Page 10 of The Way We Swing

“Oh, sure, baseball,” she said, as if that clarified absolutely nothing. She pointed her walker at Ricky. “You’re the one who jumps a lot.”

I nodded. “That’s him.”

Ricky gave a confused little wave.

“Come in before the bugs eat you.”

We stepped inside Easton’s house.

The house was…time-locked. Doilies. A glass candy dish. A VHS collection. One of those couches with stiff floral upholstery that looked like it had never known joy.

A man sat in a recliner watching a game show with the volume at thirty-eight. His head was bald, but his eyebrows were thick and fierce, like they were fighting to stay young. They were the only parts of his body still fighting that battle.

“Grandpa,” Easton said, appearing in the hallway with his duffel bag over one shoulder. He was still pulling on his shirt, as if he hadn’t been done changing when he’d heard our voices. I looked away before I let the wrong instinct win. “These are my teammates—Tanner and Ricky.”

The old man looked at us. “Which one’s the smartass?”

“Depends on the day,” I muttered.

“That one,” Ricky said at the same time, pointing to me.

Grandpa grunted. “Figures.”

Easton’s grandma rolled into the room with a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses. “Sit. Sit. Do you boys like sugar?”

“Yes, ma’am. And you must be Easton’s mom?” Ricky joked, trying for flattery.

Dead silence.

Easton’s body shook, his jaw clenched. He refused to look at us.

I wanted to kick Ricky. He might have been the smartest person I knew, but at least I was smart enough not tomake a joke about the mom of the kid living with his grandparents.

After what seemed like an eternity, his grandma said, “Aren’t you sweet?” She poured him a full glass without breaking eye contact. “Drink up. You look parched.”

I took the smallest possible sip of my tea.

Easton slid into the spot next to me, stiffly and quietly, as if he was afraid to move too much or say the wrong thing. “Sorry,” he whispered. “They’re old.”

“I noticed.”

They looked about eighty, and their house reminded me of sitcom reruns from the 70s. His grandpa had turned the TV down enough to let silence fill the space.

“So,” Grandpa said, “you the one that plays shortstop? Tanner?”

“Yeah. That’s me,” I said.

“You fast?”

“Quick enough.”

“You stay back on grounders or charge the ball?”

“Charge it.”

He grunted again. “Good answer.”

Ricky leaned in, unable to control himself. “He’s good. And modest. That’s a rare combo.”