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And then seven years ago, my phone rang.
By that point Roger had been with Seattle for a few years, and had just fired his hitting coach. I told him yes without a moment’s hesitation, and I haven’t looked back since. It wasn’t easy, breaking into the league that way, but with attention being drawn to women in baseball at the national level thanks to Penelope Hutchinson and the American Sports Network, I was feeling uncharacteristically emboldened.
Turns out, I still get to teach. But my classroom is a baseball field.
With a bat in my hands, I stand at the plate, hitters gathered around me as I demonstrate how to stay squared up at the plate and not pull the ball when they hit. It’s always fun to catalog the reactions of guys on the team when they see me step to the plate; the veterans know me, some have spent their whole careers with Seattle and welcomed me with open arms all those years ago. The rookies come in and always look surprised when they realize I know what I’m talking about.
At the end of the day, as the guys slowly trickle out of the training facility and head to the hotel or their rental homes, I stick around with a bat and a bucket of balls, setting up a tee on one of the practice fields. I didn’t do much work of my own during the winter – unless you count reading scouting reports and statistical analysis – and my swing is a bit rusty.
I don’t mind hitting from a tee but it doesn’t offer the same movement and unpredictability as a pitching machine or an actual pitcher, but I didn’t want to go inside and use a machine. Out here on the field, in the fresh air and the glow of the setting sun, I’m reminded of why I fell in love with this game. I grew up in a city north of Detroit with an automotive history of its own, cheering for the Detroit Mustangs; my dad would sneak me out of bed, past my bedtime to watch games with him. He sat on the sidelines at every little league game I played, and every softball game in college.
He was the one that drove me to every softball game and tournament and woke up early to help me with batting practice. He taught me everything I know about baseball, and fought with and for me to play on baseball teams after elementary school, but our city and school district wouldn’t allow it, so we pivoted to softball.
And look at me now.
Picking up a bat, I test the weight of it in my hands before setting a ball on the tee and taking a swing. There’s comfort and safety in the sound of a wooden bat connecting with a small leather ball, and something in that sound makes me feel like I’m home. I’m at peace.
Peace that is shattered by a familiar, rumbling voice.
CHAPTER TWO
Batting Practice
MAX
At the endof the day, I’m the last one out of the clubhouse. Slinging my duffle over my shoulder, I make my way to the parking lot, but something stops me near the door. The familiar sound of a baseball connecting with a bat. I follow the sound to the practice fields where I find Sutton Davis set up with a tee and a bucket of baseballs. She squares up at the plate, adjusting her stance in incremental measures, adjusting and readjusting her grip, and then she swings with perfect form, sending the ball deep into center field.
Dropping my bag near the backstop, I step into her line of vision, not wanting to startle her, and her eyes meet mine, shoulders slumping when she sees me. Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for on our first day together at camp.
“Want me to toss for you?” I ask, shoving my hands in my pockets and hoping I don’t sound like I’m desperate for her company. Or that I missed her this winter even though we saw each other at our mutual friend’s wedding, and even that wasn’t enough for me. Or even worse, that I missed her and the way she acts annoyed whenever I’m around.
I expect her to argue with me.
Or pack it in and call it a day.
Instead, she turns to the field, tilting her face to the sky with a soft sigh and a contented smile.
“Sure.”
I maneuver the net out onto the field, positioning it just in front of the pitcher’s mound and set up with the bucket of baseballs while Sutton taps the dirt from her cleats and digs into the batter’s box. I start with slow lobs, just like batting practice, giving her easy pitches to hit and watching the lines of her arms and upper body showing off all her years of honing her skills.
“Don’t hold back,” she hollers at me from the plate. “I know you can throw better than that.”
“Is that a challenge, Davis?”
“Don’t hurt yourself, Maxwell.” She smirks. And that smirk is all the incentive I need. Dropping the baseball from my hand to the dirt, I move the net to the side before stepping onto the mound, thankful that I opted for dinner at home tonight rather than eating out with anyone from the team, which means I’m wearing clothes I can pitch in. I take a minute to dig my glove out of my bag while Sutton adjusts her hair to fit under a batting helmet – which she should have been wearing even while hitting off a tee, but I’m not starting that argument with her. Not right now.
I take to the mound and stare down my target, wishing I had a catcher behind the plate but knowing I wouldn’t need him even if he were here. I love the feel of the ball in my hand, the comfort of the laces against my fingers, the smooth, supple leather of the ball as I rotate it, finding my grip. Almost without thinking, I step into my windup, hurling an off-speed pitch right at the heart of the plate.
This is a pitch I use to lull hitters into a false sense of security. There’s movement on it. It starts high, right in a hitter’s sweet spot, and at the very last second it drops, most hitterschase it. That’s why it works. But with Sutton there’s no chase. Just solid contact.
She rotates her body, rolling into her swing, bat and ball connecting in a sound that normally would have me watching the ball to see whether or not it’s caught for a long flyout, but instead my eyes are on her. Arms hanging at her sides as the bat drops to the ground, a slow smile stretching across her face and transforming her features, andthat’swhen I turn. Just in time to watch the ball land outside the confines of the field.
After a few more pitches, just enough to keep my elbow loose before I get home, Sutton and I work side by side, silently picking up the balls littering the outfield and dropping them into the bucket.
“Do you need dinner tonight?” She asks as we lock up the equipment and make sure the complex is secure for the evening.
“No.”
