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“Nine, huh? And you like baseball?” I ask, giving all of my attention to this dad and his two boys.
“Love it. I played third base in little league this summer, like you!”
“You must have quite an arm then,” I say to Adam, ruffling the hair on his head.
“I have to ask, but would you mind taking a quick picture with the boys?” the dad asks, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
“I’d love to,” I tell him, handing my keys to AJ. She takes them quickly, and goes to put them in her purse. “Trunk,” I add quickly, nodding at my car. AJ doesn’t ask, but steps around the back of my car. Dylan’s there, and I’m sure they can figure out what I’m talking about.
I pose for a picture with each boy individually, and then both of them together. Even though I’ve taken a few dozen selfies with students at school, it’s been a while since I did the full photo and autograph session with a couple of young fans.
“How old are you, Andrew?” I ask the toothless brother.
“Seven. But my favorite player is Joel Cougar! He throws like a rocket!” the young fan proclaims, referring to Joel’s cannon of an arm. The man is the best centerfielder in the league and can accurately throw a missile from deep center to home plate–usually without it bouncing.
“He sure does,” I confirm to the little guy wearing Joel’s number twenty-nine.
Glancing up, I see AJ standing off to the side, a wide smile on her face and her hands full of the items I was hoping she’d get. “Hey, I’ve got some stuff for you,” I tell the boys, walking over and grabbing the hats and shirts. AJ smiles warmly at me as she hands me a Sharpie marker.
“How about a hat?” I ask the boys, placing one of the new Rangers hats on each of their heads.
“Really?! This is so cool, huh, Dad?”
“Awesome,” Jason responds to his oldest son, snapping pictures of the exchange.
“How about I sign those hats for you?” I ask, extending my hand to see if they’re interested. I never just assume someone wants my signature on an item of clothing. When both boys practically throw the hats back at me, I sign my name on the bill of each one. Then, I do the same for their dad and hand it to him.
“Thank you so much,” he says as he takes the hat. “I’ve been a Rangers fan since I was born.”
“Well, we appreciate the support,” I tell him before reaching for the photos AJ has in her other hand. They’re last year’s team photo and have my old sponsor logos in the corners, but I don’t think anyone will care. “Thanks,” I say softly to the woman who’s standing off to the side, smiling proudly.
“Is that your girlfriend?” Adam asks when I turn back to them.
“It has to be his girlfriend. They were kissing,” Andrew replies, giggling in a way that only little kids can do.
“She is my girlfriend.” There’s no fighting the wide smile on my own face as I gaze over my shoulder at AJ.
After a few more minutes of interacting with the young fans, their dad finally drags them off to the entrance. Both boys were practically floating as they recounted the last ten minutes with their dad–both talking on top of each other.
“You were very good with them,” AJ says, sliding her arm around my waist and stepping into my embrace.
“Besides actually playing ball, that was always my favorite part. The exchanges with young fans. The adults I could live without sometimes, but the kids? They made all the drama and bullshit worth it.” And that’s true. I’d take a young fan with stars in their eyes and baseball dreams in their head over a drunk, rowdy, know-it-all adult any day of the week.
“Can we go in now? I’ve been dying for a foot long hotdog since we pulled into the lot,” Dylan says, starting to walk to the stadium.
Keeping my arm wrapped around AJ’s shoulder, we follow behind my brother and head toward the gates. I noticed how she preferred to be just off to the side when I was with the fans. Back when I was married to Carrie, she’d insert herself directly into the middle of any conversation or photo, even those with young kids.
But AJ didn’t need to be front and center. She let me do my thing and didn’t balk at the interruption or insist she be included in the photos. It wasn’t all about her, which is a welcoming change.
And not that I need it to be all about me, but in my line (albeit former) of work, I’m used to fans. I’m used to photos. I’m used to autographs and handshakes and hugs. I’ve always had to maintain a public persona, and my goal was always to make sure I was as professional as could be.
Even when the rag mags were trashing my reputation.
AJ pulls something from her purse and places it on her head. I stop and stare down at the simply irresistible woman who’s wearing my fucking jersey and now my hat. Smiling, I grab the bill of her hat and push it down just a bit more, turning it until it’s positioned just right on her head.
There. Fucking adorable.
“Ready?” I ask.
