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Lio
Timing is everything. Those words were more than an adage my grandmother had ingrained in me; it was the one absolute I believed in because experience and, yes, time had validated its truth. Timing—good or bad—impacted everything under the sun and was reflected in opportunities and relationships, both seized and missed. Its presence felt as weighty as the encroaching fat rain clouds when Alex, my thirteen-year-old son, stepped up to home plate on an overcast Saturday in mid-October. It was a tie ballgame in the last regulation inning, and the bases were loaded with two outs. All the Tigers needed was one run to win the tri-county tournament and end their season on the highest note. It was Alex’s biggest at-bat of his young baseball career, and it reminded me of a similar experience I’d had at his age.
Abe Beecham, my best friend and the man I loved but couldn’t yet have, leaned over and put his mouth near my ear. “Is it me, or does this feel eerily familiar?” His breath against my skin made me shiver, and a dark, delicious chuckle rumbled through my tormentor’s chest.
I turned and looked at the man who’d lived rent free in my heart and head for so long. The wind kicked up, blowing his sandy blond hair off his tanned forehead, and his too-blue eyes twinkled with affection and something deeper. His lips curved into a devilish smile, and I responded in kind. “I have a vague recollection of a similar situation,” I replied nonchalantly.
Alyssa, my ex-wife and Alex’s mother, leaned in from my other side. “Why aren’t you two nervous?”
I glanced over and noticed her legs bouncing. Her husband, Russ, met my gaze, smiled, and shook his head. Alyssa was usually the definition of calm, cool, and collected until it came to sports, then she became a nervous cheering machine.
“Do you think getting anxious will change the outcome of the game?” I teased. Truthfully, my nerves were snapping and sizzling like bacon in a hot skillet. I was just better at masking it beneath a stoic expression. People who didn’t know me well thought I had ice water pumping through my veins, but if they ever checked my pulse when Abe was near, they’d know I was as hot-blooded as they came.
Alyssa rolled her eyes. “Stop trying to calm me down with logic and sense.” She looked over to the ball diamond, cupped her hands around her mouth, and yelled, “Let’s go, Alex. Bring them home, baby!”
Around us, everyone cheered Alex on while I watched Clint Parker, the opposing pitcher, go through his windup routine. “Wait for your pitch,” I said quietly as the ball zipped toward home plate.
“Strike!” the umpire yelled when the pitch landed in the catcher’s mitt with a loudsnap.
“The relief pitcher has quite the arm for a young kid,” Abe said.
“Reminds me of someone,” I quipped. Abe had a wicked fastball with late movement. It caused many hitters to take wild swings that left them feeling embarrassed at the plate, present company included. “You’ve got this, Alex,” I called out.
My son took a practice swing, resumed his stance, and waited for the next pitch. Alex took a big swing, and his bat connected with the ball at the last moment, but because of the late movement, the ball sailed into foul territory.
Alyssa’s legs bounced faster, and she mumbled, “Two strikes.” Russ placed his hand between her shoulder blades, and she stilled.
The tension increased with each new pitch. Alex fouled off a few more, and Clint eventually threw three balls outside the strike zone, bringing the count full—three balls and two strikes. I could tell the stress was getting the best of the pitcher. He tilted his head to both sides to stretch his neck, and the catcher asked for time to speak to him. The umpire granted it, and we watched as the two kids had a brief conversation behind their mitts.
I fought the urge to fidget, chew my bottom lip, or bounce my knees like Alyssa while we waited for the boys to confer. I glanced over at Alex, who looked calm and determined as he practiced his swing. Abe pressed his leg against mine and kept it there. A sense of calm washed over me, and I turned to look at him. An arrogant grin curved his lips because he knew tension was eating me up inside just as he knew the effect his touch had on me.Christ.What kind of life could we have together if we stopped being stubborn and stupid?
“Time!” the umpire called to break up the conference and my fanciful daydream, though Abe held my gaze for a few more seconds before I focused on the diamond.
The catcher returned to his spot behind the plate, punched his glove, and held it up as Clint’s target. Alex dug his plant foot in, lifted his bat, and waited. Instinct told me this wasthe pitchto decide the game, and I held my breath as the fastball sailed through the air. At the last minute, it veered wildly to the left and hit Alex’s batting helmet with a sickening crack. I watched in stunned horror as my son immediately dropped to the ground.
Abe, Alyssa, Russ, and I moved as if tethered together, leaping to our feet and heading to the field as the coach rushed onto the diamond to check on our son. By the time we reached the fence, Alex had already sat up and was shaking his head. I gripped the chain-link fence and sucked in a lungful of air. Alex talked to his coach, the umpire, and the opposing catcher.
“He’s okay,” Abe said confidently.
“Thank God,” Alyssa said. I heard the tremble in her voice, but I couldn’t tear my eyes off our son, not even to comfort her. Russ murmured something softly, and I was again grateful for his presence in our lives.
Abe’s big hand landed on my shoulder, and I longed to bury my head against his chest. I swallowed hard and fought off the instinct. Abe gave me a firm squeeze, and I looked at him. His blue eyes looked worried, but a wry smile tugged at his lips. “Now this really looks familiar,” he said.
I couldn’t resist returning his grin. “Surely, history won’t repeat itself.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard this story,” Russ said.
Alyssa snorted. “I’ll let them tell you over pizza.”
The four of us took Alex out to eat after every game—win or lose—and he’d chosen pizza this time.
One of the other parents was a doctor, and she ran by us to assess Alex for a concussion. After a few minutes, she gave Alex the all-clear. The opposing catcher extended his hand to help Alex up, and the fans for both teams clapped as he slowly jogged down the baseline. Getting hit by a pitch was an automatic advancement, so all the base runners moved to the next base. Alex stepped onto first base while one of his teammates crossed home plate.
All the Tigers celebrated together on the field with their coaches, but Alex headed toward the pitcher’s mound, where Clint stood with his face buried in his mitt. The teen’s shoulders shook while his teammates walked off the field without acknowledging him. Alex stepped up next to the kid and said something that made him lower his glove to reveal a blotchy, tear-streaked face.
“Poor guy looks wrecked,” Alyssa said.
“Alex clearly doesn’t get his sportsmanship from his father,” Abe quipped.
