Page 70 of The Way We Swing

“You knew we’d end up here?” I asked, glancing right. He was looking straight ahead, like he had been the night I had first kissed him.

His hands wrapped around the metal chains, his biceps flexing from the force of his grip. He swung fast, unable or unwilling to stay still.

“I saw it when we came in on the bus,” Easton said. “I figured there was some sort of symbolism or some shit. You’re the one who figures out what this stuff means.”

“Why would there be symbolism in a park?” I asked. I planted my feet against the ground and pulled my swing to a stop.

“You remember that weekend at Gavin’s tournament last summer? When I told you about my mom?”

“Yeah, obviously. What’s your point?”

“That’s when our friendship started. It’s when I started to feel…something. Before that, we were teammates, sure. But after that, there was more. We both knew that after we kissed. And today, no matter what, is the last night we will be teammates.”

“That’s weird,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say.

“I’m nervous about tomorrow, Tanner.”

“There’s no reason not to treat it like any other game,” I said. My voice faltered mid-sentence—it was a tough lie to sell.

Easton gave me a look. “Come on.”

“Can I tell you what I’m scared about, Easton? I’m scared we didn’t put in enough work. I’m scared to let down the team. I’m scared to let down you, and Zach, and Gavin, even. I’m scared that I’m not ready to play my last game ever. We’ve always said baseball doesn’t have a shot clock. They still have to get you out, no matter what. But tomorrow is mine. At some point, the buzzer’s going to sound.

“But it doesn’t matter. Because Ricky will be there. And Maddux and Silas. But also you. Someone who was never supposed to be there. Someone who shouldn’t be sitting next to me the night before we play this game we love so much. Like, you were a complete stranger a year ago.”

Easton broke the silence that followed. “Well, that was fucking depressing.”

We both laughed out loud, the noise echoing in the distance. I swung my feet twice, preparing my next words as I breathed in the night air.

“What scares me the most is baseball, even though there’s no logical reason to be afraid of it. We have all failed so many times that it is pointless to be scared. In a sense, that’s what makes this game perfect. Because it is impossible to be perfect.

“You are going to fail time after time after time. A pitcher is going to throw you a fat pitch, you’re going to hammer it, and the ball will end up in the right fielder’s glove. The next at bat, the pitcher will throw you a devastating curveball, you’ll check your swing, and the ball will find grass in the outfield.

“You’re going to throw the ball a foot behind me on a double play or try to make a play by yourself that you shouldn’t. But in baseball, you are never, ever going to be perfect. Look at us. We have two losses on the season, and tomorrow, we are going to win a state title. It’s why baseball is the perfect analogy for life.”

“You’re wrong.”

“How so?”

“There’s been twenty-three perfect games in major league history. Maddux threw a perfect game last summer, even.”

“Sure,” I said, “but no one has ever been perfect over the course of an entire season. One start, sure. But never over a full year.”

“I’m eleven for eleven in our last three games.”

“Yet your batting average for the season isn’t 1.000. It isn’t even .500. But that’s why this game is so magical. You are one of the best hitters in the state, and you make an out every other at bat. You cannot escape failure.”

“That’s why I ran that night,” Easton said, eyes dropping.

I knew what night he was talking about. He knew that I knew. But I still had to ask.

“What night?” I whispered, my voice catching in the back of my throat.

The chains creaked as we swung in silence, waiting for Easton to speak again.

“On Christmas,” he said. His voice had dropped even lower, and there was even more fear in his voice than when we had gotten here. “I couldn’t be perfect for you. You’d been so good to me, but I couldn’t let myself feel what you did. I wanted to—but it was against everything I was raised with.

“Your family had brought me in when I needed a family the most. I couldn’t let you down. I couldn’t let any of you guys down, so I ran. You told me at one point you cried that night. Well, I cried, too. I cried for a week. I cried because I had failed. I had lost two families in a year, and there wasn’t any going back.