Page 73 of The Way We Swing

“I wanted to thank every single one of you who made the trip down here for these games. I know it means the world to the boys to see so many fans here. This is a very special group of young men that I’ve been given the opportunity to coach over the past four years, and today is something that they’ve strived for since day one. The four seniors made a state title their goal since before I met them, and they’ve put themselves in a position to accomplish that goal. I hope that the standard they’ve set will be followed by the underclassmen and that the morning workouts they’ve run every summer are a tradition that sticks around for years to come. No matter what happens today, be proud. I know I am.”

The non-players in the room clapped. I wiped my eyes, but Ricky just grinned across the table.

“If we don’t get Quinn out of here, he’s not going to be able to play today. I can’t stand how emotional this bum is.”

“Just focus on catching, Ricky,” I said, punching him lightly in the shoulder. He fell out of the booth as if I had knocked him out and started rolling on the ground in mock pain.

“Pretty sure you’re the catcher, man,” Maddux said, ignoring Ricky.

“We don’t know, though,” Silas said. “He still won’t tell us.”

The banter kept going while Coach paid the bill. We split up at the elevators—I went left while the other three went right.

Zach had beaten me to our room, and he was pacing when I entered.

“You ready for this?” I asked.

“Not at all. You remember this is our last game, too, right? Me and you?”

I winced. I hadn’t thought of that. My mind had been stuck on the seniors, the finality of that. I hadn’t let myself think about the end of this new chapter with Zach. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve played more with those guys. Let’s just end on a good note.”

“Going to try,” I said, jumping on the bed. “Still, pretty damn cool getting one year together before I’m out.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, and the room went still. This was the last bit of calm we’d have before getting to the field.

I sat on the bed for two hours, looking over the scouting report that Coach had handed me last night. The words were scribbled almost illegibly, but I remembered the field work I’d received to obtain my Coach Berrios PhD. I did my best to stick it all in my brain because I knew there’d be too much going on once we got to the field for me to think.

We loaded the bus in silence—not tense, just focused. It was a kind of quiet where every breath felt counted, every movement deliberate. We were headed to face St. Ed’s, the reigning state champs. They’d had three losses all season, each one to schools twice our size. Word was their catcher, third baseman, and entire outfield were committed to D1 schools. But none of that mattered now.

The bus rumbled forward.

Once we were fifteen minutes out, no one was on their phone. No music played. There was just the hum of the tires and the occasional squeak of cleats shifting in bags. I watched cornfields flicker past the windows like they were being flipped in a book I didn’t want to finish.

When we stopped, Coach stood. He never spoke on the bus, not once in four years. But today he turned, one hand gripping the seat beside him, eyes scanning the aisle.

“I’ve seen St. Ed’s three times this season,” he said, his voice low but certain. “They’re good. Big, fast, and confident. But we’re better.”

A few heads lifted.

“We have the better pitcher. We’ve got the better defense. That makes us the favorite. I don’t care how many of them are headed to Florida or Georgia Tech. It does not matter. When you’ve got the pitching and defense, you don’t need to be flashy. You just need to execute.”

His eyes paused on mine. Only for a second. But long enough.

“When you walk onto that field, walk like you own it. Don’t get caught up in the crowd or the title or who they’re going to play for next year. Today, this is just another game. Play it that way, and we’ll walk off as champions.”

Coach marched off the bus, and the team erupted in noise. I made my way off quickly, leading the charge to the field.

We went through our pre-game motions, then somehow it was an hour and a half later, and we were being introduced to the crowd for the last game of my high school career.

The sound vibrated off of the stadium as the announcer began listing the starting lineups.

“Leading off, playing second base, Tanner Quinn.”

A thunder of noise. I jogged out to the line, cleats sinking just slightly into the dirt near the batter’s box. I turned, scanning the stands.

“Batting second, playing shortstop, Easton Chase.”