Chapter 15 #3
Grilling hot dogs and brats turns out to be the best job for me—I fall into a groove, no one bothers me, and I can hear the bands.
Sam, Adriana, their daughter Sammi in her stroller, and Charming, Sam’s League buddy, come to the concession stand.
Charming’s sixteen, with an impressive knowledge of the chronology and artists of Death Row Records.
He comes into the store a couple times a month.
He developed an immediate crush on Abbey when she knew all about the East Coast-West Coast hip hop rivalry. Who wouldn’t?
“Sexy apron.” Sam shoves a twenty into the tip jar. I slyly give him the finger.
“We’re gonna smoke you today!” Charming says.
“You wish,” I tell him.
From my vantage point at the grill, I have a clear view of the entrance to the park, so I see when my League buddy arrives with his mom.
This is the third year I’ve been paired with Liam Cutter, a smartass with copper hair, pale skin, a million freckles, and his right leg in a brace.
Thirteen surgeries in as many years haven’t stopped him from playing baseball or his true love, sled hockey, and he’s got his sights set on making it to the Paralympics someday.
“Wilsy!” Liam high-fives me. “Are there mini donuts? I was told there would be mini donuts.”
“Of course.” I direct him to a stand near the stage. “Don’t get so hopped up on sugar that you can’t hit the ball!”
I check the time. Abbey gets off work in less than half an hour. A few minutes later, my grandparents and Howard walk through the gate. Howie’s decked out in a Minnesota Twins ball cap and his signed Harmon Killebrew jersey.
“You good to cover my break?” I ask Jeremy, who’s buddied up with Gil, another athlete, at the condiment station, which means Jeremy’s doing next to nothing while Gil happily refills napkins and packets of ketchup and mustard.
“At your service.” He grabs the tongs.
When I walk out of the tent, Howie spots me and starts running. “Wil! I get to see Killer again! Do you think he’ll remember me?”
My uncle plows into me, and I wrap my arms around him. Howie barely comes up to my armpits and has the biggest, goofiest, most heartwarming smile.
“How many times have you met him?” I ask. The Minnesota Twins legend is pretty much the nicest guy on the planet, and he’s made a lot of appearances for the Hometown League.
“This will be number seven.”
My grandparents catch up. “Wil, honey, we’ve missed you,” Mimi says with so much warmth that it brings tears to my eyes.
The Wausau years, when we lived near Mimi and Bob after the divorce, were filled with board games and movie nights.
Their house always smelled like freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and loaves of cloudlike bread.
There’s nothing like a slice of Mimi’s homemade bread, fresh from the oven, drenched in counter butter from the Owl Ridge Dairy outside of town.
“Will you come with us to meet Killer?” Howie asks.
“Sorry, Howie, I’m at the grill today.”
“Are you having fun?” Fun is very important to Howie. Everything should be fun. I think he’s onto something.
I grin. “Yes, I’m having a blast.” It’s the truth. Working Hometown League events never feels like work.
“You smell like a hot dog.”
“Are you hungry? Come on over and I’ll hook you up.”
I keep an eye on the gate throughout the afternoon and before I know it, the game starts in ten minutes and Abbey’s not here yet. I untie my apron.
“I’m heading over to the dugout,” I tell Jeremy.
“We’re right behind you,” he says.
“Play ball!” Gil yells.
Today’s exhibition game is a mashup of Hometown League athletes and their buddies, a few retired Twins (not Killer, though), some college players, and the big draw: Eddie York, a Minnesota actor who won an Oscar for his role as a young Joe DiMaggio.
The stands are packed, but I still don’t see Abbey.
A heavy stone of disappointment sinks low in my gut, but I won’t let that get in my way. I’m here for Liam and Charming and Gil and all the other kids, not to show off my batting and fielding skills to Abbey.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Play ball!” Gil yells again as I step up to the plate for my first at-bat.
Adult mentors don’t usually get to play but for today’s fundraiser, we were invited to join a team with our buddies. Stepping up to the plate, crouching into my stance, and adjusting my grip on the bat—it might be a cliché, but it feels like coming home.
“Swing batta batta!” Liam calls from the dugout.
Sam’s on the mound for the other team. I miss the first pitch, and the next. Two strikes. I shake my shoulders out.
“Go, Wil!”
My head snaps up when I hear her voice. Abbey’s walking toward the stands, her deep, rich hair loose and flowing around her shoulders. She’s with an older couple who must be her parents and a woman with brown skin and wild black pigtails. Abbey gives me an awkward wave, and I nod.
“You playing or what, Jaws?” Sam calls. “Get your head in the game!”
I grin, he tosses me a meatball, and the crack of the bat is music to my ears. That ball is outta here, and I take a bow before I skip around the bases to the cheers of my teammates—and Abbey.