“Jake. Get your armor on. You’re subbing in at first.”
My heart does a flip against my ribs. I don’t even think. I simply hand off the radio to one of our pitchers and jet out the bullpen gate, sprinting across the grass. Brooks tosses me a helmet I’m not even sure is mine, and I get my orders from the first base coach as I take my place at first. When I get the steal sign from the third-base coach, I practically barf. I’m not exactly built for speed, though I am an upgrade from my old man in that department. I push my helmet down tighter, then work my way off the base, taking a risky lead and trusting my instincts.
He’s not going to pick. He’s throwing an inside fastball.
I’ve memorized the Little Rock starter’s sequence after studying his last four games. He rarely picks to first, and he’s slow with his wind-up, which means if I take off right . . . about . . . now . . . I might just make it.
My feet dig into the dirt as I pound my way toward second, sliding in with a puff of dust and standing up almost a full second before the ball makes it to the shortstop for a tag.
“Fuck, he’s so slow,” the Little Rock shortstop complains. I shrug and snicker, which seems to piss him off a little. I’m not sure if he means his catcher or the guy on the mound. I bite my tongue and keep myself from asking. I don’t need him gunning for me all day.
Despite my effort, I’m stranded at second when our next two hitters strike out. I gear up to catch Luis, and themoment I squat behind the dish, the world narrows to the small white ball and the leather of my glove. I have a point to prove, and I have exactly eight innings to do it.
In the top of the third, Little Rock’s baserunner tests my freshly cleared arm, taking an aggressive secondary lead off first. The pitch from Luis comes in low and dirty—a breaking ball in the dirt. I smother it, dropping to both knees, and transition the ball to my right hand in one motion. I unleash a bullet straight to second base, and the throw cuts through the air like a wire, hitting Brooks’s glove perfectly before the runner even drops his back foot.
Out.
By the bottom of the ninth, the game is deadlocked at 3-3. There are two outs, and Jayden is standing on second after a wild pitch. Little Rock’s closer tries to crowd me, throwing an inside fastball meant to back me off the plate. But I don’t flinch. I stay back, letting the ball travel, and explode through the zone, driving an absolute screamer deep over the right fielder’s head.
The ball ricochets off the wall as Jayden rounds third, crossing home plate standing up.
A walk-off.
My first game back!
The dugout erupts, the guys swarming the field, slamming my helmet and pounding my back in a joyous mob. I’m partly afraid I’m dreaming, but my legs are tired, and my back is drenched with sweat and Gatorade, so I know this is real.
Before I can make it to the dugout steps, tonight’s in-game host, a hyper-energetic girl named Mia, flags me down right along the first-base line. She’s holding a wireless microphone in one hand and adjusting a heavy set of headphones with the other, our stadium cameraman tracking her everymove as the Jumbotron above us flashes my face in a giant, pixelated form.
“I’m here with the man of the hour, Jake McKinney!” Mia shouts into the mic, her voice booming over the stadium loudspeakers. My Aunt Winnie’s whistle booms over every other sound in this place, and I scan the seats in search of her, to no avail.
“Jake, first game back from the injured list, you throw out a runner at second, and then you drive in the walk-off game-winner in the ninth. Take us through that final at-bat!”
I wipe a streak of sweat and infield dirt from my forehead with the back of my left hand, trying to catch my breath as the remaining fans in the stands cheer loudly.
“Honestly, I was just trying to stay centered,” I say, leaning into the mic. “Their closer has great stuff, but he left a fastball up over the plate, and I didn’t miss it. It feels incredible to be back out here helping the team grit out a tough win.”
She fires off one more quick question about my shoulder before letting me go, but the second I step off the grass, a small huddle of regional sports reporters and local media beats me to the tunnel. Mics and phones are shoved toward my face as they press for details on the injury and the sudden lineup change.
“You did not expect to be in the lineup today, am I right?” one reporter asks.
“No, I was back in the bullpen,” I reply, keeping my tone professional. “I guess Roddy felt a tweak in his hamstring after that single in the first, so I had to get ready pretty quick. You never want to see a teammate go down, especially a veteran like him, but our job is to stay ready for whatever the game throws at us.”
“Does it matter that it’s your dad?” she follows up.
I chuckle, wondering how I would have answered this a couple months ago.
“Yeah, it does. Old man promised to help me move this weekend.”
Everyone left lingering around laughs, and I field two more questions about the upcoming road trip, giving them the standard team-first answers before offering a polite nod and finally slipping past them into the quiet sanctuary of the stadium tunnel.
Once the initial rush settles and the clubhouse begins to clear out, I walk along the quiet concourse toward the physical therapy room to grab a bag of ice for my shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, but I’m never taking feeling good for granted again. I throw as much as the pitching staff does. More, actually. Arm care first, dinner at Earl’s after.
The training door is cracked open about an inch, a sliver of fluorescent light cutting across the dark hallway floor. I push it fully open, and the hinges creak.
My dad is standing inside by the stainless-steel counters. He isn’t lying on the training table, and he’s definitely not packed in ice or bandages. In fact, there isn’t a trainer in sight. He’s standing perfectly straight, completely unbothered, casually popping the cap off a cold electrolyte drink without even a remote hint of a limp, a cramp, or a tight muscle.
He stiffens, the bottle halfway to his mouth, as he catches my reflection in the glass cabinet. He turns around slowly and our eyes lock across the small, sterile room.
