Chapter 17
Greyson
For the parents of a Little Leaguer,
a baseball game is simply a nervous breakdown divided into innings.
~ Earl Wilson
It’s the first game of the season. The girls have been practicing two or three afternoons a week.
Are we ready? Probably not.
My stronger players, like Mia, will pull their weight. But I have some others who are typical for their age—daydreamers, half-hearted players, and the ones who haven’t fully developed eye-hand coordination. I’m here for all of them, even if some of them won’t return to the sport after one season.
Thankfully, the other teams we play against are all in the same boat skill-wise. And none of them have Mia. She does stand out, and not only because she’s Hallie’s daughter.
Hallie’s in the stands with her sister and her mom.
She’s wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and a ball cap.
She looks amazing. And I’m fighting to keep myself from gazing in her direction too often.
She’s sitting just to the side of the other group of moms. I’m staring long enough that her gaze snags on mine.
I rub the seam of the baseball in my hand.
Then I lift my other hand and run my fingers along the brim of my cap.
She smiles softly. Just before Avery turns to see what’s making her sister smile, I pivot toward the field, counting my players and running through the order of the lineup.
Some of my players are warming up. The rest are chatting around the dugout.
Our new pink-and-lavender uniforms came in—complete with a creature on the back of the jerseys that looks like a llama and a unicorn had a baby and named it Sparkly.
The woman who adorns the uniforms added a few well-placed sequins.
The girls squealed when we did the reveal.
“It’s so sparkly!” Whitney shouted, and that triggered an explosion of excitement from the whole team.
Will walks up to me. I think he’s going to ask something game-related, but he says, “So, you went to dinner at Mia’s mom’s house?”
Really? First Dustin. Now Will?
“This town,” I mutter. But then I look him in the eyes. “Yeah. I did.”
I’m owning it.
When Dustin pestered me, I stood at a crossroads.
It took me only an instant to sort through my choices.
I could tell him the truth and face the teasing and assumptions or whatever fallout was coming.
Or, I could keep Hallie a secret, and send her the message that she doesn’t matter, that I want to hide our connection, that what we had was in the past and none of it is spilling into the present.
I claimed our dinner together. I hope she felt my claim. I don’t know where things are going between us. But I won’t be the one to shut any doors. If she does, I’ll honor her wishes.
Besides, I’ve got Washington, DC looming in the distance. If they accept my application, that ball is already in motion.
“How do people know where I went to dinner?” I ask, foolishly.
It was dark when I arrived at Hallie’s. Dark when I left.
Hallie and Mia live outside the downtown area in an established neighborhood.
No one I know had any idea I was going there.
Our plans were made last-minute. I highly doubt Hallie sent out a social media blast. She doesn’t strike me as the type.
Probably someone overheard Mia’s boisterous invitation in the grocery.
“Tabitha’s mom heard about it,” Will says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I had to eat with their family two nights ago. And Charlotte’s mom asked me over to their house tonight.” I shake my head. “Thankfully we’ve got the team pizza night after the game. If I didn’t work every other day, I’d be eating at a different player's house every night.”
Will has the nerve to laugh. And not even softly, either.
“Well, now you have to take me and Kayla up on our invitation.” He pauses. “I mean, it’s only fair.”
“You’d really do that to me?” I ask. “Kick a man when he’s down?”
But he’s right. If I’m eating out with everyone else in town, I’d better take them up on their offer.
“It’s dinner, Greyson. A meal you don’t have to cook for yourself.”
“I know,” I say. “And I’d rather eat it with you and Kayla if I have to eat with people. Tell Kayla I’ll figure out my next available day.”
Will smiles. “If you have to …” He laughs. “You’re something else.” He shouldn’t be so understanding, but he is. And I appreciate it.
“It will probably be summer by the time I find an opening at this rate,” I say.
“Was that a joke?” Will asks. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Yeah. I did.” I smile at him just to really blow his mind.
The truth is, ever since dinner at Hallie’s, I find I’ve been smiling more. Not that I’m Mr. Sunshine now, but I’m definitely feeling strangely lighter.
The umpire calls me and the other coach out to do a field check.
Will and I gather the girls for a huddle near the dugout. Our mascot, a local teen dressed in a unicorn outfit, runs back and forth in front of the bleachers waving a sparkly, stuffed, three-foot unicorn horn, shouting, “Make some noise for the Llamacorns!”
“Okay, Llamacorns,” I say. “Today we’re playing the Riverbend Raccoons.
And it’s our first game. Just remember everything we learned at practices.
” I pause, looking at each girl. “During the game, we stand up. We’re not at a picnic.
” Will chuckles. I continue. “Eye on the ball. Swing hard. Run straight through first base. Got it?”
Macy sniffs the inside of her helmet. “My helmet smells funny.” Luna sticks her hand out. “Lemme smell it!” Kinsley pops hers on and scrunches her face. “Mine itches.”
“Okay. Okay. Enough helmet talk,” I say. “Do we all know what to do at bat?”
“Yes, Coach!” a few of the girls shout.
Mia actually salutes me.
Peyton drops down and picks a dandelion, then she stands and twirls it in her fingers.
