Chapter Four
Reed
“I know there are a lot of expectations of me, and I will do the best I can.”
—Carlos Beltrán
Early mornings were the best time to be at a ballpark.
No groundskeepers cutting grass in the outfield.
No obnoxious music blasting from the booth or noon-high sun burning the back of your neck.
It had only been a few days since I came back to Fairfield, but it had already been one day too many away from the mound.
This was what I needed. Just a blank scoreboard, an empty field, and a ball in my hand.
“I hate you,” Ben muttered.
“What?” I grinned at him as he walked toward home plate like a hungover zombie. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“No one gets up this early during the summer.” He pulled his hat lower and hissed at the morning sun. Or maybe at me.
“My family does.”
“They’re farmers.” He stopped at the fence behind home plate and flopped against it.
“You could try it, you know. Farming. Helping out. You might actually like it.”
He made a face. “I don’t do farming, Reed, and honestly, I can’t believe you can just pick it up again after being away for four years.”
I flipped a rosin bag back and forth in my right hand. “It’s like Granddad always said: You can take the kid out of the farm but you can’t take the farm out of the kid.”
“I’d like to take the farm and replace it with suburbs. Get the old Reed, who would sleep in till at least ten, back.” He dropped his glove near home plate. “So why are we here again?”
“To get an early start before the guys come at noon.” I dug the toe of my cleat into the damp clay on the mound and gave a once-over to the infield.
Damn, this place really needs a good screen drag.
“We played a game yesterday. Everything still hurts.”
“Everything hurts because you got loaded with Brett last night.”
He groaned and stretched his arms behind his back. “You should’ve been there. Brett had to hold me back from kicking the shit out of a couple of Crowley guys.”
“What’d they do?”
“Does it matter?” Ben picked up his glove. “Still could’ve used you though.” Somehow, I doubted that. Ben and I may have done everything together for the last few years, but his temper was far worse than mine. Throwing a fist was second nature to him.
“Sorry,” I said. “My phone died, and my watch stopped working again.” I smacked the old digital face on my wrist until it started blinking to life.
“Why do you wear that thing if it’s broken ninety percent of the time?”
“I’ve had it for forever—just used to wearing it.
” My life had had enough unexpected turns over the years, thanks to the military.
So yeah, if I had to deal with an old watch, I’d do it.
It was too special to get rid of and at least I could count on it to always work 10 percent of the time. Couldn’t say that for much else.
“So what did you get into last night?” Ben asked.
“Granddad took me on a tour of the fields.” I dug my toe into the dirt.
He chuckled. “It’s a bunch of corn. What’s there to see…in the dark?”
“You can see a lot even in the dark. The fields are quieter at night too. Helps with focus.” I soft-tossed the ball to him.
“He also wanted to explain how all the numbers worked. Which field went to which market. And he kinda wanted my opinion about adding an orchard to the northern end of the property too.”
“Your opinion?”
“Guess he wanted someone else to talk to about it other than Nana. It’s not like Dad’s here to chat with him.
” I pressed my fingers against a pair of dog tags hanging around my neck, the other thing I’d grown used to wearing.
A deep ache spread across my chest. When Dad had these made before he was deployed again eight months ago, he said they’d bring me luck.
Could’ve used them last summer, but something told me I’d definitely need them for this one.
“Granddad’s just proud of how far the farm’s come over the years. Nothing wrong with that,” I said.
“I know, I know.” Ben threw the ball back to me. “But he needs to remember he asked us here to win the season for him. Can’t do that if you’re busy talkin’ about fruit trees.”
“Trust me. He remembers why we’re here.”
Yesterday’s Family Day brought in a lot of money and support, but we played horribly.
While we hadn’t played for a few weeks after our spring season back home in Fayetteville, half the team acted like they hadn’t picked up a ball in years.
Dropped fly balls, shitty batting, and even a couple of missed grounders through the legs.
We had made Bill Buckner look good.
Ben hit his glove a few times before crouching behind the mound. “Did you see the Crowleys spying on us yesterday?”
“Which ones?” I still hadn’t figured out what to do about Eliza’s mask or how to return it. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to return it. She did melt my Optimus Prime and Hot Rod—my favorites.
“Daddy and Princess were above the press box for half the game with some of the other players.” Ben held open his glove. “That’s probably her favorite spot, right? Someone like her wouldn’t want to get too close to the field. Might get dirty.”
