“How do you major in baseball?”
“I’m the Husker heavy hitter. I’m heading for the minors as soon as this semester is over.” I hoped. I was being scouted by everybody and the buzz was that I was a top pick. Assuming, of course, I played well this coming weekend. Big game, lots of scouts, huge possibilities. But I wasn’t focused on that. Right now was about relieving stress, not holding onto the pressure.
“Congratulations!” She put enough force behind her words to seem enthusiastic, but I could tell she didn’t understand it. Not how big an accomplishment this was. How few guys could claim even this much. “I’m going all the way, Heidi,” I said, a little defensively. “I’m going straight to the majors and intend to break the home run record.”
Now her eyes widened, and a bit of awe came into her face. “So, you’re like a big deal then.”
I nodded and felt heat flush my face. It was stupid to be humble about this now. I was the one who’d brought it up. Maybe I was ashamed to be bragging to someone who didn’t get it. Or maybe I just felt like a dumb jock next to the double-major smart kid. To cover, I switched the conversation back to her. “So, um, philosophy. Is that—?”
“No wait,” she interrupted. “Tell me more about this baseball thing.”
I frowned. The thing is, I can talk baseball all day, but the way she said it was throwing me. What exactly did she want to know? My RBI? My home run average was really impressive, but only if you understood the sport. Or was she asking a more general question about the sport itself?
She flashed me a self-conscious smile, obviously seeing my confusion. “You said you’re going all the way. Can you tell me why, exactly? I mean, I’m sure you’re good, but why are you great?”
I could tell she wasn’t trying to insult me. She really wanted to know. But what bothered me was that I didn’t have a good answer. “I, um, hit home runs. A lot.”
She nodded, her attention focused almost uncomfortably on my face. “So what makes you hit a lot of home runs? I mean is it just genetics? If so, that’s going to top out in time. The majors are the elite of the elite. At some point, everyone else will have great genetics, too, right?”
I stared at her, trying to form a good answer. I was trying to impress this girl, but she was pushing me to admit to all my secret fears. Was I really good enough to go to the majors? Would I bomb out in AAA?
“Um, I practice. A lot. And my coach pushes me really hard. It’s a miracle he let me come down here for spring break.”
I knew her response even before she said it.
“Doesn’t everybody practice hard at that level?” Then she reached forward and touched my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a pain. I just really want to know. About you. Why are you such a great athlete and someone else isn’t?” Then she wrinkled her nose in a kind of apology that I found really cute. “I’m being awful.”
“No, no. You’re just…” Asking a question that I can’t answer. “I don’t know why I’m so good.” God, it almost hurt to say that aloud. But in a good way. As if looking at a wound I didn’t even know was there. “I mean, what makes me such a great player? What are my strengths, other than godlike hand-eye coordination?”
She smiled. “Maybe that’s the answer.”
No, it wasn’t. And that bothered me. Because stepping into the minor leagues meant this was my career now. Not something I did because I loved the game or wanted to pick up girls. I had to get serious about it at a new level.
She touched my hand again. “You’re not talking.”
“Because I’m thinking. I have natural talent, but my coach doesn’t let me slide on anything. Drills, practice, nutrition. If I show up five minutes late, he adds a half hour of calisthenics. He’s all about discipline. I had to beg to come here.”
“Why’d he let you go?”
“Because the entire team got three days off, including me. He wanted me to stay on campus, but my friends are here.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Sounds like he’s a hard-ass.”
“He is, but it got me my chance. This Saturday. In front of four scouts.”
“Wow. Are you nervous?”
Terrified. Excited. And confident in a panicky way. “I just have to stick to the plan. Enjoy spring break, then when I go back, it’s all baseball, all the way.” Had to be, because Coach swore that if I showed up late or hungover for practice the day after tomorrow, he’d bench me for the big game. “It’s my chance. I’m not going to blow it.”
“I believe you.”
Simple words, but they warmed me inside and out. Then I shook my head. I was on a date with a gorgeous girl. The last thing I needed to do was dig into my sports psychology. “Let’s talk about you. You’re studying Plato and stuff?” And didn’t that just show how dumb I was? Especially since I pronounced it “Play-Doh” when I knew that wasn’t right.
“It’s the I-suck-at-science major for those who are still finding themselves,” she said. “Did you always want to play baseball?”
“I never wanted to do anything else.”
She tilted her head and her dark hair spilled over her shoulder. “I envy that,” she said.
