Chapter Twenty
Taylor
As baseball season collides with basketball season, my schedule is at odds with Todd’s. It happens every year between February and March; we hardly see each other.
I sit alone in the girls’ locker room, waiting to be called over to the boys’ locker room for Coach Scott’s pregame pep talk, thinking about how I won’t see Todd until Monday at the earliest and how I miss him more than I usually do.
But I can’t think about that right now. It’s the first game of the season, and my last as a college student—likely my last ever unless I join a city league.
“We’re ready for you,” Coach Scott calls from the door.
I grab my mitt and walk across the hall to join my teammates, sitting next to Adam, who’s scheduled to start. He’s wringing his hands and a thin sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip.
I kinda space out while Coach talks, thinking about how much Adam has changed in the fourteen years I’ve known him.
He got rid of his braces freshman year of high school, he traded his glasses for contacts, which are easier to manage on the field, and he’s put in serious time at the gym.
He’s become our team’s star pitcher over the past two years, but it’s in these moments before a game that his nerves get the better of him.
I place a hand over his as a sign of support while Coach Scott talks about our opponent, the Titans. He declares it should be an easy win while shooting a look in Adam’s direction. I hear Adam gulp, and I curse the pressure Coach just added.
As we head out to the field, I make a beeline for the dugout to put my gear on. Once I’m suited up, I make my way to the pitcher’s mound, where Adam stands, warming the ball in his hands and scanning the crowd.
“Scouts are here,” he says, not tearing his eyes away from a group of middle-aged men in the bleachers.
I pat him on the shoulder. “I could tell you that you got this, but I doubt you’d believe me.”
“You’re right.” He finally meets my gaze. “I don’t.”
“Then I’ll do my best to make you look good,” I say flippantly before heading to the plate to run through his warm-ups.
The top of the first goes just as expected.
Adam strikes out the first two batters he faces, while the third hits a weak chopper to second, getting thrown out at first. We change innings quickly—I’m slated to bat cleanup since I’m the team’s power hitter.
I watch as Evan, our leadoff man, slams a base hit up the middle.
But our two-hole batter, Simon, strikes out, so Coach Scott signals Eric in the three-hole to bunt to get Evan into scoring position for me.
While I’d love to hit a home run every time I bat, it’s not always possible, so as long as Evan is in scoring position, I only need to hit a double to bring him home and give us an early lead.
Eric, however, is unable to bunt and strikes out easily, cursing all the way back to the dugout.
He shares a look with me that I interpret as a plea to keep the inning alive and not hit into a double play.
I shake my head, knowing that’s the last thing I plan to do with my first at-bat as a senior.
I step into the batter’s box, my eyes on the outfield as I swing my bat to my shoulder.
“Look who’s back at it,” I hear the catcher mumble behind me.
They try to tease me with a ball low and outside, but even with my fascination for hitting balls outside the strike zone, I know it isn’t within my realm of possibility.
My instincts are proven right when the catcher lunges to block the ball before it rolls to the backstop.
The next pitch sails high, and I duck just in time to avoid getting hit in the head, while the third ball finds its way to the outside corner again.
“Can you learn how to pitch?” I yell at the pitcher, my blood starting to boil.
The umpire shoots me a stern look, warning me against unsportsmanlike conduct.
I step back into the batter’s box, poised for my 3-0 pitch.
I’m ready to swing at just about anything since I have nothing to lose being up in the count.
My hands tighten around the base of my bat, my feet digging into the dirt.
While I have nothing to lose, the pitcher has nothing to gain by tossing me another ball.
It’s either pitch something I can hit or walk me, and given it’s still early in the game with only one man on, an intentional walk seems pointless.
But the mistake is on him. He lets a ball rip, and it connects with my bat, sending it soaring into the outfield corner. I sprint with all my might and arrive at second base with a standup double. I pump my fist into the air, celebrating my hit as the crowd erupts, and the announcer calls my name.
The game turns out to be one for the record books. Adam pitches a remarkable game, holding the Titans to a five-hit shutout, but it’s my offense that undoubtedly steals the show. I bat the cycle—hitting a single, double, triple, and a home run—and am responsible for all the runs scored.
As I approach the dugout to grab my things, I overhear one of the scouts ask Coach Scott if he can speak with Taylor Coleman, and I stop dead in my tracks.
Coach points at me. “She’s right there.”
He turns to me and for a moment we’re both like deer in headlights. I somehow recover first and close the distance between us, extending my hand.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Taylor.”
He shakes it, looking me up and down. “M-My name is Jackson Lee, and I’m the director of scouting for the Rangers.”
“The Texas Rangers?”
“Yeah . . .” He adjusts his ball cap. “Your name came up when we were discussing college prospects, and I have to admit I was a bit skeptical about your .453 batting average, but after what I’ve seen today, I’m a believer.
I was wondering why you didn’t go out for the draft after high school but now it makes sense given you’re a girl. ”
My face falls—it’s a common misconception. I mean, Taylor is a gender-neutral name but it still stings.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
I turn to walk away, a lump forming in my throat, but he stops me.
“Wait, wait—have you given any thought to what you’ll do after college?” he asks.
“Not really.” I shrug. “I’m considering sports journalism because it’s likely the most attainable.”
He hands me his card. “Give me a call on Monday—we could have a place for you somewhere in our organization.”
My eyes widen. “I-I will . . . Thank you!”
He smiles as he walks away, and I run into the dugout.
“Oh my God! Did you see that? Did that really just happen?” I ask Adam since he’s the only one who hasn’t left for the locker room.
“It’s about damn time somebody noticed your skill,” he replies.
I bite my lip, my excitement momentarily suspended. “He probably did because he thought I was a guy.”
“He still offered you his card after he realized you’re a girl.”
My lips twitch, the lightness returning to my mood. “True . . .”
“We should go out to celebrate!” Adam says. “I heard a place called Sam’s has really good loaded waffle fries, and it’s like right around the corner.”
“Ooh, that does sound good.” I lick my lips. Todd’s usually the one I celebrate these things with, but he’s in Ohio and I’m in Arizona. “All right, let’s get changed and then meet by the main gate.”
Adam grins and then we go our separate ways. I meet him twenty minutes later, my hair slick from a quick shower, and we head to the restaurant.
A mixture of players and supporters fills the lobby—we weren’t the only ones who thought to go out for dinner after the game.
After a short wait, we’re shown to a cozy booth, and we dive into an animated conversation.
“If we make it to the championship this year, that’ll be three years in a row!” I say as I pop a waffle fry into my mouth.
His eyes sparkle. “Right? What a way to finish off our college careers! It’s amazing what we’ve accomplished—especially you.”
I blush and look away, feeling heated under his gaze.
When we finish our meal, Adam insists on paying, and as we walk back to the hotel, it almost feels like we’re on a date.