Page 21 of The Way We Swing

I stared at the ground, biting back a smile I didn’t want anyone to see.

“Sounds right,” Easton laughed.

“Anyway, can you two throw to my guys? I hate to break up your session, but I’d like them to get some swings in after the long trip.”

“Sure. We have some pitches left in our arms.”

We got through most of the guys quickly. With only a couple of players left, Gavin stepped into the cage.

I threw Gavin ten pitches, and he lined all ten right back at me, just as if we were back home. I looked over at Coach Messina to make sure he was watching and then turned back to Gavin and said, “Switch!”

The next guy up, thinking I meant switch batters, tried to enter the cage. Gavin said, “Not yet. Ten more.” He moved into the left-handed batter’s box. Gavinand I had talked on the drive here about how he still hadn’t told Coach Messina about taking swings left-handed. I figured it’d be easier to show than tell.

“Hit it where it’s pitched,” I yelled at Gavin. He drilled the first nine pitches as if they had offended him. The last pitch I threw was a curveball down the middle, and he smoked it right above the opening of the L-screen. Gavin stepped out of the cage, head down, but the grin tugging at his cheeks gave him away. He knew he’d just put on a show.

I stole a look at Coach Messina. He sat on a bucket of balls, the scorebook dangling from his hands. Easton and I finished throwing to the last two guys then walked over to him.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Messina said.

“I bat lefty,” Easton said. “So Tanner throws to him, and I’ll watch him swing left-handed and fix what I see.”

“That’s impressive, you two. Tanner, I mean this as no offense to you, but he’s better now than you were when I coached you.”

“Well, I always said I’d make a better coach than a player. You do know that he’s more than a year and a half younger than when I played for you, right?”

“That’s why it’s so impressive,” Messina said. “I’ve got to get back to the dugout. I’ll talk to you two after the game. Thanks again for throwing.”

“No problem, Coach.”

Easton and I set up our lawn chairs just off the third baseline, tucking into the sliver of shade cast by the building behind the field.

Five hours later, both games were over. They won both convincingly, and Gavin went a combined eight for ten.

We packed up the cars and drove to the Holiday Inn. It was still early in the day, but with a triple-header on Saturday, there wasn’t going to be much playing around that night.

“Messina said we were going to dinner at six,” I said, tossing my duffel bag on the closest bed in our room. “Why don’t you shower so you don’t smell so gross?”

“Smell yourself sometime,” Gavin said, stripping off his uniform and tossing it on the floor. He grabbed clean underwear and vanished into the bathroom.

I flipped through channels while Easton climbed onto the other bed; he’d been quiet since we’d gotten to the room. He faced the window, looking out at the view that was blocked by a parking garage.

Why wasn’t he talking? Had I said something wrong—was he already regretting coming? The shower shut off before I could find something to watch or spiral any further.

“That felt good,” Gavin said. He came out of the bathroom in just his briefs with a towel over his shoulder and jumped into the open spot on Easton’s bed.

Apparently, nobody wanted to sit with me. That was cool.

“I’m so sorrrre,” Gavin moaned. He’d had a rough day catching both games of the double-header in ninety-eight-degree weather.

“You’ve got another three games tomorrow, so get used to it,” I said.

“Can you give me a massage, Tanner? My legs are like jelly.”

“Not gonna happen, bro,” I said, finally finding a Cards versus Cubs game on TV.

“Easton, will you do it? I’m in so much pain.”

“If it’ll get you to stop bitching, I will. But put some shorts on first—I’m not giving a massage to a damn gremlin,” Easton said.