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He stops and looks back at me.
“Make sure you introduce yourself.”
He rolls his eyes and turns away. I chuckle and grab the mask and chest protector one of the guys brought for me before heading to home plate.
The game moves pretty quickly—it always does—and we’re late in the second inning before Justin finally makes it up to bat. He looks a lot more cocky walking up to the plate than he did when he first arrived, but we have Gary Nilo on the mound. He graduated six or seven years ago—a few years before me—and went on to pitch in the D1 college championship with a top ten school. The guy is no joke, and a few years out from school, it doesn’t seem like he’s lost much, if any, of his speed.
Gary winds up then zings a ball right past Justin, into the catcher’s mitt.
“Strike!”
Justin adjusts his stance, shifts his helmet, then gets back into position. When Gary throws one across the plate again, Justin swings.
And misses.
I call it again. “Strike!”
I can see his irritation bristling, and he whacks the bottom of each foot with his bat before setting up again, his jaw tight and his chin low. This time, when Gary throws, Justin makes contact, the ball sailing into an open spot in the outfield.
Justin chucks his bat and begins to run, but the guy at right field scoops it up and blazes it to second to get a runner out then second chucks it to first, who catches it right before Justin’s foot hits the bag.
“Out! That’s three,” I call, and the away team begins jogging in.
I watch Justin, standing off to the side of first base, his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. I’m trying to remember what Rush said to me about the last time Justin hit a ball that resulted in him getting an out. It was something crazy like he went all of last season without ever getting out, just homeruns and base hits all the way through.
Eventually he returns to the dugout, grabs his mitt, and jogs out to left field. The game continues, and the away team begins to take off with run after run, resulting in them being up by three in the fifth inning.
“Go, Justin!” Rush shouts, the next time the kid heads to the plate. “You got this! Big swing!”
Before Justin sets up, I step forward. “Remember what I said about turning your hips more?” I ask, knowing I’m probably going to piss him off but deciding to take my chances.
He just glares at me.
“Make sure you punch them forward, alright? You’ll get a more rounded swing. Just…try it.” I pause. “Please.”
Justin’s nostrils flare, and then he looks toward his feet, stomping them into the dirt as he gets ready. Sighing, I tug my mask back on and move behind the catcher. Gary winds up, and when the ball crosses the plate, I blink in surprise at the fact that Justin…actually listened to me. He still got a strike, hitting the ball foul, but he listened!
Second ball, same thing. Gary throws, Justin opens his hips up a bit more, the ball goes foul. Justin growls, looking right at me for a beat before setting up again.
“One more time, Justin. Trust me.”
I say it from behind the catcher, but I can tell he hears me by the way his body tenses just slightly.
Third ball comes flying over the plate…and Justin smacks it into space.
The guys all jump up from where they’re sitting in the dugouts—on both sides—and cheer as the ball flies over the fence and into the trees behind the ballpark. Justin tosses his bat to the side, shouting with joy as he jogs around the bases, bringing another batter home as well. When he crosses the plate, a bunch of the guys are there, cheering for him and telling him what an amazing hit that was and clapping him on the back.
I can’t hide my fucking smile the entire time. In fact, I can’t hide my smile for the rest of the game.
The away team wins—edging out the home team by just one run—and my mom shows up with two huge trays of cinnamon roll croissants, still slightly warm from the oven, because that’s the kind of badass Patty Mitchell is.
“Thanks for umping, Bam,” Leon says, shaking my hand as everyone begins to head out a little while later. “You heading back to Oregon soon?”
I nod, popping one more bite of croissant into my mouth. “That’s the plan, if all goes well with this thing,” I say, raising my wrist, still wrapped in the black brace.
“Well, we’ll be rooting for you.” He pats me on the shoulder then gives my mom a wave. “See you at the council meeting next week?”
My mom nods and gives him a wave. “See you, Leon!”
