my arms, even though he can’t yet walk, let alone hold a ball or run the bases.
But then I realize what she’s saying.
And since we’ve tried to be good about pulling out and using condoms, but not that good, and since I love my wife’s riper, lusher body post-baby…
Well, it shouldn’t be a surprise.
“Hang on a second, bud,” I say to Gideon as I spin him around so I can take his mother in my arms. “Are you serious?”
“Took a test this morning.” She bounces nervously in my embrace. “I know it’s quick, but—”
“It’s perfect.” I kiss her deeply, then softly, then deep again.
“It’s not what we planned.”
And I have to laugh, because literally nothing has been planned. But it’s been perfect, and that’s all that matters.