Chapter Thirty-Eight
Reed
“Follow your heart, kid, and you’ll never go wrong.”
—Babe Ruth, The Sandlot
Dad would’ve loved to see this game. To watch me finally settle into myself and just play the game I loved. My two-seamer finally sank the way I had always wanted it to. Its speed never slowed. And the Crowley Cardinals couldn’t touch it.
Our guys were hyped to take the plate in the bottom of the eighth, and they showed it.
After two back-to-back singles, the crowd started chanting, “Rally! Rally!” But in the end, we couldn’t follow through.
Our third batter was caught looking, and our fourth tried to bunt but mishit.
He practically rolled it directly toward third and gave the Cardinals an easy double play.
By the top of the ninth, we still held them with a narrow lead of 5–4. Before we took the field, Coach Monaco called us into a huddle inside the dugout.
“I need you boys to take a second and look around.” Coach Monaco took off his hat and leaned forward on his knee.
I glanced at the guys standing with me and swallowed over the sharp ache in my throat.
Ben should be here. We should’ve had one more game together.
But I still had these guys. My brothers from back home, who gave up their summer to follow me to Fairfield.
Who agreed to play for my family, knowing how much was on the line for us.
I doubted I’d ever have the right words to truly thank them.
“No one thought we’d make it this far,” Coach added. “Especially not that team over there.” He pointed to the Crowley dugout, where they were huddled up as well.
“But we did. We’re here. And it’s because every single one of you played with your heart.
” He stood up straighter. “I need you to remember this moment. Remember how you feel when you take that field under those lights. Because in the end, it doesn’t matter how good you are. That doesn’t win championships.”
He paused and tapped the spot of chest over his heart. “This does.”
Everyone nodded. Our quiet dugout now hummed with energy.
Coach Monaco moved off the stairs and motioned to the field. “Now get out there and finish this.”
The crowd cheered as we entered the field. The Cardinals followed a second later.
We just had to hold them for this final at bat. If we kept them from getting any runs, the game would be ours.
I picked up the rosin bag, and something bright reflected from behind the press box.
I squinted to get a better look. For the briefest, most foolish second, I swore I saw Eliza’s silhouette.
The same outline and stance she’d had the first time we played her father’s team.
When she broke through my attempt to block out the fans.
Funny how I had hated the way she did that. How I thought she was the reason I couldn’t get or keep my head in the game this season.
But it took losing her for the truth to finally pummel me: The only one who was responsible for how I threw this season was me. It had always been and would always be me.
The pressure didn’t have to be a distraction. It could be a purpose. Something to throw for and not battle against.
I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured her standing in front of me again. Her hand pressing the baseball into my glove.
No one owns that mound but you.
No one owns the mound but me.
The tension in the air at Crowley Park was palpable when the first batter took the plate.
That same on-edge tingle I sometimes felt right before a major thunderstorm, from my neck to my knees.
The batter spat close to Troy, who then flipped him off quickly so the ump wouldn’t see. I laughed into my glove.
A second later, Troy asked for the heat, and I brought it.
It was a risky throw, but he made a good call. The idiot on the plate had a shit-ton of chew in his mouth and was too busy pushing it around to focus.
Four pitches later, I got him. Lucky bastard got a piece of a good slider but missed the following one.
The next batter got a piece of my curveball, but Nick was ready in left field and made an amazing sliding catch to give us our second out.
I rolled my shoulders and took in a deep breath.
One more.
One.
More.
So naturally, it would come down to a Fulton pitching against a Crowley.
TJ dropped a white doughnut ring off his bat before he took the plate. He was on fire tonight, 4–4.
I kept my chin low, brought up my knee, and released a freakin’ beautiful slider.
TJ swung and missed.
The ump held up a fist and yelled, “Strike!”
Troy gave the next call, a curveball. It should’ve been an easy throw compared to my slider. It should’ve swooped down as it crossed the plate. But this one didn’t.
The pitch went high and tight. Had TJ not jumped out of the box, he would’ve needed new teeth.
“Ball!” the ump called. And then he stared at me a bit too long before brushing away the dirt on home plate. Translation: Watch it, pitcher.
The boys banged the top of the fence and jumped up and down in the dugout while I faced the outfield and lifted my gaze to the dark night sky. Dad’s tags grew heavy on my chest.
