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“Thanks, Harrison.” He stalks off toward the bullpen as I step out of the batting cage and remove my helmet and gloves, giving the others a chance at batting practice.
My first Opening Day as a big league coach didn’t hold the same magic as the Opening Days I remember as a kid at Mustang Stadium. The first time my name was announced over the public address system, I was met with a smattering of applause and a lot of heckling.
I was replacing a hometown hero.
A man who spent his Hall of Fame career here in Seattle and then came back to coach. And I was his replacement.
Me. A nobody.
Even worse to some, a woman.
A breakout softball star in college with decent success coaching in the minor leagues before coming here. I had big shoes to fill, and as wonderful as Seattle’s fans are, they wasted no time reminding me. Now, I find myself in the dugout oncemore, gearing up to hear my name announced over the PA along with the rest of the coaching staff before the starting lineup is announced.
“Give them time,”Roger told me all those years ago, on my first Opening Day.“They’ll warm up to you.”
That day, I put my head down and got to work. Did everything I could to prove to my team and my city that I belonged here. And today we come in with one of our worst opening records in years, and a team batting average that I am, in all honesty, ashamed of.
Roger is introduced to raucous applause and cheers. Followed by Jerome.
“Hitting Coach, Sutton Davis!” The crowd roars, and goosebumps break out across my skin as my city welcomes me home.
“Wait,” there's a hand on my shoulder. A voice in my ear. “Take a minute. Listen to the crowd.”
I close my eyes and wait just a moment longer, Max’s hand at my shoulder. He gives a gentle squeeze and I climb the dugout steps to take my place alongside the coaching staff. Right where I belong.
Just before we leave the field for the dugout, I bend down and write my dad’s initials in the dirt along the third baseline. I know it won’t last, it’ll be swept away as soon as the first runner heads home, but for just a moment he’s here with me. I’ve been doing this every Opening Day since I started in the league because he’s the one who got me here; who believed in me and inspired me and never let me stop following my dreams. I can’t help but think of him as I stand here and look out over this city, as I join my team in the dugout, and as the first pitch is thrown on my sixth opening day as a big league coach.
When the game starts, Roger takes up his perch at therailing closest to the on-deck circle. One foot always propped on the bottom step, ready at a moment’s notice to launch himself up the steps and onto the field. Usually I sit on the bench, my tablet nearby for easy access to scouting reports, but today I take up a spot by the railing at the other end of the dugout. The sun is warm against my skin, cutting through some of the chill in the air.
Luca leads off with a stand up double that looks much easier than it probably was. Perez is up next, and much to my surprise, he doesn’t chase the first pitch – a nasty fastball just off the plate, eventually getting a base hit that advances Luca to third. Our next batter draws a walk and the bases are loaded for Nico Martinez who looks terrified as he steps to the plate.
Nico digs his foot into the dirt, and I dig my nails into the padding of the railing as he chases the first pitch. Max approaches the railing, all cool confidence as he leans against it with the rest of the guys, watching the at bat. Watching Nico.
“He needs to call time,” I mutter. “Slow down. Take a breath.”
“He’s got this,” Max responds quietly. “Watch.”
The pitcher steps into his windup, firing a fastball right down the heart of the plate, and then I hear it. That sound I love so much. The team climbs the railing and practically throw themselves on the field as the crowd roars and the stadium shakes on its foundation. The ball sails over the head of the left fielder and into the stands. The bases clear and Nico is mobbed by his teammates at the plate and again as they enter the dugout. High fives, slaps on his helmet, fist bumps, and then Max pulls him in for a massive bear hug.
“Welcome to the show, kid!” He shouts over the roar of the crowd. “Take a bow!”
We ride that high into a shutout win, and I ride that high all the way home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
On the Road
SUTTON
March fades into April,and we find ourselves on the road once more.
I scroll through apartment listings on a flight from Tampa to New York, as Max watches over my shoulder, huffing and grunting and somehow audibly rolling his eyes as I do.
It’s been a month of living in his guest room. The nicest guest room I’ve ever been a guest in, but still a guest room. A space that isn’t my own. A space inMax’shouse. Something I’m painfully aware of every morning when I wake up to find him in the kitchen making coffee. Or when I get up in the middle of the night and hear him in the living room, or see the light escaping from beneath his bedroom door. Music playing softly at all times of day and night.
I know I’ve disrupted his routine. And Elise’s. I’m an extra mouth to feed, and a complicated one at that. Although it’s not been lost on me that he manages to stock all of my favorite gluten free pastas and breads, for the few times that we eat meals at home together.
Home.
