Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
Nate
Jeffrey said I couldn’t be on the field, but he didn’t say I couldn’t help the kids from outside the field. That includes giving my advice to Morgan.
“All these teams are using catchers. I think y’all need one too.”
She turns her head toward the kids. Half of them are rolling down the slope where we set up, one of Maribelle’s twins is eating powdered donuts, and Tami’s daughters are filming themselves on her phone.
The last one disturbs me a little since Tami showed me some of her own videos for TikTok.
“Has Andrew caught before?”
Morgan turns back to me. “Not officially, but he’s put on Ethan’s gear and played around at home.”
“Think he’d try some with me warming him up?”
“Sure.”
She lets out her famous whistle and every head turns. Even Reece looks up from his Harry Potter book.
“Everyone sit still!”
The kids who were rolling freeze. Morgan may not have the best baseball skills, but she sure knows how to get kids to listen.
“That’s impressive,” I say.
“Substitute bus drive awhile and you’ll learn a few things.”
“I bet.”
“Andrew, come here.”
He stands and dusts the grass off his knees from rolling and hurries toward us. “Yes, ma’am.”
Morgan looks to me, and so does Andrew.
“How would you like to catch in the tournament?” I ask.
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, they keep gear in that equipment trailer behind the gate. Take a parent with you to help you find the right size.”
He smiles and runs toward the group. He passes us again with Easton behind him. Easton shrugs at Morgan and me.
“Just make sure it will fit him. We’ll take care of the rest,” I say.
Relief covers his face and he continues following Andrew. Morgan and I discuss where we probably need to play everyone else.
I suggest Timothy for first base since he’s left handed and can catch decently. We put Carter at short. Everyone else is pretty much sitting ducks, so we decide to rotate them around.
“I wouldn’t put Angel and Precious in the outfield at the same time. They’ll start picking flowers.”
“Good point,” Morgan agrees.
By the time we’ve settled the starting positions, I hear metal clanking. Andrew comes behind us in full gear.
“I’d probably wear a cup too, just in case,” I advise him.
“I have one in my bag,” Morgan says.
We follow her to a pile of baseball gear near Brooke’s chairs. She opens a girly-looking bag and starts tossing things out one by one. Sunflower seeds. Prime bottles. Feminine products I can’t unsee. Tylenol. A romance novel. Finally, a cup. She holds it up triumphantly.
Andrew takes it as she crams the other things back in the bag. “Hey, nobody look! I’m putting on my cup,” he announces.
Obviously, everyone looks as soon as he tells them not to. I do think a little better of Tami when she covers her daughters’ eyes.
“I’m ready, Mr. Nate.”
I nod. “Let’s warm you up.” I stand and see an empty field. “Morgan, why don’t you take the others to their positions and practice tossing the ball to them.”
She salutes me and grabs a glove and a ball. I take Andrew to a flat spot near the fence while she does her usual yelling and wrangling of kids.
We warm up a few minutes before I hear a lawn mower and a kid scream. Jeffrey is driving full force toward the outfield while our team is warming up.
One of Tami’s girls is in the fetal position by the fence, and Reece poses like Harry Potter squaring up to duel Draco. Andrew tosses me the ball, and I step closer to the fence. When Jeffrey has his back turned to me, I chuck the ball and nail the engine. It sputters and dies. Good thing it backfired loudly, because I read his lips when he spun around to check on it.
Andrew lifts his mask and stares at me. “Boss!”
I put a finger to my lips and wink. He nods and smiles. Morgan snort-laughs, then she and Brooke continue warming up everyone else.
I’m proud to say it takes Jeffrey every second until the umpire is ready for the game to pull that lawn mower off the field. Not one person offers to help him—his coaches, parents, and especially not me.
“You’ve got this, buddy.” I fist-bump Andrew and send him to the field.
Jeffrey wipes sweat from his brow and stumbles my way. You’d think a guy who moves repo trailers for a living wouldn’t get so winded pulling a lawn mower off the ball field.
“You.” He points the sleeved arm in my face.
“What?” I mentally prepare to deny hitting the lawn mower.
“You can’t be this close to the field. You’re not a coach.”
“I know. I’m a spectator.”
“Well, you best spectate elsewhere.” His hand falls to his hip. “I can’t trust you to not call plays from the sidelines.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
I brush past him, almost knocking him over with a gentle shoulder bump. I jog toward first base and get Brooke’s attention.
