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When he turns, he scuffs his feet on the dirt like a bull before charging, and I swear he’s looking up at us.
He holds up four fingers, and the three of us do it back, just like high school.
“Y’all are so damn cute.” Chloe grins.
“Yeah, we are.” Danny winks at her, and we all laugh, except Chloe, of course.
The first batter up gets walked, which is total bull.
“At least two of those were strikes,” Marks yells over the crowd.
He’s not wrong.
The second batter hits a ground ball, and the shortstop totally overthrows first base when he should have gone for second to begin with, but Pope leaps in the air and catches the ball.
“You sure this is the majors?” Chloe asks. “What the hell was that?”
“A nervous rookie,” Marks answers over the boos. “Kid just got pulled up after a year.”
“Gonna get dropped if he keeps that shit up,” Chloe huffs.
The next batter up hits it to left field, and it drops before the left fielder can get to it, but when he does, he guns it to third. The third baseman’s foot hits the base and hurls it to second for a double play.
The next batter hits it to short, and this time, the rookie doesn’t overthrow it by much, but Pope doesn’t get it in time, which is not his fault. But then the player on first steps off the base, just for a split second, and Pope somehow sees it and tags him out.
“Hell yes!” Danny jumps up, cheering, and the rest of us follow suit as New York jogs back in.
When John Paul gets close enough, he lifts his chin and smiles at us before ducking into the dugout.
The batting lineup flashes on the screen, and Pope is sixth. Everyone knows that spot isn’t where they put the best hitters, and that can mess with a player’s head. High school Pope was always up to bat in either second, third, or fourth position. When I could get the minor league games on the TV or when I was with Bianca and John Paul would FaceTime her and prop up his phone, hoping she could see, he was never toward the bottom either.
I glance at Marks who reads me well.
He leans over and chuckles. “Chill, Whit. He’s on a team with men just as good and some better than him. He’s batting in the majors in sixth position. He made close to a million dollars last season. As soon as this season starts, he’ll be making even more. He’s not sweating it.”
“That’s insane,” I say, wondering why I never even thought about how much money he was going to make. I only thought of how happy he’d be, doing what he loves.
“Deserves it. The minors pay shit.”
And yet he made it work.
The first batter up strikes out. The second hits a single—and in my opinion, could have gotten to second had he put forth more effort. Pope would have. The third batter gets to first, advancing the last to second. The fourth batter pops out, and the fifth gets to first base. Now, the bases are loaded, and Pope is up.
As he walks to the plate, he looks over his bat, no doubt made of maple—it was always his preference. He runs his hand over it, gripping the end tight and sliding it down.
“Why does that look sexual?” York asks.
“What?” A laugh bubbles out of me. She begins to ask again, and I cut her off. “It doesn’t; it’s his thing.”
“Yeah?” She snort-laughs. “What else is his thing?”
I don’t play into her twisted little game, but I do share what I know. “He’s going to tap his helmet with it, which reminds him to focus.”
Less than half a second later, he does just that.
“He’ll tap the plate before getting into his stance, which grounds him.”
“Jesus.” She shakes her head when he does it.
