Page 8 of Perfect Game

“I would never,” he deadpans. “But thirty-four is…”

“Happy birthday, old man,” I interrupt him with a laugh and lay a fork down in front of him before dropping into the chair beside him and kicking off my shoes so I can prop my feet on the other chair. “And thank you for dinner.”

“Thanks for the cupcakes,” he tries to hide a smile behind a bite of his favorite yellow cake with chocolate frosting, “and the company.”

A comfortable silence hangs between us as we dig into the birthday cupcakes. The last time we sat together like this, eating cake, we were at our best friend’s wedding, side by side, legs brushing under the table. Max stood and held out a hand…

“Dance with me,” Max holds out a hand, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to his elbows revealing his intricate tattoos, bow tie now untied and hanging around the open collar of his shirt. Max is uncharacteristically relaxed tonight, in this room surrounded by family and friends. And friends who’ve become family. Anyone who recognizes him is considerate enough to leave him be. He and I are the only two members of the Seattle Olympians in attendance tonight, but there are a few other famous faces in the room as well,including former New York Rogue pitcher Jake Hutchinson and his wife Penelope. Tonight, no one cares who we are, no one cares that we’re dancing together.

I kind of care that we’re dancing together.

I put my hand in his, as his other hand settled at my waist. As we danced, our bodies drifted closer together, as if drawn by magnets, until I was desperate for his warmth and solid strength. By the end of the dance, Max was holding me up, my head resting on his shoulder, no longer dancing but swaying to the music…

“What are you thinking about?” His gruff voice interrupts the memory.

“Cake,” I tell him, which isn’t a lie exactly, but isn’t an accurate representation either, and again, hehmmsin response. But I can’t tell him that I was thinking about the dance we shared. The way we said goodbye that night. The way I flew to Arizona the next day to meet with the coaching staff and kept waiting for him to walk through the door of the training complex, and when he finally did…he completely ignored me. I can’t tell him I’m thinking of the wedding cake. I can’t mention the wedding at all. “Specifically that lemon olive oil cake that I used to make sometimes when Mandy and I would have you over.”

“That’s a good cake.” He lays his fork on the table and leans back in his chair again, the smallest hint of a smile tugging on his lips. “That’s one of myfavoritecakes.”

“I should have made you one.”

“You’ve been a little busy this week, Davis.” He can try to hide behind grunts and grumbles and scowls and scruff, but Maxwell Harrison can be soft when he wants to be. And there’s nothing but warmth and comfort in his words.

“We’ve all been a little busy this week.”

We’ve had workouts and games. I’ve had meetings with the coaching staff and the stats guys with all the charts anddata I’m still learning to understand. And this weekend is our first exhibition; our first test against an opponent since the end of our playoff run. We are a team that is going into this season with a chip on our shoulder and a drive to win like we’ve never had before.

Max and the rest of the pitching staff have been working hard to get ready for the season, the hitters are putting in overtime on drills and in the batting cages. I’m excited about the improvements I’m seeing at the plate; we’ve been working hard on plate discipline these last few weeks. Too many of the guys like to swing at everything and hope that something sticks, but I remind them day after day that good hitters wait.

Good hitters are patient at the plate. They wait for pitches they can hit, pitches that aren’t trying to trip them up and make them chase. And good hitting coaches are patient. They wait for pitchers to be ready to talk about the things they need to talk about. I don’t think either of us is ready yet, so when the cake is gone I take the plate and say goodnight to Max.

“G’night, Davis” he calls softly as I close the gate behind me, and walk home for the night.

The morning of our first Spring Training game dawns with a bright, cloudless blue sky. It’s a beautiful day for baseball. We’re playing split-squad games today, which means half of us are bussing to Mesa for our game against the Oakland Gladiators, and the other half are staying at the complex in Peoria for a game against the San Francisco Explorers.

Right now I’m on a bus to Mesa, and I feel like a kindergarten teacher chaperoning a field trip; the guys are paired up in seats, some with headphones on, one reading a book, otherslaughing and joking with each other, but it’s the rookies that I watch closely. The ones who’ll be playing in their first game against an opponent that doesn’t wear the same uniform as them. Some are wide-eyed with excitement, and then there’s Nico, sitting in a window seat with Max beside him on the aisle.

Nico looks terrified, and I don’t blame him. This will be his first time calling pitches in a game – even if it’s only a handful of innings – with Max. Max is wearing his usual scruffy-faced scowl, cap pulled low over his eyes as he talks shop with Nico, and I settle in for the next forty minutes or so with my tablet and all the things the statistical analysis guys insist on sending me.

Over the years, my job has become less about what I can do for hitters, and more about being able to interpret heat maps, bat speed, hand speed, exit velocity, swing speed…I go cross-eyed with each new data set that gets handed to me. I should add baseball analytics to my list of migraine triggers. I should add the stats boys to that list, too. They don’t seem to get that hitting is about way more than data, but they won’t listen to me, so I take their data and their charts and do my best to decipher them, but at the end of the day, there’s only so much I can do as a coach. Once I give the guys the tools they need, it’s up to them.

“What are we looking at?” Luca drops into the empty seat next to me, draping an arm not around my shoulders but my seat before peering at the tablet in my lap.

“Statistical analysis,” I groan, leaning my head back against the seat and rubbing my eyes. “It’s supposed to make you a better hitter.”

“I’m already agreathitter.” I don’t have to open my eyes to know that Luca’s lopsidedI’m the best and everyone knows itsmirk has made an appearance. “What does my heat map say?”

“That you like them up and away,” I open the folder labeled with Luca’s name, and pull up the heat map at the plate to let him see it. And once he’s seen what we both know, I pull up another – more telling – chart. His spray chart. This one shows me where the majority of the baseballs that he hits end up across the field. “But, you’re a pull hitter. That’s what they want us to work on.”

Looking at his spray chart, I point to the smattering of hits that go to left field, while the majority are pulled to right. I’ve worked with him in the past to try and get him to stop pulling pitches to right field, but nothing has changed. And our opponents know it.

“This is why the infield shifts on you. Home runs aren’t going to save you anymore, Luca. We have to work on hitting for contact, and getting on base. And if we can get you to stop pulling that would be great too.”

“You know I’m working on it, Coach.”

“I know,” I sigh, sinking into my seat as Luca drops his arm to my shoulders. “You’ve always been receptive.”

“The others will come around, Coach. Give them time.” Luca drops his usual arrogant facade, giving my shoulder a supportive squeeze. “Good hitters wait, right?”

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