“Jeffrey’s kicking me out.”
“He can’t do that. We paid and you’re not doing anything wrong.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. Tell the kids I’ll be watching from outside the park.”
She frowns and nods.
“Good luck.” I hurry away before Jeffrey can get to me.
We cross paths on my way out. I keep my eyes on the parking lot, not giving him a chance to speak to me.
As long as we play on the same field today, I’ll have a perfect view from my truck’s toolbox. I climb up and make myself comfortable.
Andrew catches decently, and Timothy makes a few good plays. Carter is looking more comfortable too. I lean back and snack on a bag of sunflower seeds Morgan forgot to put back in her bag. I stuffed them in my pocket to keep the park clean, but they’re coming in handy since the concession stand is in forbidden territory.
Morgan delivers one of the ugliest pitches I’ve seen. It’s like she’s tossing a horseshoe, but overhanded. Herrington is at bat and his signature golf swing connects perfectly with the ball. I jump in the bed of my truck and cheer along with everyone inside the park. He gets a double.
Andrew is up next and slams the ball, despite another questionable pitch from Morgan. It goes to the outfield and he quickly advances toward Herrington, who runs the bases like a six-year-old girl playing hopscotch.
I bite my thumbnail when Andrew bumps into Herrington between third and home. He yells at him to run, but he’s too slow. Andrew picks him up and runs full speed, carrying Herrington in front of him. He sets him down a few feet in front of home plate.
Herrington hops on the base, further proving my hopscotch analogy. Then he skips off, and Andrew crosses the plate.
In all my years playing and watching ball, I have to say that’s a first.
* * *
Four hours and two trips to the gas station later, I watch the 8U Armadillos exit the field for the last time.
They lost both games but had some good moments. Most kids at least made contact with the ball today, and we had some good catches in the field.
The bad news is Jeffrey’s team is still undefeated.
I dip my Quick Stop chicken in honey mustard and focus on Brooke. She’s busy gathering all the junk we carried in earlier while Morgan gives the team a speech.
It hurts me that I can’t go in and help her carry it out. Even more than it hurt my shoulder carrying it in. Easton and Carlton come to the rescue, juggling her heavier things with their own.
A few people stay in the park, but most of our team trudges toward the parking lot. Dirty and tired like they’re walking the green mile. Brooke has one arm around Timothy and the other looped through her snack bag.
When they get to the fence, I hop down from the truck and meet them. I take the chairs from Carlton and loop both around my right shoulder. I reach for the cooler, but he shakes his head.
“We’re headed that way.”
I’m relieved I don’t have to carry the cooler again, but I’d never admit it to him.
Timothy breaks free from Brooke’s arm and comes to me. “Did you see me catch the ball with my foot on the base?”
“I sure did, buddy. Y’all played good today.”
“Thanks.” He beams. “Did you see both our games?”
“I did.”
“What was your favorite part?”
“Probably Andrew carrying Herrington.”
The other adults around us laugh.
“I didn’t even know that was legal,” Carlton says.
“They have to run the bases in order, and they did.”
“Something tells me Bubba will be adding that play to the rule book for next season,” Aniston says.
I chuckle. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
Carlton sets the cooler beside Brooke’s car. I wait for her to unlock the trunk, then set everything inside. My shoulder catches as I lift the cooler, but I keep a straight face. If she knew carrying her stuff bothered my shoulder, she’d feel horrible. The last thing I ever want to do is make Brooke feel horrible.
“Thanks.” She smiles up at me once everything is put away.
“You’re welcome.”
I turn to Timothy, mainly to break my old habit of kissing Brooke after ball games. It’s been nine years since that’s happened, but this is the first game I’ve been to with her since then.
I used to stare blankly into the stadium and imagine she was somewhere in the crowd watching me. Maybe she was, or at least watching on TV.
But she was never close enough for a kiss.
“You did good.” I hold out my fist for Timothy to bump. “We’ll work on a few things later. Go home and rest.”
He hugs me unexpectedly. My heart melts a bit, and I can’t blame it on the heat, as it’s only March. I’ve become attached to this kid.
I make eye contact with Brooke over his head. Maybe it’s my imagination, but she blinks back a tear. I pat Timothy on the side, and he slowly releases me.
