Page 26 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

I linger on her gaze for a few seconds, waiting for her to introduce herself, but she never does. And her attention shifts to the girl sitting to her left. I’m pretty sure this baseball education session is done.

Our catcher bats fifth and pops out to first base. The fact that Alex is up with nobody on and no risk of being the third out gives me some comfort. And at least Alicia is paying enough attention to realize he’s up. She gets to her feet and cups her mouth, screaming his name. I know he can’t hear her, but I promised I’d be nice, so I’ll let her keep at it. Maybe somehow he will feel everyone behind him. Most of the fans here don’t know he had a rough fall.

He steps in, digging his back foot in as he always does and engaging his hips with a few quick jolts like a wind-up getting ready to be cut loose. I sit forward and ball my hands together, picking at the corner of my thumbnail.

Come on, Alex.

I keep my support internal, willing it to him through our bond. As his shoulders relax and the bat bobs on his shoulder, I grow confident. He looks ready. It’s a carbon copy of every at bat he’s had over the last three years. Nothing is off, at least not that I can tell.

I swallow as the pitch comes, and it zips in for a questionable first strike.

“That seemed outside,” I mumble. I don’t bother glancing to my left. I don’t care if they can hear me. Or aren’t listening to me.

Alex digs in again and takes a deep breath, his shoulders dropping as he readies his stance. I’m betting on a curveball. It seems so is Alex as he sits back and swings through one, topping the ball and spinning it foul into his dugout.

I dig my nails into my palm.

“You got this,” I say, my voice growing louder.

There’s a shift in his stance now, and when he lets out his breath to relax, his shoulders remain tense. He’s in the box, but there’s no digging. He’s off-balance. Not ready. And when he swings through the third strike, not even close to fouling off the slider, I feel sick.

“Shit,” I say, nice and loud this time.

“He’ll get it next time,” Alicia says, still on her feet and clapping.

I smile at her, though she never looks. At least I can appreciate that she’s in his corner—in her own way.

The game drags on, and by the seventh inning and nearing three hours, Alicia and her friends have bailed. I move back to my favorite seat, propping my feet on the back of the seat in front of me, and cup my knees with my sweaty palms. It’s pretty chilly out, the sun dropping in the afternoon and the breeze picking up. But somehow, my hands are sweating. Alex has struck out twice and flied out once. He has one more at bat coming up, and he needs this. It doesn’t matter that we’re up five to one. He won’t focus on the win, and not because he’s being a selfish player. He’ll focus on his failures because this is his dream.

I sit forward after we get the last outs of the seventh and head into the eighth, my eyes scanning the dugout for Alex. He should be getting his helmet on, slipping on his batting gloves, but I don’t spot him.

Oh no. No, no, no!

The announcer begins to say it a second after the reality hits me.

“Batting for Alex Mendoza is number eighteen, Patrick Burnes.”

No!

I get to my feet, check my pockets to make sure nothing’s dropped, and head down to the clubhouse where I camp outside the door. I don’t care how the game plays out, and I hear enough from this spot to know that Patrick does well, hitting a single and managing to steal second. I close my eyes through the rest of the game, hoping my friend can feel me somehow. I want to hug him. I want to charge through these doors and march into that dugout and grab his coach by the collar and tell him he’s not helping! But that wouldn’t be helping either.

So I sit. And the game finishes. And after every other player has left, mine comes shuffling through the door, his eye black smeared from tears. The only thing I have to offer is my arms, my heart, my love. So I give it to him. I let him ruin the jersey he gave me by bawling into my shoulder and smearing eye black on the white fabric. I grasp the back of his dirty, sweaty neck and try not to think about the dried blood on his elbow from the amazing stops he made today.

None of the good will matter to him right now because all he can focus on is the bad.

“You want to stay over tonight?” I ask, knowing he’s definitely not up for hanging with the guys. He didn’t even bother to shower in the clubhouse.

He sniffles and nods.

“Yeah. Just let me . . . shower. Mind coming with me and waiting?”

I shake my head, my gaze locked on his glossy eyes.

“Never,” I say, threading my hand with his and making the slow, melancholy march to the parking lot.

8

alex

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