I almost hit a batter. Again.
What if I nailed TJ with this next pitch? What if I fuckin’ blew this shot like I did last summer?
The stands, the lights, the fancy scoreboard pushed against me from all sides.
Blinding.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
But then the wind changed, and the moon broke through the clouds. The weight lifted. Dad’s words that Granddad had shared with me before the game found their way to me again: Every pitch is a risk.
And some risks just had to be taken.
I slowly turned back around toward home plate, and my team quieted.
Troy gave the signal for the pitch I needed to throw, the one I had worked on all summer. My two-seamer.
I nodded and exhaled into my glove as my fingers found the right position.
Control. Keep control.
I stared down TJ.
This one is for you, Dad.
Wound up.
It’s not about speed. It’s about late movement. You’ve got this.
Released.
CRACK!
TJ made contact but too far under. The ball popped way up high above my head. I waved off the infielders and yelled, “I got it!” as TJ jogged to first.
The ball dropped.
Please.
And dropped.
You can’t miss this.
And dropped…
You need—
Right into my glove.
The umpire yelled, “You’re out!” The crowd erupted into cheers, and my team charged me on the mound.
We won! Holy shit, I can’t believe we did it.
Brett and Dominic hoisted me onto their shoulders as the rest of the boys tossed their hats into the night air. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught TJ walking slowly around the bases and taking off his batting gloves.
The boys lowered me back to the dirt, and I jogged over to him. “Hey, TJ. You had a hell of a game.”
He stopped. “You too. That last pitch was nasty. Two-seamer?”
I nodded.
“You did say you’d save it for me.” He reached his hand out and I shook it.
“Maybe we’ll get to play each other again sometime,” I said.
“Yeah, maybe.” He peered around his shoulder, and his smile grew wider. “Uh, Reed, I think you have a visitor.”
When did the stadium grow so quiet? Like someone flipped a mute switch?
The crowd between me and home plate parted down the middle. Granddad, Nana, and Mom stood at the end of the long line, all of them beaming. Mom’s hands were in front of her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
Someone stepped out from behind home plate, and everything slowed down.
He stood as tall as I remembered, taller, and wore camouflage with tall brown boots laced up to his shins.
His right arm was crossed over his chest in a sling, but his familiar golden-yellow and forest-green insignia still rested above his heart.
The corners of his mouth drew into a slow smile.
I knew that smile. That same smile had greeted me from the dugout when I finished my first inning on the mound ten years ago. Had waited for me by the mailbox after I took off my training wheels. And had lifted me off the ground when I crashed into that mailbox on my way home.
Dad.
I dropped my glove and sprinted toward him. I had never run so fast in my entire life. Seconds later, my hat flew off, and I threw my arms around his neck and buried my face in his shoulder.
He was real.
He was here.
And he was okay.
Thank God.
“Dad,” I whispered against the cold buttons of his uniform. “Dad, you came back.”
He pressed his cheek onto the top of my head. “Of course I did.” His voice cracked. “I missed you so much, son.”
Missed you more.
I pulled back and wiped my eyes. “But how…?”
“After my unit went down, it was pretty bad. I was really lucky to be one of the ones who made it through alive. All I thought about was you, your mother. And that got me through.” He took off his hat.
The stadium’s explosive clapping made us both jump as the scoreboard changed to a live feed of our reunion with a banner caption underneath it that said, “Welcome Home, Sergeant Major Fulton.”
Dad waved his hat in the air and mouthed a silent Thank you to them before turning back to me. “They released me a few days ago. I debriefed most of the day yesterday and got here just in time. Your fastball…two-seamer?”
I smirked. “You saw that?”
“I saw it all.” He pulled me into another hug. “Great game, kid.”
We stayed like that for a while or for what felt like forever. Blurs of movement shifted around us, but I didn’t move. Wouldn’t move. Because part of me still worried if I did, he would vanish, and all of this would be nothing but a dream.
But then he ruffled my hair. And he didn’t disappear.
He was finally home.
“Thank you, Reed, for winning back what should’ve always been ours,” he said.
Ours.
A rock dropped into my stomach. We won. Which meant Eliza’s family lost. The stadium now belonged to the Fultons.
“Um, Reed?” Dad asked.
So the Crowleys would move away from Fairfield, from us, and start a new life. Eliza would go to one of those amazing schools for the arts.