Page 49 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

FREYA

Ihold Matt’s hand tightly in mine, both of us holding our breath as Jackson scrapes the pitcher’s mound with his foot. The atmosphere in the stadium is electric, everyone waiting for the key moment.

We’re at the top of the ninth inning, waiting for Jackson to do his stuff. He’s been on great form all season, and his work has all been worth it, because here we are in the World Series, three zero up on Atlanta. And though the bases are loaded, I’ve got a good feeling about this strikeout that Jackson’s about to make.

He’d better, anyway. If he loses this game, I’m going to be devastated for him. This is all he’s been working for, for his whole life.

“He’s got to do it,” whispers Matt, mostly to himself. “He’s got to do it.”

“He will,” I say. “They’ve got this in the bag.”

Matt shakes his head, not as confident, but I refuse to put that energy out there. “Come on, Jackson!” I scream. Even though we’re sitting just behind home plate in the best seats in the stadium, I doubt Jackson can hear us. He turns to look anyway, as if he just knew we were talking about him.

He throws Matt and me a grin, and we wave back. He’s never happier than when he’s playing ball. The only other time I ever see that smile is on date night while I’m telling him my stories about work or Matt or whatever else is occupying my time. It’s not been long, but already he’s sticking to his word. He has changed, and it’s only for the better.

There’s nothing about this moment that I would change — well, other than to guarantee the Prairie Dogs’ win.

Matt squeezes my hand as Jackson turns back to the game. “He’s got to do it,” he says again. I just squeeze his hand back.

It all comes down to this. Matt says that this is the most strikeouts Jackson’s ever made in one game and I believe it. There have been a couple of close moments but, overall, Jackson’s managed to keep them from getting an advantage. He’s getting tired now, though — it’s been a long game, and I can see him rolling his shoulder to try and shake out some of the fatigue.

He’s going to get such a good back massage from me later, and that’s just the start of it.

Jackson takes a breath and so do we. He steps back and then, in a beautifully fluid motion, sticks his leg into the air like a dancer, then shifts all that momentum into the ball.

For a moment the entire world seems to stop, squeezed into that ball, stretching out as long as it can go. It’s the slowest fastball I’ve ever felt.

And then time snaps back into place, and Matt and I both scream for joy as the ball sails past the batter, and the umpire crosses his arms in a way that can only signify a strikeout.

The entire stadium starts jumping, and I feel like we’re going to cause an earthquake, but I don’t care because I’m so delighted for Jackson. And for the rest of the team, of course, but mostly for Jackson. This is everything he’s ever wanted. And finally, it’s his.

The look on his face tells us everything we need to know about how much it means to him. He drops to his knees, mouth wide open like he can’t believe it.

If I could, I’d go and wrap my arms around him, kiss his lips, and tell him how proud I am of how far he’s come. He deserves every success, and I love him all the more for it because he meant every word he said to me in his house that day. He’s not perfect, but he’s trying, and that’s all anyone can ask for.

He scrambles back to his feet as the team rush at him, and I wave, saying, “I love you!” at him even though he can’t hear. He blows a kiss back at me, then gets swallowed into the celebration tackle.

Jackson has done his best to get us privileges to meet him afterwards. But he has to talk to the press first, and he told us it might take him a while to get to us. As expected, we get efficiently escorted into the depths of the stadium by a burly guard and deposited into a side room.

“They’ll be in the press room now, ma’am, but we’ll get you settled in here. You can watch the reporting on the TV, and I’ll let Jackson know you’re here, for when he’s ready,” says the guard with that vague disinterest most security seem to have.

“Thank you,” I smile. He flicks on the video stream and shuts the door behind us.

“I can’t believe they won,” Matt says quietly to me, like saying it too loud will undo it.

“I can,” I say. “They worked hard for it.”

“Yeah, but working hard doesn’t always mean you’ll succeed.”

“Who turned you into a little fortune cookie?” I ask, ruffling his hair.

He shakes me off, and we both turn our attention to the screen and the guy who has changed both of our lives forever. Jackson looks at the camera as if he knows we’re watching and waits for the journalists to start asking their questions. Most of it is just run-of-the-mill stuff. How was training season? What was it like to get back to playing at such a critical time?

One guy with a nasal-sounding voice and an accent that’s impossible to place catches Jackson’s attention and says, “So what’s next for you, Jackson? What’s your plan for the rest of your career?”

“The rest of my career is going to be a long time relaxing,” Jackson says smoothly. “Let me put any rumors to rest right now. I am retiring. In fact, this is the last game I will ever play with the Prairie Dogs.”

Light gasps scatter around the room, and I get the feeling from the look on the coach’s face that Jackson hasn’t yet discussed this with him.

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