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“Yeah, but his ‘disappointed dad’ face is the worst and you can’t put a price on the emotional toll that takes on a person.”
“Get some rest, Duckling.” I scoot her water bottle the tiniest bit closer to her on the table and press a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back after the game so start thinking about what you want for dinner and text me.”
“I will,” she smiles. “Play nice.”
“No promises.”
It’s hard to leave Sutton knowing that I’m heading to the stadium without her. She loves this game and loves this team, so I know she’s stewing just a little bit about being left behind at the hotel, and as the game gets started I wish we had her presence in the dugout. But more than that, I wish she could see what her hitters are doing.
Roger shuffled the lineup today, in part to keep the Blackbirds on their toes, but more than that, it’s shuffled to reflect the improvement in our hitters. Perez leads off the top of the first inning with a triple, much to the obvious surprise of our opponents, and after that the hits just keep on coming.
By the third inning Baltimore has to go to the bullpen, bringing in a fresh arm in the hopes of shutting down our bats, but in the meantime, their bats aren’t waking up. Jackson Kent started the game for us today and from his very first pitch he’s been on fire. Strikeouts left and right, and any balls that get put in play have been fly ball outs or easy infield outs. And his only baserunner got on thanks to a walk.
He’s on fire.
And the dugout is ignoring him.
At the end of each half inning he comes in the far side of the dugout and sits on the furthest end of the bench, away from the rest of the team. Right next to me. I don’t acknowledge him. I don’t say a word, but every now and then, as each inning fades into the next, my eyes find the scoreboard. It’s late enough in the game now that I’m sure I’m not the only one getting my hopes up, but I know better than to say anything. I know better than to interrupt Jack’s routine or invade his headspace, but I don’t move from my spot on the bench.
Baseball players are superstitious creatures, and sometimes we’re a little weird in our superstitions. When I was in college, I would only eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on game days because I ate one and pitched the best game of mycollege career that day. Sure, I only ate it because I ran out of dining hall money on my account and my roommate took pity on me, but I wassurethat sandwich was the reason I set a strikeout record that night.
Jake Hutchison will swear up and down that he’s not superstitious, but I know for a fact that on every road trip he had a teddy bear tucked into his suitcase. Only on road trips because, by the time we moved in together senior year, I learned that when we were at home it was tucked under his mattress. He insisted it was only because his sister gave it to him and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but the night she slipped it into his suitcase was the night that he pitched 8 scoreless innings for our college team.
Teams even have collective superstitions, which is why no one in this dugout is talking to or even looking at Jack right now. There are phrases we don’t say, things we don’t do based on the conditions of the game. The most superstitious of the bunch isn’t here with us tonight, and I honestly hope she doesn’t have the game on. Sutton won’t move. In a situation like this, wherever she was standing or sitting when it started getting more and more likely is exactly where she’ll stay. Like a statue. She’ll talk to hitters and coaches and instruct them on how to look at the scouting reports, but she will not move from wherever her feet are planted. It’s funny to watch, and even funnier when she tries to deny it.
We’re a weird bunch but we cling to our superstitions.
Do they really make a difference in the outcome of the game? Probably not. But I’d never rule it out. Which is why I’m staying put.
Jack grabs his glove and adjusts his cap before jogging up the dugout steps and taking the mound for the bottom of the seventh, our defensive players taking their places behind him and Nico settling in behind the plate. Nico has called abeautiful game tonight, and between him and Jack, I couldn’t be more proud. The rest of us are on edge as Jack gets behind in the count, but Luca makes a diving grab in right center field that has Jack breathing a visible sigh of relief. And after that, he gets two easy outs.
I remember my first landmark game.
I’d been in the big leagues for three years by that time, and went into that game with a chip on my shoulder. The home plate umpire was a guy who’d ejected me from a game a year earlier and back then I could hold onto a grudge better than I could anything else in my life. All I wanted to do was throw fastballs but that’s not how you win a baseball game. I trusted my catcher that night to call the game, to exist that night as the logical part of my brain outside of my body. Mark Santos is our bullpen catcher now, and that year was his last as a player, but that night – that season – he was my catcher. He was an extension of my brain sitting sixty feet six inches away. I never would have had that landmark night if not for him.
He kept me from arguing balls and strikes, back in the day when it wasn’t an automatic ejection.
He kept me from losing my cool.
He kept me in the game. Just as Nico is doing for Jack in the bottom of the eighth inning. I watch him call time and jog to the mound, waving off the infield. You’d never know from watching him that Nico is only five months into playing in a big league club. He carries himself like a veteran player, makes decisions in games that come from studying the game, and can calm down a pitcher in ways our other catchers can’t.
Whatever he says to Jack works.
And now there’s only three outs left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Celebration
SUTTON
I should have just stayedon the couch.
I’ve been immersed in baseball and softball all my life. I can read a box score and I know when the vague whisper of hope becomes an emboldened shout. Tonight it happened when Luca put his body on the line, diving for a flyball out. I was on my way back from the bathroom and stopped at the fridge to grab another bottle of water. As I closed the door to the fridge Luca dove and caught the ball. Jack raised his fist in the air in celebration before pointing to his center fielder and giving him a single, resolute nod. And I haven’t moved from this spot since.
I haven’t opened the water either. I’ve just been holding it in my hand.
And now we’re down to three outs left in the ball game.