“Eliza’s been around a ballpark her whole life.” I lobbed a couple of pitches over the plate. “She’s not afraid to get dirty.”
“She sure keeps her BMW clean, I can tell you.”
“She drives a BMW?” Why was I surprised? Of course she did.
Ben flipped his hat around backward and leaned back on his heels. “I saw her pull out of the stadium in it yesterday.”
Huh. “Didn’t take her for a BMW kinda girl, honestly.”
“Yeah, the way you talked about her, I figured she was more of a Benz.” He hit the inside of his glove. “Did you know she led a sit-in at the coffee place in town a couple years ago?”
“At the Brew?” I kicked a few stones away from the mound.
God, this infield really sucked.
Ben nodded. “Brett read about it on their bulletin board when he grabbed coffee the other morning. The town wouldn’t let some poet read her stuff there. Eliza organized the protest. She also won the hitting derby contest last year.”
I almost dropped the baseball. “She won Fairfield’s Hit and Run Derby?” Holy hell.
“Right?” Ben laughed. “How shitty of a town do you gotta have for a girl to win that?”
Seriously, Ben?
“Eri Yoshida was drafted by the Japanese men’s league when she was only sixteen. Remember her sick knuckleball?” I propped my gloved hand on my hip. “Mo’ne Davis pitched a freaking shutout in the Little League World Series in 2014. Melissa Mayeux, Marti Sementelli—”
“Okay, okay.” He held up his hand. “I got it.”
Would’ve been cool to see Eliza put her dad’s best players in their place though.
Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.
“Come on.” Ben waved for the ball. “You dragged me out here. Show me whatcha got, Ace.”
I leaned forward and stared at Ben’s signals. The sun grew warmer on my neck.
He asked for a high-and-inside.
I shook it off.
Then he asked for a fastball.
I shook that off too.
He chuckled and brought up his middle finger before pointing it down and away.
My slider. Perfect.
I straightened my back, checked an imaginary base runner on second, brought my chin down, knee up, and arm out.
My cleat dug into the dry dirt as the ball zipped out of my hand. It crossed home plate with a perfect angle into his glove.
“Strike! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He threw it back to me. “Now let’s see that fastball, and make it a two-seamer.”
Fuck. “I can’t do my two-seamer yet.”
“Dude. You gotta practice it again sooner or later.”
Easy for him to say. He didn’t hit three batters and send one to the hospital with a two-seamer last summer. He made it sound like it was nothing. “I dunno—”
“What did the coaches say when they came up to you after the first evaluation?”
“Control. Consistency,” I muttered.
“Right. So focus on that.” He moved back into position. “We won’t win if you can’t nail down those two things, and if we don’t win, summer scouts won’t even remember our names.”
My stomach knotted up.
Scouts.
College scouts.
I had already fucked up once in front of them. If I did it a second time, they definitely wouldn’t pay me a visit the spring of my senior year. I should have already been working on verbal commitments. Signing in November or December.
Now I’d be lucky to sign in April.
Ben was good enough to go at least D2, maybe D1 if he could get his GPA up and stay out of trouble. He was already in talks with UNC, his dream school, and I was happy for him.
Mostly.
The truth that I couldn’t admit to him or anyone else was that I wasn’t sure what I wanted most: to play college baseball or to not be left behind.
Later that day, I sat in the living room trying to read a copy of Romeo and Juliet from Nana’s bookshelf. Why were people so obsessed with this depressing play? And the feud between the Capulets and Montagues? No one knew what started it.
At least our feud with the Crowleys made sense.
Nana called from the kitchen, “Reed, could you come help me with dinner?”
“Be right there.” I stuck a receipt from the gas station into the book and stood. The sofa made a sticky ripping sound. Nana said that on a farm, plastic had to cover the furniture or everything would be ruined. I think I would’ve taken my chances without it.
Plastic on a sofa was as comfortable as Saran wrap on a toilet seat.
The old oaken floors creaked under my feet. Mickey, Granddad’s old border collie, wagged his tail on the checkered tile near the sink, and Nana danced along to some music near the stove.
“Smells good in here.” I rubbed Mickey’s head before smiling at her.
She tossed me a head of lettuce from the counter and patted her side. “Did I tell you I got Lucille hooked up to my phone? Now I can read my levels without having to take her off my belt.”