“Good. Play your best and have fun,” I say. Everyone nods. Will says, “‘Go, Llamacorns’ on three.” The girls stick their hands in the middle of the huddle. Will counts down, and we all shout “Go, Llamacorns!”
The Raccoons take the field. Our team files into the dugout with the exception of two girls who stand outside the dugout even when I shout, “Llamacorns into the dugout!”
Will puts on the catcher mask and chest protector, and I walk out to the mound.
Our first batter, Charlotte, hits a weak dribbler.
I call out, “Run to first!”
Charlotte does not run to first. She stands at home, dumbstruck, helmet askew, bat loosely in hand, eyeing the ball only feet in front of her as if she expects it to get up and move.
The two girls outside the dugout hear my command to run, and take off for first base.
Macy lands on first base, waves at Will and shouts, “I’m on base, Coach!”
The first-base Raccoon looks at Macy and says, “You didn’t bat.” Then she takes off after the ball which is still sitting only feet in front of Charlotte at home plate.
“Run, Charlotte!” I shout just as Adrianna, our second rogue runner from the dugout, hits the bag at third and sprints home, launching into a full-shimmy victory dance with her hands overhead when she taps home base.
Charlotte snaps out of her daze and starts running toward first, weaving and bobbing. The first-base Raccoon chases after her, zigzagging behind Charlotte. The first-base Raccoon trips, dropping the ball. It rolls away from her.
Charlotte keeps running.
Adrianna’s on home plate dancing and singing a made-up cheer. “Oooh yeah. Llamacorns! Go sparkly! Go sparkle! And glitter! Shine, shine, shine!”
The first base player stands up and kicks the ball like a soccer striker.
The ball arcs and thunks off the shortstop’s helmet. She looks up, arms shielding her head, as if checking for some sort of baseball hailstorm. Then she weaves and sways dramatically, adds a theatrical spin, and topples over, clutching her heart.
When she shouts, “I’ve been hit!” peals of laughter explode from the players on both teams.
Two Raccoons from the infield go running for the ball. They collide. The ball rolls between them.
I say, “Ball’s live.”
Outfield players run right past it, looking around to see where it went.
A mom on the bleachers yells, “Throw it to first!”
A Raccoon shouts back, “You’re not the boss of me!”
Another Raccoon finally picks up the ball.
A dad shouts, “Tag her!”
The Raccoon runs to first and tags Macy, who isn’t even officially in the game yet.
Someone shouts, “Wrong player!”
Another voice from the bleachers yells, “Llamacorns already scored!”
Adrianna hears that and sings, “I DID score! I did score! Score Sparkly Llamacorn! Score!”
“You have to touch the base!” I shout to Charlotte. Then I mutter to myself, “And you have to be the batter.”
I touch the tips of my fingers to my temple, pressing into my forehead.
Mayhem. Chaos. This game has devolved into a runaway train with no tracks in sight.
Parents leap up from the bleachers, running onto the field to intervene.
One man is holding his phone up, filming. I catch a piece of him saying, “And this is how little league goes, folks.”
My eyes snag on Hallie. She’s cracking up. Doubled over and then rocking back, wiping tears from her eyes, her face alight with amusement. A warmth floods me at the sight of her.
The mascot charges the baseline with her fluffy sparkly wand in hand.
She’s waving that wand with gusto. Suddenly, the wand bursts open, sending glitter arcing out over the infield, falling like sparkly feathers from a pillow fight.
The dirt gleams with pinpricks of light.
Every child abandons the game to run under the glistening shower of iridescent confetti.
One Raccoon screams, “It’s snowing!”
Players are spinning in it. Opening their mouths. Doing jazz hands.
I shout over the ruckus, “Where’s the ball?”
I glance around.
“Llamacorns, find the ball!” I yell to my players.
Some girls drop to their hands and knees.
A Raccoon lifts the glitter-coated ball. “I found it!”
Her wide-eyed teammate exclaims, “It’s so shiny!”
The umpire is repeatedly blowing his whistle now.
I shout. “Llamacorns, back to the dugout!” and then I add, “Everyone back to your positions!”
A few players yell, “I am!”
No one is.
The umpire’s whistle-blows rise—long and shrill. His puffy cheeks redden.
No one listens.
I’m standing in the center of a shimmering infield—a dusting of the colorful unicorn shower clinging to my shoes. The mascot is leaking sparkles like a broken pinata.
Kids are spinning, tossing glitter like confetti, throwing it in the air and at one another.
Mia’s sitting in the dugout, a soft smile on her face, her serious eyes taking in everything with a mix of what appears to be amusement and exasperation.
I walk over to the Raccoon holding the ball and extend my hand. She plops it into my palm. I raise it into the air.
The children all look up at the ball like I’m Mufasa dedicating Simba as the next reigning king.
“Keep your eye on the ball,” I say calmly.
Everyone nods.
“And only run after you hit it,” I add.
“Okay, Coach G!” my team shouts.
One girl sneezes. Glitter lifts and falls.
“Did we win yet?” Macy asks.
“Not yet,” I tell them. “Now get back to the dugout.”