Chapter Thirty
Reed
“It ain’t over till it’s over.”
—Yogi Berra
Dad used to tell me that giving up baseball was one of the hardest things he ever did. That yes, he felt the call to serve our country, that he was damn proud to answer it, but that the pull of the game still held strong. Like gravity. He couldn’t ever let it go.
I assumed baseball was my gravity too. I was wrong. Giving up Eliza Crowley proved that.
Five days. Four practices. Sixty-two pitches thrown. Three rounds of running poles. Two rounds of PFPs. And all of them done in a daze because I had lost my center.
Because I was the idiot who suggested taking a break. Who quoted her own dad and said it was “just a summer thing.”
But she didn’t argue against it.
Maybe she had taken me to the treehouse to end it, and I beat her to it?
Coach Monaco clapped loudly and snapped my attention back to the game. “One, two, three. That’s all it takes, boys. Three outs, and we’re in the championship. Let’s go!”
Our guys rushed by me to the field. I cleared my throat as Ben tightened one of his leg guards. “Hey, man, I’m sorry I forgot to call you back. A lot of shit went down this weekend.”
“It’s fine.” Ben kept his eyes down as he finished strapping on his gear.
“Let’s catch up after the game though. Okay?” I stepped toward him.
“Yeah. Maybe,” he said before he left for home plate.
The B Field sandlot stands were packed tonight, and those who couldn’t have a seat in the bleachers came prepared with bag chairs near the third- and first-base lines.
We were ahead 6–4 in the ninth. It had been a fast game with no errors from either side.
Cameron pitched most of it and was relieved by Tom in the bottom of the seventh.
“Fulton.” Coach Monaco patted the top of the dugout fence. “Why don’t you stand up here with me?”
“Okay, Coach.” I rose and stood between him and Cameron. Nana and Granddad waved to me from behind home plate. I smiled, but my stomach soured when the top of the Pistons lineup strolled up to take his stance in front of Ben.
“It would be the top of the lineup right now,” Cameron muttered.
Coach spat a couple of sunflower shells over the fence. “Tom can handle it.”
I hope so.
The first batter crowded more of the plate this time than last. Then again, I would too, if I were 0–2 in at bats tonight. We were lucky though. Both of those outs could’ve easily been home runs if Nick hadn’t snatched them from above the fence like Aaron Judge.
Tom must’ve noticed the change in the guy’s stance because he pitched a brushback. The batter twisted backward out of the box. Another inch and he would’ve taken that ball right in his elbow.
It was a risky pitch but a good one. Sometimes you gotta shake the batter a little before bringing the heat.
And that’s what Tom did.
Three pitches later—two fastballs, one slider—the guy sulked back to his dugout.
“Two to go!” I yelled. “Let’s go, Tom!”
Cameron leaned in closer. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” He spat a sunflower seed. “About Ben.”
“Now’s not a good time.” The last thing I wanted to do right now was receive a guilt trip about Ben and how everything had gone down.
The next batter strutted toward the plate. His cheek bulged with some kind of chew, and he stuck out his chest before he took a couple of practice swings.
Shit. I gulped.
This steroid dude already had one home run this game.
“But something’s wrong with him. With Ben.” Cameron nudged my elbow. “He’s been angrier than usual—”
“We had a fight a little while ago.” I patted his arm. “But it’ll be okay.”
Maybe telling myself that enough would make it true?
Tom threw a perfect curveball for the first pitch. The slap of the ball into the glove gave me goosebumps. The ump’s fist rose into the air. “Strike!”
The next two pitches were straight down the middle, but thankfully, the big guy swung over both. He chucked the bat as he stomped off the field.
Two down.
One to go.
One batter now stood between us and the championship.
Between us and the Crowleys—
“He’s been drinking a lot though,” Cameron blurted.
“Wait. What?” I clutched Cameron’s arm.
Coach clapped his hands again as the batter fouled off the first pitch. “Did you see that changeup?” he asked me enthusiastically before looking back to the mound. “Two more, Tom!”
I leaned closer to Cameron so Coach wouldn’t hear. “How is he getting it? Who’s buying it for him?”
The ball made a loud thwack as it hit Ben’s glove. “Strike!” the ump yelled.
“I dunno.” Cameron spat out another sunflower seed. “But I heard him talking to Brett during our pregame warmups about how much he hates it here. Then he started going on and on about how much of a loser his dad is. And he started talking about Erin again…”
Double shit.
Ben’s dad was the one ghost he couldn’t shake after Erin broke his heart, so I didn’t let him out of my sight for months. I knew if I did, he’d spiral. And now he was.
And it was all my fault.
Tom set up slowly for the third pitch, brought up his knee, and released.
Zip.
Drop.
Swing.
“Strike three!” the ump’s voice boomed. “You’re out!”
The dugout emptied, but I still held strong to Cameron’s arm. “Keep an eye on him, okay? Make sure Brett does too.” My heart raced. And not from the win.
“That’s the other thing. Brett says he rarely comes there anymore. It’s like he’s totally checked out.” He frowned before I let him go and walked to the mound, where the others were jumping up and down in a trance.
“Totally checked out”?
Fuck, this was bad.
This was really, really bad.
My head buzzed with so many questions and fears that the announcer’s voice sounded muddied and garbled. “And the Fulton Hawks beat the Middletown Pistons 6–4! They’re heading to the Legion League Championship!”
I had eyes on Ben as we lined up and shook hands with the Pistons.
And during our post-game team meeting behind the dugout.
But I lost him when Granddad and Nana pulled me aside in the parking lot to congratulate me.
My texts went unanswered.
My calls to him went straight to voicemail.
I’d be damned if I’d let him hit rock bottom again.
So the boys and I got together and decided to split up and search the town, with me taking the northern side to search the library, the Methodist church, the gas station, and the Lyric.