Chapter 22 Maxford #2
I walk onto the field to stretch before a game and a young voice calls out, “Hey! Hutchings!”
I spin around toward third base to find Emma standing on the second rung of the railing, waving wildly at me. “Eighteen! Woohoo!”
Nola’s smiling next to her, and my jaw drops at the sight of her.
She turns around to show me she’s wearing a jersey with my name and number on it.
There may be fans who have the same one on but she’s hands down the sexiest. Pride surges through me as she waves a foam finger and holds a Diet Coke, her smile stretching across her face.
They were supposed to get in this morning for a quick weekend.
I was excited to pick them up from the airport but their plane got delayed.
Spalding wanted me to get an extra batting practice in before the game today, so I rented Nola a car she could grab at the airport and hadn’t expected to see them before the second inning.
“You got a fan club, Gramps?” Seth Larsen asks, coming up beside me, pulling one arm across his chest in a static stretch.
He’s a rookie shortstop from Idaho, who got called up from our farm team.
Mid-twenties and thinks the sun rises and sets with him.
I’m pretty sure he’s the reason the whole team has taken to calling me this.
When the guys trickled in the first day, I had an underlying fear there would be a stigma surrounding me and the past. Instead, they took me right in, hazing me with elementary school pranks and calling me Gramps.
I look at him and respond, “Even better. I got a wife and a bonus kid.”
“No kidding. A wife? You tricked some woman into marrying you?” He squints at the two of them. “Bruh, she’s hot. Does she have daddy issues? Is that what she’s doing with you?”
“Not all of us are twenty-five. I get it, I’m old.”
He gives me a smug grin and spits out a sunflower seed.
“Larsen, you’d be the luckiest man alive to find a woman like her someday,” I say, flipping the hat off his head before he can respond and jogging over to Nola and Emma.
I leap up onto the railing and steady myself before pulling Nola in for a hug. “You made it!”
“Are you really playing the Armadillos today? Isn’t that going to be weird?” Emma asks, holding her phone at me. She’s pulled up a browser showing stats about today’s game.
Nola rolls her eyes. “Go sit down.” Emma hunches her shoulders and steps back to their seats, where they have prime Hutch viewing. Satisfied her child has listened, she turns back to me.
“Maxford Hutchings, you are a 007.”
I laugh. “Why’s that?”
“Suits, pirate costumes, baseball uniforms. Is there anything you don’t look good in?”
I deadpan, “Stella’s kaftans.”
Her laugh fills the area around us, filling my canteen, and I squeeze her once more before dropping down onto the field. “I gotta go but prepare yourself to be impressed!”
It’s the third game in the series against the Armadillos and we’ve both won one.
I cannot force myself to focus during our first at bat.
Being sixth on the roster today means I may not be going up this inning.
My mind wanders to how I’m looking forward to having tomorrow free.
A rare Friday off that I won’t see again for much of the upcoming season.
I plan to take the girls hiking in the Superstition Mountains in the morning and then spend the afternoon in the pool.
We can’t go out on a proper date with Emma here and that’s fine—I bought a projector and screen and put up some outdoor patio lights for a movie by the firepit.
“Gramps, you’re on deck!” Spalding calls down the dugout, snapping me back to attention.
I grab my helmet and bat before going to the on-deck circle. Larsen, who’s at bat, takes a few practice swings. He strikes out and when we pass, I give him a good-natured grin and a, “Let your elder show you how it’s done, son.”
My name is announced and I swear I can hear the Adlers screaming for me all the way down the third base line.
It fills me with adrenaline. My old buddy from the Armadillos is pitching today.
I’m feeling good about this because I know his tells.
We’ve got two outs, but the bases are stacked and I’m going to bring a couple of guys home.
That’s all I have to do. I point to the gap in center field and spit out some sunflower seed shells.
Hope Emma didn’t see that.
Bowman nods to the catcher and winds up, sending it just outside the plate and I let it go by.
Easy ball one. I step back and toe the dirt, step back into the batter’s box and set my elbow just right.
The second ball goes low. Ball two. Knowing Bowman, he’s either going to walk me, hoping our next batter is an easy out, or he’s going to paint the corners.
A strategy that will forever remind me of Emma thinking she was cleverly onto Nola and me.
Bowman digs his toe into the dirt. That’s it.
He’s going to throw it just down the edges of the plate still in the strike zone.
Most batters would assume he was throwing another ball and let it slide by.
Not me.
The pitch comes and it’s perfect. I swing wide. It connects, sailing into the gap, and bounces into the corner. Just like that, we’re up two in the first inning.
By the fifth, it’s tied up four to four.
The game’s started to lag all of a sudden—we were up at bat for a long time, attempting to get ahead again, and now the Armadillos are fighting hard for their chance to score a run or two.
I’m protecting my base, watching the guy on first dance his way into stealing position.
I wait for Stewie, our pitcher, to throw the ball to second base so we can tag this guy out and we can move on to the sixth inning.
When I played before, I never got self-conscious knowing eyes were on me, even if they belonged to a woman I was taking out later.
It actually drove me to push harder and prove myself.
But with Nola, I don’t have anything I have to prove to her.
She would like me even if I were back in Boise, handing out paddles for pickleball day in and day out at Garnet Charter.
I still want to do well and be the best for myself, but there isn’t the weight of needing to show off sitting on my shoulders anymore.
It’s refreshing. If we lose today, I’ll still go home and hold my head high, order us pizzas, and have a great night.
Nola makes me feel like I’m enough and that’s something I haven’t ever felt.
Stewie checks the runner on first, who quickly goes back to the plate. I stretch my neck side to side. Come on, Stewie, let’s do this. We need a strike, a pop fly, or to tag this guy who is looking to steal second. Simple outs are everywhere.
The man on first leads off again. Stewie pitches.
The batter hits the ball toward center field, where it bounces, is easily grabbed, and is tossed to the shortstop, Larsen, just after the runner rounded second base and has his eye on third.
This should be textbook play to end the inning.
Should be. Instead, we end up in a pickle between second and third.
Larsen and I start our rundown, forcing the guy to pick a base or get tagged out.
The ball goes back and forth. Schoolyard stuff.
I’ve got eyes on the runner and on the second baseman, Davis, as he tosses me the ball.
I’m closer to the base than the runner, so I go to tag the base as the runner heads back to second.
I throw it to Davis and the runner makes a break for third.
I’m yelling at Davis for the ball and I catch it, ready to tag him out as he tries to sneak by.
I pivot my body and bounce off of our mascot and trip backward, smacking the back of my head.