“Y’all be careful going home.” I nod toward the field. “I’m gonna stick around and scout some.”
Brooke smiles. “Don’t let Jeffrey give you a hard time.”
I laugh. “Too late for that.”
“I guess so.” She scrunches her nose back at Jeffrey, then grins at me.
Before I get too carried away, I retreat to my truck. By the time she and Timothy are driving away, I’m dipping another chicken finger in sauce. Timothy waves out the window, and I lift my non-chicken hand.
I thought the two-run carry was the most entertaining part of the day, but Jeffrey warming up to pitch to kids beats that a million to one.
Every pitch starts with a windup. And why is he looking around like he plans on picking someone off? There’s no stealing in coach-pitch.
A kid yells something from the dugout, and Jeffrey turns his head. At the same time, the other coach throws the ball back to him. Jeffrey turns just in time for the ball to smack him square in the eye.
He hits the ground like falling timber.
I can hear the gasps from my toolbox perch. Bubba hurries to the pitching circle, followed by the other coaches. The one who threw the ball still stands in shock.
The ump comes on the field and checks on Jeffrey. I can’t hear what anyone is saying, but I can tell Jeffrey is mad. They help him to the dugout, and one of the moms pulls out a first-aid kit.
I finish my afternoon snack while I watch Jeffrey get a gauze eye patch. There are a few words exchanged between him and the umpire. Then Jeffrey grabs a glove and ball and returns to the circle.
He pitches half the game before allowing another coach to pitch. It’s a shorter guy in an Enchilada T-shirt. He’s a better pitcher than Jeffrey. But to be fair, I’ve yet to see Jeffrey pitch without an eye patch and throbbing pain.
Each inning is back and forth until the opposing team comes out one run ahead. The Red Armadillos, or as Jeffrey affectionately calls them, “the Reds,” get last at-bat, but the Grasshoppers hold them for the win.
Everyone in lime green goes crazy, and Jeffrey slings his glove to the ground. His players pout and go through the motions of lining the bases and slapping hands with their opponents.
The umpire comes out with medals for the Reds and rings for the Grasshoppers. It’s not hard to pick out Jeffrey’s kid from the attitude. He snarls at his medal and doesn’t put it on.
I wait for the Grasshoppers to receive their rings, but Jeffrey doesn’t. He leads his boys off the field and gathers their things in record time.
More than anything about his coaching abilities, I hate how he’s teaching his team bad sportsmanship. Double congrats to the Grasshoppers on that note.
I toss the empty chicken box in a nearby trash can and hop down. I close my truck door just in time for Bubba to ride by in a Jeep, hitting a nearby mud puddle. Red globs sling across my window and windshield.
A lot of good it did to hit up that fancy car wash last time I drove through Tuscaloosa. I leave the park and settle for the self-serve car wash beside the gas station.
Two familiar kids stand near the edge of the concrete wall wearing jerseys, slides, and boxer briefs. No pants.
I drive a few feet closer and notice Jeffrey’s truck parked outside the first bay. He’s inside spraying down pants with one hand and holding a cigarette with the other.
He glares at me with his good eye. I smile and keep driving. What’s he going to do to me? Spray the mud off my truck?
I pull in the next slot and get out. I’m shoving quarters in the machine when I hear a whistle. Morgan’s whistle. I turn around.
“Good news, I’ve got your balls,” she says louder than I’d like.
“What?”
She drops two baseballs from the window. They roll toward me. I shake my head and stop them with my foot.
“Come here.” She motions me over.
I sigh and walk away from my truck before putting in the last quarter.
“Brooke and her parents are feeding the team tonight.”
“That’s nice of them.”
“Yep. I wasn’t sure if you knew.”
“No.” I look down.
“I’m inviting you, then.”
I lift my head and sigh.
“You know she wants you there.”
“If she wanted me there, she’d have told me herself.”
“No, not Brooke. She’s not assertive like—”
“You?”
Morgan smiles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I can’t bust up on a team gathering.”
“I think the team would prefer it.”
I suck in a deep breath and exhale before looking back at her. “I’ll think about it.”
“You should.” She drops the sunglasses from her hair to her eyes and peels out of the parking lot.
Her van moves to reveal Jeffrey’s kids playing with the air hose. The older one is trying to shove it down the smaller one’s underwear. I shake my head and hurry to wash my truck.
This place makes Waffle House look upscale.