Page 21 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Roger was Montclair money.

Andrew was Union City bus fare.

Roger had new cleats every season.

Andrew’s were held together by black electrical tape.

But Roger only trusted Andrew, knowin’ he’d be ready for the ball without lookin’. And he always was.

Back then, they could read each other without speakin’, always ran the classic fake-out ball trick like pros: runner takes a lead off first, lookin’ to steal, ‘til Roger steps off the mound, throws down to first, runner dives back—safe. Andrew fakes the toss back, and Roger pretends to catch it, steppin’ back on the rubber, settin’ up the next pitch.

Kid on first starts creepin’ off the bag again—a fuckin’ idiot.

Andrew tags him with the ball that never left his glove.

Other coaches would lose their minds each time they pulled it, stompin’ the ground, spittin’ fire. “Baseball one-oh-one! You watch the damn ball! Don’t watch the pitcher, watch the ball!” Kickin’ up dirt. “Swear t'God, if one more of you falls for that lazy-ass trick…”

Andrew’d hear Coach cacklin’ behind his aviators, smackin’ his gum.

The dugout was sunflower seeds, Gatorade in crushed bottles, boys with bruised shins talkin’ shit and drawing dicks in the dust with bats.

Roger always grabbed Andrew to warm up, ball in one hand, glove on the other. “Ready?” and Andrew always was, crouchin’ low in the dirt, catchin’ every goddamn throw until his palm burned.

Roger threw faster when Andrew caught. And maybe that was it. Maybe Roger liked the way Andrew never said no, never blew him off, never flinched.

Most weekends, they partied after games. Sometimes in somebody’s basement, other times out in the Claremont woods—warm Bud in Wawa bags, blunts in Altoid tins, and somebody’s cousin blastin’ Biggie from a Bluetooth speaker. Just kids tryin’ to get grown too fast.

Andrew never drank. When you grow up with two moms who get loud, sloppy, say shit they don’t remember, and cry for no reason, you learn early that buzzed ain’t beautiful. He hated the way it smelled, the way it made people act.

One night, Roger got piss-ass drunk, way worse than usual.

They’d lost a home game. One where Roger had blown a perfect inning in front of a scout from Rutgers. He lost his shit, screamin’ at the ump over a bad call, then mouthed off to Coach in the dugout, gettin’ himself benched for the first time in four years.

That night, he disappeared into the trees with a fifth of Jack.

Andrew found him slumped against a trunk, hoodie up, eyes shot red, cursin’ his whole future, tryin’ not to cry but failin’ like hell. “They don’t want me. No one wants me. I’m fucked. My whole future’s fucked.”

Andrew sat beside him and let him vent and fall apart. He didn’t move when Roger cried on his shoulder. “You ain’t fucked, bro,” Andrew told him. “Shit happens. You’re still good.”

Roger shoved his face into Andrew’s jersey, then Andrew felt Roger’s mouth press against his neck—a sad prayer attached to no god.

Andrew told himself it was nothin’, only drunk grief misplaced. But it wasn’t nothin’. He knew Roger was into him, but he never thought he’d ever grab Andrew’s hand and pull it into his lap, pressin’ it up against his erection. Or that Roger would tug down his zipper and let his dick out.

Lookin’ back, Andrew knew he should’ve stopped him, but in that second, he froze. In that moment, he thought if he pulled away, he’d be another person rejectin’ him, another person who didn’t want him, another person who’d benched him.

Andrew looked away, shifted.

“Okay,” he said. “I got you.”

What felt like forever only took a minute. Afterward, Roger panicked. “Shit—I’m sorry. It ain’t—I just⁠—”

Andrew wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fingers shaking.

He didn’t know what to think. Was he comforting him? Was he being used? Did he use him back ‘cause it gave him a sick form of validation? Did he say yes ‘cause he wanted to help, or ‘cause he couldn’t bear Roger hatin’ him if he said no?

“Don’t, man. You’re hurting.” Andrew hesitated at first, not knowing where to look, where to put his hand. Then he ripped off his jersey for Roger to wipe his tears while Andrew gazed into the dark, holding in his own. He didn’t know what he was more sad about: knowin’ those sixty seconds were gonna fuck him up for a long time, or that he just led on his best friend, makin’ him believe he felt the same, which might’ve caused more harm than good.

The following day, Roger acted like nothin’ happened, and Andrew didn’t wanna be the first to bring it up. He figured the booze blotted out Roger’s memory, and it’d become somethin’ Andrew would have to live with alone and never talk about.