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“I’m offended you think so little of me.” I’m not; I’m surprised he predicted I’d try to get out of this again, and that he made certain I wouldn’t be able to.
“You already admitted to it, Lennon. No need for the fake indignation.”
Ordinarily, it’s a comment I’d bristle in response to, but Caleb’s voice isn’t mocking. It’s matter-of-fact.
“Let’s get started,” I say, biting back the sarcastic comment I have ready.
Despite the chilly temperature and early hour, Caleb actually seems to be in a decent mood. Pissing him off is probably not the best way to get this over with quickly and painlessly.
Caleb doesn’t say anything, which I take as an agreement. “Where do you want to play next year?”
“Pass.”
“You can’t pass on an interview question.”
“I just did,” Caleb retorts.
I grit my teeth. So much for a decent mood. “I can’t write an article about ‘pass,’ Caleb.”
“Then ask a different question.”
I exhale, loudly enough for him to hear. “Fine. What’s your favorite thing about playing baseball?”
Caleb’s blue eyes swim with humor. “That’s your second question?”
“I’m not the freaking sportswriter. I don’t knowanythingabout baseball. What do you want me to ask you?”
Caleb scoffs, but the exasperated sound doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s still amused. “I’m good,” he states.
“What?”
“You asked me what my favorite thing about playing is. I’m good.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Between that answer and “pass,” I’m picturing this article stretching about two lines.
“It’s the one thing I never have to think about,” Caleb continues. “When I’m out on the mound, everything is simple and straightforward. Throw the ball as fast as I can to the spot where it needs to go. Yeah, we practice a ton, and I’ve had great coaches, but I’ve always been good at it. Technically, baseball is a team sport. But when I’m pitching, it’s all on me. It’s the one thing that clicks, you know?”
A snarky response is waiting on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t voice it. Maybe I have some sense of what he’s talking about. There are moments, when I see an A on a paper or am galloping around the practice track, that I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to be doing. But more often than not, I feel like I’m too busy doing exactly what’s expected to explore anything else. To find that sense of belonging Caleb’s describing.
Maybe because I’ve grown up in this town that’s intent on driving my family out.
I clear my throat and move on to the next question on the list. I’ve read all of Simon’s past sports articles. Almost every one of the athlete interviews he’s done have been verbatim retellings of the conversation, printed in question-and-answer format.
That’s not going to work for my conversation with Caleb, for obvious reasons. My best bet is to keep Caleb talking and hope he gives me enough information I can cobble together for a decent story. Commenting about how, of course, throwing a baseball seems simple and straightforward probably won’t help.
I ask Caleb about his first baseball game (he won), his pregame rituals (according to him, he has none), and his favorite game he’s played in (quarterfinal junior year).
I sigh. “I’m out of questions,” I admit.
Rather than look irritated, Caleb appears entertained. “I’m flattered you over-prepared.”
My eyes narrow. “This was kind of short notice. I’ve never covered sports, and Simon and Julie didn’t exactly have helpful suggestions.”
Caleb leans back against the bleachers again, looking intrigued. “What were their suggestions?”
“Simon sent me some bullet points with a lot of abbreviations in them. Julie wants to know if you’re single.”
“Did you look up the abbreviations?” Caleb asks, disregarding my second sentence.
