Page 177 of Hiding in the Outfield

It’s nothing but me and the man on the mound.

A pistol draw waiting to happen.

And Schultz

And fucking Schultz!

He’s patting his thigh. Inside fastballs are my weakness. I miss more than I hit.

The pitcher winds up.

Time slows.

My heart lurches into my throat.

I open my stance.

I’m so lasered in, I see nothing but ivory leather and red stitching.

My fists tighten on the handle of my bat, and I bring my hands in, the squeak of my gloves slicing through my ears like it’s been amplified.

The ball leaves his fingers.

It tears toward me.

I swing.

And am met with pure beauty.

Clean. Crisp. Clack.

I don’t even feel it.

And you know what that means?

Home. Fucking. Run.

The stadium explodes in sound. The ground shakes beneath my feet.

And I just stand stock-still, my pulse spinning out of control as I watch the ball soar to the back-left field bleachers. I can barely breathe, like my lungs just took the hit of my bat and not the ball.

Walk-off home run.

We won.

Oh my God.

We just won the World Series.

Reality slams into me. I spin on my heel and jab my finger toward the dugout stands. I don’t even have to search. I know where he sits. He’s jumping up and down, Amy on one side, my brother on the other. I can see the gold shining in his eyes from here. I jab my finger one more time, and he beams.

Then I turn back around and jog the bases.

Fuck yeah, baby!

EPILOGUE

JACKSON