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I try to explain this to Michael, bragging about Roberto’s strikeout percentages.
“His ERA—”
Michael cuts me off. “ERA?”
“Earned run average. The lower it is, the better the pitcher.”
He nods along then asks, “Okay, and just to clarify, we’re the ones in the white jerseys?”
I look at him, absolutely aghast. There is no hiding my despair that he would know so little about this sport I love so much.
But he breaks character with a silly grin and grabs my shoulders to shake me gently. “I’m kidding. Come on, I know a little bit about baseball. I’m not a total moron.”
This is debatable considering he stands to get us hot dogs and beer in the bottom of the fourth, right when things are getting interesting. He asks if I want to go too, but Nick’s next at bat and the bases are loaded. Grant’s on third, anxious to make his final dash to home plate. He’s already posed to run, rolling out his shoulders, keeping his eyes pinned on the action. He shifts his weight between his front and back leg, staying light on his feet.
“Tate?”
“What?” I snap, somewhat impatiently.
I immediately cringe as I realize the poor guy is just trying to ask if I want any condiments on my hot dog.
“Sorry…I get really into the games.” I say this while not taking my eyes off the field. Nick’s walking up to the plate while the crowd chants his name. “Come on, Nick,” I whisper under my breath, channeling every ounce of magic I have in me. I cross my fingers and chew on the inside of my cheek and try not to feel sick as he gets in position.
Meanwhile, Michael still leaves to go get food. During this moment?! This one?! A meteor could be hurtling through the sky heading straight for me, spitting fire and debris, and it would be the second most pressing matter. First is Nick clearing these bases.
The Twins pitcher wipes sweat from his brow, checks second, then third. He digs his front toe into the dirt, twirls the ball in his hand. It’s all just a ritual, a pattern rooted in superstition, no doubt.
Nick sways a little forward and back, keeping his body loose, his eye on the ball. The pitcher winds up and then hurls a fastball toward home plate. It cracks against Nick’s bat, shoots out directly between the shortstop and the second baseman. They both dive for the ball and narrowly miss it. It’s not out of the park, but it doesn’t matter. It sends two runners home, Grant and Dustin, who immediately turn and grab ahold of each other to celebrate. The stadium goes wild. I’m jumping up and down and screaming my head off. I turn left and right, giving high fives and hugs to the strangers sitting beside me.
“Did you see that?!” some random old guy asks me.
“YES!” I shout back.
“They’re unstoppable!”
Michael returns a few minutes later, carrying a tray with beers and hot dogs and nachos. I hurry to help him unload everything so nothing spills.
“Did I miss anything good?” he asks, so genuine and sweet.
Uh…yeah dude, you missed everything.
I don’t have the heart to tell him. “Just two runs. Pretty cool. Anyway, I appreciate you getting us food. Let me Venmo you.”
“No, it’s all good. It’s a date, remember?”
Is it though? Am I a little rusty? Are dates meant to be like this?
“I just feel bad,” I persist. “Ballpark food costs more than most fancy restaurants.”
He laughs. “Well these are Russell’s world-famous hot dogs, right? Worth the cost, I’m sure.”
Oh god. Right. The acclaimed hot dogs.
He takes a bite and closes his eyes, savoring it as he groans.
I try mine and it is, in fact, amazing. Maybe I wasn’t wrong about this section.
We lock eyes and smile, appreciating the moment.
This is going fine, I reprimand myself. Michael has been nothing but nice. I’m the one taking the baseball game way too seriously. So what if this sport isn’t his passion? Isn’t that what I want? Someone who doesn’t care about the game or my relationship to it? Someone who can balance out my obsession?
I know Luke would approve of this guy, not that I was planning to find out tonight. My plan was to scurry out of this stadium as fast as my feet could take me as soon as the game ends. Unfortunately, Michael turns to me at the top of the ninth—when it’s obvious we’re about to finish this game well ahead of the Twins—and asks if it’d be possible to meet the team.
“The team?” I ask like the word confuses me. What team do you speak of, sir?
“I just thought it could be cool.” Already, he’s backpedaling. He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I mean that’s your brother. How wild! Do you get to talk to him after the games?”
