I sent one into the cheap seats. He threw his hat in the grass.
When it was his brother’s turn, Logan tried a trick pitch—he throws a decent knuckleball—but I could tell something was coming, and I hit it to the warning track.
Most minor leaguers are excited to play against a major league player. Every other guy I encountered from their team was cool. I’m not saying Liesel’s brothers should have been deferential, but we’re part of the same organization. They should have at least been cool.
I talked to them after and said, “You guys have some real power.” I’m the major leaguer, so I was determined to be the bigger man.
Do you know what those punks said? “Next time you step in the box against us, you’re going down.”
“Then it’s a good thing you two are so predictable,” I said. “Stop telegraphing your pitches, you amateurs.”
Not gonna lie, I felt pretty good about that then.
Now? Honestly, still pretty good. Except the whole Liesel part.
Speaking of Liesel, she hasn’t answered me yet. Not a word of explanation. She’s sending what looks like a series of furious texts, judging by how fast and hard her thumbs are flying.
“Those arrogant, overprotective butt nuggets,” she mumbles. She puts her phone down, looking fiery enough to melt the snow. “Tell me exactly what happened with my brothers.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
So I tell her everything from the near miss to the trick pitch. I tell her about their threat, too.
“They really said they’d drop you next time they faced you at the plate?” she asks.
“Yup.”
“What did you say?”
“I told them that would never happen because they suck at disguising their pitches. And I may have called them amateurs.”
To my utter shock and delight, Liesel laughs. “They had that coming.”
“I kind of thought so,” I say. “Any idea why they had it out for me?”
“I have a pretty solid working theory,” she says. But instead of giving that theory, she climbs into the back of the car, pulls down the middle seat that separates the front of the car from the trunk, and the next thing I know, she’s pulling out a couple of waters and protein bars. She hands me one of each.
I take both, but I only open the protein bar.
“You should drink, you know. Even though it’s cold, you can still get dehydrated.”
“I know. But … I don’t want to drink anything yet.”
“Why? Do you have to pee?” She snorts. I don’t answer. “Oh no, you have to pee? What are you gonna do?”
“I’m going to wait until I’m ready to die, and then I’ll run outside and pee.”
“Ew.”
“It’s coming for you, too. Let’s be honest.”
“I peed before we left. I’m fine.”
“Wait until that water catches up with you.”
She takes a sip and screws the lid back on. “Good point.”
