AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Today, I let the nerves and excitement roam free. I soak in the atmosphere of my teammates snapping gum and slapping their mitts as I sit on the ledge in front of my locker, bouncing my knee. The scent of leather and mint swirls around with thick anticipation.
Lennon Matthews has never seen me play in an actual baseball game.
Not once, in the seven years I’ve known her.
In person, at least. The local Landry news station has streamed some of my games over the past few years, and I know Earl watched. We’d discuss them when I came to visit.
Lennon probably felt an obligation to sit there as well. But she never came to one of my games in high school. The closest she’s come to seeing me pitch was the pickup game the night we finally got together. Or the summer practice she talked to Cassie for most of. Neither of those really count.
I don’t resent her for it. I know Lennon’s only athletic interest is one you have to be aboard a horse for.
She views baseball as a part of my life to put up with, not a selling point. She’s never made any attempt to memorize stats or act like she understands the sport just to impress me, and it’s one of my favorite things about her.
We don’t put on shows for each other. Never have, and it’s maybe the only silver lining of our romantic relationship being prefaced by years of antagonism.
Doesn’t mean I don’t want to impress her.
Coach Thompson steps to the front of the room for his pre-game talk. Describing it as including the word pep would be a stretch. It’s a dry recitation of the words he’s been shouting at practice for weeks. It does its job, though. The man in front of me is the second reason I chose to attend Clarkson, the first being its proximity to Landry. Coach doesn’t put on airs or tolerate cockiness. He leads by example and asks for nothing but hard work from his players.
My coach in high school was the exact opposite. He was just as intimidated by my last name as my throwing arm, and I took advantage.
I’ve grown up since then.
I think.
Our team pre-game ritual ends with a cry of “Go Thoroughbreds!” and then we file out of the locker room toward the field.
Clarkson snagged the mascot every school in the state wanted—for obvious, horse-obsessed reasons—and we rub it in as frequently as we can. I’m sure the cheer will be echoed across the field many times over the course of the scrimmage.
Lancaster’s team is already in the visitor’s dug-out, eyeing us, as we approach the field. I barely spare them a glance, totally in the zone.
The shouts from the crowd and the sight of the field crew preparing the diamond all fades away.
It’s just me and the leather ball I’m holding. I run my fingers along the red stitching, searching for the perfect spot to grip the ball.
I never look for it. I have to feel it.
During her brief foray into sports journalism—my attempt to make her not hate me, which I have to say was a total success—Lennon asked me what my favorite thing about playing baseball is.
It was a question I’d answered many times before. I know Lennon judged my response, but I was more truthful with her than I’d ever been with anyone else.
Lots of things come to me easily. But baseball has always been different. It’s always been mine and mine alone.
People may care more about the fact I can throw a baseball because I’m a Winters. But my ability to throw a baseball has nothing to do with the fact I am.
It’s wholly my own, and it’s part of the draw for me. People who are jealous of my family’s status never seem to consider I might not want to be known for someone else’s legacy. Ironically, it’s one of the few things Lennon and I have in common. It just so happens my family is defined by my grandfather’s accomplishments, while hers is by her parents’ shortcomings.
I follow my usual warm-up routine, first jogging, then stretching before I head toward the bullpen. Our pitcher, Reynolds, follows without me asking him to. I rotate my shoulder, take a deep breath, and let the first pitch fly. It smacks his glove with a resoundingsnap. I exhale.
After a few throws, Reynolds backs up to the usual pitching distance. I pitch a few more fastballs, then switch to breaking balls. I end with a few off-speed pitches before returning to the bench. Every one was perfect.
I’m ready. These last few weeks I’ve been throwing pitches that would—will—make pro scouts salivate. I’m still climbing toward the peak of my college career, and I let that confidence, that superiority, bleed across my face as I head for the mound.
Like all sports, baseball has a mental component.
Lancaster doesn’t have a prayer of winning this scrimmage, not while I’m pitching, and I let that show on my face.
Momentum has to be set into motion, and that’s exactly what I’m about to do.
