Page 63 of The Sweet Spot

“He's got Reyes figured out,” Dad says, leaning forward. “He's been sitting on that sinker all year.”

The pitcher throws the first pitch and JB doesn’t swing.

“Ball one,” the umpire says.

“See.” My dad points to the TV with his beer. No, I do not see. I have never been able to tell the difference between pitches, but I let my dad ramble.

The second pitch comes and goes.

“What's he waiting for?” I mutter to myself.

“Fastball,” my dad answers.

When the third pitch comes, he swings and the bat hits the ball with a satisfying clunk.

The announcer is yelling, my father is up out of his chair, and I'm frozen watching the ball fly higher and higher in the stadium.

“Go,” Dad is saying. “Go. Go. Go go go — “

It goes.

Over the left field wall.

And just like that, he’s scored a two-run homer.

I am out of my recliner so fast I nearly take the armrest with me.

“YES!”

My arms are in the air.

My father looks at me.

I look at him.

We both know exactly what’s going on here, but are either one of us going to admit it?

I slowly lower my arms, cough and take my seat.

JB is rounding first with his helmet on, and his head down. Right as he crosses the plate, he stops and sets himself up with an imaginary golf club. Then he swings, and I'm happy to see even without a club or ball, his form is still good.

He winks at the camera before Tate is giving him a high-five.

That was for me.

I just know it.

“Just golf partners, huh?” My dad says with a snort.

I grumble under my breath and take my seat instead of answering.

When the inning ends and the broadcast cuts to a commercial, I feel my phone buzzing on my hip.

JB: That one was for you.

I press my lips together, so I don't smile in front of my father, which I have already failed at.

Whit: I saw.