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“Reed!” Granddad leaned against the railing of the seats behind our dugout, where Nana and Mom would soon join him.

I stepped closer to him. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to wish you luck.” He lowered his voice a little. “And to give you one last piece of advice.”

“Granddad, I gotta finish warming up so I can get to the bullpen.” I coiled up my J-Band.

“I know, I know.” He put his hands up. “But I’ve been meaning to tell it to you all season, and now I finally remembered.”

“Okay.” I crossed my arms. “Shoot.”

“You’re not untouchable.”

Uh… “That’s your advice?”

“Not all of it.” He smiled. “You can try to be as controlled as possible, but you can’t control every hit that comes at you. You’re not untouchable. Pitching is the riskiest part of this sport. Once you accept that, you’ll be the best pitcher you can be.”

Something small warmed my heart. “Thanks, Granddad.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank your father.”

“What?”

He stood up straighter. “Your father used to say that.”

I clutched the tags underneath my jersey as the warmth in my chest tightened like a fist.

Damn, I’d give anything for him to be here.

Granddad sat down behind the dugout, and I jogged toward the outfield where the Crowley Cardinals played catch and finished some stretches. Before heading toward the bullpen, I walked up to someone I needed to speak to.

“Coach?” I asked.

Mr. Crowley turned around with his clipboard in hand and tucked a pencil behind his ear. “Mr. Fulton. Healed up okay?”

“Yes, sir.” I patted my arm where a smaller bandage still lay. “Ready to play.”

“Good.”

I extended a hand. “Thank you for moving this game out a couple weeks. I”—my throat grew thick—“I really appreciate it.”

“After how well you played this season, you deserved it.” He shook my hand firmly.

“Good luck, sir.”

“And to you.”

If someone told me several weeks ago that I’d shake that man’s hand before the championship game, I would’ve never believed them.

I warmed up well with Cameron in the bullpen. Troy would be behind the plate for us tonight since Ben was officially off the team. Troy was a damned good catcher and had a great arm, but I had only thrown with him a few times. It took a long time to build up a rhythm between a catcher and a pitcher. I hoped he was ready.

Coach Roeper told us to join the team for the national anthem. As Cameron and I jogged toward the first-base line, Mom and Nana waved from behind the dugout before they both shouted, “Good luck!”

I took off my hat and waved it at them, beaming.

A barbershop quartet from town began the national anthem, and I bounced back and forth on my feet. Dad always said that my games should be for me. That if I worked hard, I shouldn’t feel guilty about wanting the win. Wherever he was, I wanted him to know that I played the best I could this summer—not only for me, but mostly for him and for Granddad.

The anthem ended. And after a few power fives, Cameron and I ran back to the bullpen as Tom took the mound first.