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“Tell your face that.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah, I know. I’m stressed about other stuff.”
“Right. Curse of being talented.”
“What are you talking about?” I glance over at him. “You’re a great player.”
“I’m decent,” Drew replies. “I don’t know about great. I always knew college would be the end of the road for me. Yeah, maybe I’d be a fifth-round pick. But then what? Bounce around the minors for a few years until a younger, less average guy comes along?”
“You don’t know that,” I argue.
“Pretty sure I do. Just like I know it won’t be like that for you.”
“You don’t want to play, but you want me to?”
Everyone expects me to enter the draft, but I don’t have to. I could put my business degree to good use. Go work for my dad, or really piss him off and choose one of his competitors. I would know where I was ending up. I wouldn’t have to deal with the uncertainty of trades or injury or all the other unknown factors in sports.
“Just saying if I had your arm, I’d ride it all the way to the top, man.”
I scoff. “I haven’t even gotten drafted. I think it’s a little soon to be speculating about championships.”
“Dream big, Winters. If you don’t, you won’t get very far.”
I don’t reply as we head into the locker room and change for practice. But Drew’s words keep running through my head on a loop as I change, only stopping to glance at the practice plan before heading out onto the field.
They mowed earlier today, so the scent of freshly cut grass swirls in the crisp fall air as I run a few laps around the diamond and then start my stretching routine.
Unless we’re messing around, Coach normally lets us do our own thing for the first fifteen minutes. I follow my stretching with some band work to get my arm ready to pitch as the rest of the guys filter out onto the field.
We move on to catch play next. I pair up with Anderson, focusing on hitting a different target each throw, while he works on adjusting his landing foot. Position-specific drills follow. I work on pitcher fielding for the hour after that: fielding bunts, covering home, and throwing to base.
The whole team comes back together to run through bunt defense and pop-up priority.
I’m sweating by the time we start batting practice. It feels more like early September than late October. I gulp down water, flipping Elliot off after he squirts his water bottle on me. Any feeling of refreshment is counteracted by the fact I know he rarely remembers to wash it.
I hit ground balls to the fielders in between swings for forty-five minutes, and then practice ends.
“Park?” Jamie asks as we pack up our gear and head for the locker room.
“Hell yeah,” Drew replies.
“Yeah, I’m in,” I say.
We usually go to the swimming hole located twenty minutes away from campus after summer camp sessions, but the weather is warm enough today it doesn’t feel any different.
None of us bother changing. We condense into one car and head for the park. A flock of birds startle out of the trees once we start down the path that leads to the water, laughing and joking loudly.
Despite the exhausting practice we all just went through, we’re all in good moods. That’s the beauty of team sports. It’s a bonding experience like no other. You win together, lose together. Celebrate together, cry together. Spend time and sweat and dream. You see people at their best and their worst.
And their most ridiculous.
Elliot sprints for the swimming hole, tossing his baseball gear behind him like a trail of crumbs. Baseball hat. Cleat. Jersey. Other cleat.
“He better pick this shit up,” Drew grumbles.
“Better idea. Let’s hide it,” Jamie suggests. “He can ride back to campus naked.”
“Are you forgetting we all drove here together?” I ask.
