Page 27 of The Way We Swing

They started slow but managed to get two runners on with two outs when my little brother was walked to the plate.

If Gavin got a hit, they’d win. If he got out, it’d be game over with a loss. My leg bounced uncontrollably, my heel thudding against the soft grass. Easton leaned forward in his seat.

Gavin had been red-hot all weekend—twenty-three for twenty-eight—and hadn’t made an out since Saturday afternoon. But now it came down to this. I held my breath as he stepped in.

“Think he’s nervous?” Easton asked.

“He’s fine,” I said. “He lives for this kind of attention.”

First pitch, ball. Gavin stepped out, adjusted his gloves, and locked back in. The next one was a fastball over the plate. He didn’t miss.

The ball exploded off his bat, soaring over the shortstop and toward the left-center gap. If the ball found grass, it was over.

“It’s going to drop!” Easton yelled, already standing, his hands extended in the air.

Gavin sprinted toward first. The center fielder gave up on it, hands raised in surrender.

But the left fielder didn’t. He dove.

The ball and glove met in midair. Somehow, impossibly, he made the catch.

Gavin dropped to his knees in the baseline. A game-winner had turned into heartbreak in an instant.

“Oh, no,” I said, turning toward Easton. My stomach dropped into the ground as I smacked my chair backwards.

Easton’s face mirrored Gavin’s disbelief, as though he himself had sent the ball flying. “I thought for sure that was going to drop. Gav had such a good weekend. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“Baseball is a cruel game,” I said, spitting the last seed out of my mouth.

Ten minutes later, Coach Messina finished his talk with the team and sent almost all of them on their way. He pulled Gavin aside and talked to him near the dugout. Gavin still had tears trickling down his face as he listened to what his coach had to say.

“Can I talk to him first?” Easton asked.

“Sure, give me your chair. I’ll get it packed.”

Easton had already joined Gavin when I opened the trunk. Gavin’s bat bag was slung over Easton’s shoulder, and Gavin carried his cleats. He was back in those ugly red Crocs.

Easton’s hand rested on Gavin’s shoulder; he was doing all the talking. Every time Gavin would look at the ground, Easton would push Gavin’s chin up and make Gavin look him in the eyes. The conversation couldn’t have lasted for more than three minutes, but by the time they got back to the car, Gavin was in a much better mood.

“Proud of you, Gav,” I said, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Wish you guys could make more games.”

“You gave us a hell of a show.”

“One hit away from making it a movie,” he smirked.

“Next time,” Easton said.

We finished packing the car and started on the two-hour trip back home. Within fifteen minutes, Gavin fell asleep and was snoring his heart out. I glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure that he was asleep before I turned to Easton.

“So, what’d you say to Gavin back at the field? It clearly did the trick.”

“Not much. I told him we had fun watching him and that he had an amazing weekend at the plate. One at bat can’t take that away.”

“That’s it?”

“I also told him how I made the last out of my team’s season four different times.”