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Bright blue and cloudless.
Sutton and I walk into the stadium together. I drop her hand and sling an arm around her shoulders instead, stoppingfor Livy Montgomery, the team photographer, to snap some candid pictures of us coming into work. Our first day back home. Sutton and I part ways as she heads to her office and I find my place in the clubhouse – music pumping from the speakers overhead, energy buzzing through the room. Through the stadium. It’s Opening Day in Seattle. And we’re ready to win.
CHAPTER TEN
Home Sweet Home
SUTTON
There’snothing quite like coming home.
I step into my own office, after a week in and out of janitor’s closets, single stall bathrooms, and in Detroit, an office of my own. But now I’m home. I have direct access to the team and the clubhouse. To Roger’s office. To the heart of what happens on game day.
It’s so much more than what fans see during the nine innings that they are guests in our house, or in their own homes watching on television. So much of what happens on game day happens here, behind the scenes. In the clubhouse or during lunch. As the team takes to the field for batting practice. The pitchers in the bullpen getting loose. The coaches meeting one last time before getting down to business.
After changing into uniform, and throwing on my wind breaker to hold off the chill in the air this morning, I make my way into the clubhouse where the team and coaching staff are gathered. I’m met with laughter and highfives and the pumping bass of the game day playlist. Luca is holding court in front of his locker stall. Max has headphones on, blocking out the noise of the clubhouse or, as I learned this morning, more likely he’s listening to his favorite popstar sing aboutempowerment and heartbreak. The way his head is bobbing, out of sync with the music overhead, confirms it.
“Hey coach!” Luca calls from across the clubhouse, getting my attention. “Want to give the fans a show in batting practice?”
“What are you talking about, Phillips?” I call back with a laugh.
“The guys and I were talking…”
“Okay?” Nothing good ever comes from ‘the guys and I were talking’.
“We want to see what you’ve got.”
“Excuse me?” I quirk an eyebrow in his direction.
“Batting practice. Show us what you’ve got.” It’s spoken like a challenge, and I’m never one to shy away from challenges. With a slow nod, I turn around and step back into my office, opening the cabinet behind my desk where my batting gloves and custom helmet reside. Then, I reach for my bat – a gift from my dad when I ‘got to the big leagues’ – and test its weight in my hand, a soft smile on my lips. Thirty four inches long, weighing thirty two ounces, and engraved on the barrel with my name.
I run my fingers over the engraving, tracing my name,Sutton Elizabeth Davis.The day Roger hired me, I left the office and got in my car and sobbed. Then I immediately called my dad. He cried and celebrated with me. A month later this bat showed up at my door. Dad has since passed, and mom long before him, leaving me with – well, with Mandy.
And Maxwell.
Mandy is the closest thing I have to a sister, she took me in when I needed her most and I’ve clung to her ever since.
“You okay, coach?” Luca’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, gentle, as he steps into my office, hands in the backpockets of his white uniform pants, worn short today, with tall socks, looking every bit a baseball player.
“Yeah. I’m good.” I take a deep breath and shake off the shroud of sadness that threatens to weigh me down. “Let’s do this.”
Stepping out onto the field, I find a crowd already gathered. Livy is waiting nearby with her camera, grinning in my direction as I step to the plate and take a few practice swings. Jerome Williams, our bench coach, steps down from the pitcher’s mound and moves the net with him when he does, leaving me dumbfounded at home plate.
“Rumor has it,” comes Luca’s voice from behind the backstop, “that you can hit Harrison’s curveball. A few of us want to see if it’s true.”
“Bring it on.”
Roger allows Max to pitch to me a few times before sending him to the dugout for his actual warm ups, and after a couple of practice swings, I step to the plate, staring across the sixty foot divide between me and Max. I dig in and get ready for the four seam fastball that I know is coming.
I love the sound of a home run ball.
When you know, without a doubt, that the ball and bat connected at the exact right angle, at the exact right time, and it’s gone. Doesn’t hurt that I hear the team lose their minds behind me as they watch the ball sail toward the center field fence and into the stands.
We agreed on a fastball and a curveball. Knowing what pitch is coming is helpful, ask anyone who has ever stolen a sign, itdoeshelp to know what’s coming. But it’s what you do with the pitch that matters. Knowing doesn’t help me if I don’t get the barrel of the bat on the ball. Knowing doesn’t help me if I can’t make contact. And Max’s curveball is wicked. When I’m not standing at home plate, it’s a thing of beauty, but as I dig inonce more, anticipating the windup, and the pitch, I swing. And I feel it.
Max turns arms hanging limp at his sides, watching – same as me – as the ball sails toward the left field stands and a group of kids scramble for it as it makes its descent. The shouts behind me are deafening. Luca gives an ear splitting whistle and even Luis Perez cracks a smile and gives me a nod. But it’s Max. He turns back to me, with a grin, nodding as he steps off the mound and approaches home plate where the team is slapping my back and giving high fives.
“That was a thing of beauty, Davis.” Max offers a fist bump that I return.
