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Coach Martin never made it to the majors. He played in the Dodgers minor league system before suffering a career-ending injury and turning his focus to coaching. He knows how grueling that rise to the top can be.
I nod, leaning on my bat. “What about it?”
“That was the plan, heading into today,” he says. “Get a sense of where your head is at. But then I got a call this morning, fromThe Sportsman.”
Shit. I haven’t answered the reporter yet, but I guess she’s going ahead with the profile anyway. If she reached out to Coach, Richard and Sandra will be next on the list. They profiled Richard when he retired from the NFL, after all. I remember Sandra running around, totally stressed, as a decorating crew glammed up the entire house for the family photoshoot.
“And?”
“They have the same idea as me, thinking about the draft. It’s finally time for Jake Miller’s son.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you want me to talk to her?” He regards me with serious eyes. “She said she hadn’t heard from you yet.”
“She left a message. I just… wasn’t sure what to say to her.”
He nods. “She’ll want you to talk about your father, no doubt.”
Over the years, people have tried to pry, but for the most part, Richard and Sandra shielded me from it. Documentary segments. Remembrances by the Reds and by baseball in general. I gave exactly one interview as a teenager; the summer I turned sixteen, the Reds retired my father’s number and wanted me at the ceremony. But for the most part, all of this is foreign to me. The thought of a reporter prying in on those memories makes me flinch, and that’s without the little scrap of doubt about the future in the back of my mind, stubborn as hell and refusing to fade.
Not that I’d ever give voice to it. I’m a baseball player, end of story.
“I’m sure, sir.”
“I don’t have to talk to her. It’s your call. I’m happy to sing your praises, son, but I understand if you want to lay low. I’m your coach, draft or not, and part of my job is to protect you.”
I swallow the lump of emotion in my throat. During these chats, he reminds me of Richard, who is truly like a father to me.
Whenever Richard and I talk about baseball, it brings up pieces of memories, faded now, but with enough color in them to highlight the conversations I used to have with my dad about the same things. He went to as many of my games as he could, even though he was on the road constantly. Professional baseball demands so much of a player. Not just the game itself, but the preparation and the time. It’s a marathon from spring training all the way to the postseason, resetting each day for a new game with breaks few and far between.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
Coach squeezes my shoulder with a broad hand and says, “Why don’t you get in touch with her and decide. Richard might have some thoughts, too.”
I give him a wry smile. “If there’s anything Richard always has, it’s opinions.”
Coach laughs. “You’re a good kid, Callahan. Go lead the outfield in some drills before we start whole-team warmups.”
* * *
I finally geta chance to check my phone just before the game. After our conversation this morning, I hoped to see some more texts from Mia, but there’s nothing. For all I know, when I get back to the house later, she’ll be gone, already placed in another dorm.
I hope not. If I’m going to convince her to at least be friends, this is the best bet. Once she’s not sleeping next door, who knows if I’ll see her until the fall semester.
There is, however, a voicemail from Richard. I know roughly what it says—no doubt the reporter reached out to him for an interview—so I just dial his number instead.
That familiar deep voice fills my ear. “Sebastian?”
Even before he became my father, he was a larger-than-life figure in my mind. When I was little, I loved when the Callahans visited, not only to see James and Cooper, but to see Richard. I remember him and my father on our sprawling back lawn, chucking a football back and forth. James was nine, which meant Cooper and I were seven, and we all took turns playing running back. For that night, being a quarterback sounded cooler than a left fielder. When I told Richard that, he and my father looked at each other and burst into tipsy laughter.
“Hey,” I say. “I got your message.”
“Game’s starting soon, right?”
I glance at the wall clock hanging above the lockers. Most of the guys are in the dugout already, loosening up before first pitch, but I need to finish getting into uniform. “I have a moment.”
“Did you connect with the reporter yet?”
