Page 65 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

The first pitch rips by him and he takes it, called for a strike.

“Boo! You’re blind,” Omar shouts, cupping his mouth.

It was a pretty solid pitch but I love how supportive he’s being of Alex. My chest tightens and I shift my legs, driving my hands under my weight more.

Alex nods, his body loose. It’s a different him from the one I’ve seen take strikes over the last several months. As he sets up in the box again, all those little nuances that have always added up to something spectacular click into place. His body lowers another tick, his thighs flexing and bat poised just over his shoulder. The tiny ticks in his wrist count down the milliseconds, and my heart syncs up with them.

The young punk on the mound gasses in another fastball, probably figuring that Alex can’t keep up, but he is wrong. Alex puts a swing on the ball that launches it down the left field line, barely fair, and it lands in the corner where the wall juts out in an odd shape, which makes life miserable for anyone playing left field out there.

Alex slides into second easily and starts clapping hard before he even stands up.

“Wooo! Let’s go, baby!” he shouts, his team on the dugout wall, rowdy as hell.

Somewhere along the way, I got to my feet. I don’t even remember standing. I’ve pushed his hoodie back and my hands are on my head. His gaze shifts to me, and I lift my hands up and scream as loud as I fucking can. He holds his up, and basically, air high-fives me. Or maybe it’s tens me. I don’t know, but we celebrate this together. The seal is fucking broken. The lid is off. Alex Mendoza? He’s back!

I hug Omar to my left, shaking him, and he laughs at my exuberance. We plop back into our seats and I inhale the deepest breath I’ve taken in weeks. Months.

“I haven’t seen you this excited since you dragged me to see the Phantom Aunt show in that underground venue in November,” Omar says.

I shake my head.

“That’s because I haven’t been!”

I glance to my right and lean forward a tick to get Senior’s attention, but he hasn’t moved from his spot. His arms still crossed over his chest, his eyes seem focused on his son, as if he’s studying. He is, however, smiling. That is unmistakable. It’s the one trait that marks them both like beams of light.

Alex makes it home by stealing third and getting knocked in off a single. The game stays tied all the way into the ninth until Brayden is pulled, and a sophomore reliever comes in and gives up a three-run homer that was barely fair.

The shot is deflating, but for the first time in a while, I feel the charge of optimism in my chest. I do the math as our first batter gets on. A walk follows, then Edwin sends a line drive over the third baseman that loads the bases. Yesterday, I would be praying for someone else to take the wheel right now, for anyone but Alex to do the work. But now? I want these next two fools to strike out so the love of my life can win the fucking game.

The first hitter cracks the first pitch right back to the pitcher for a quick out, and I clutch the front of Alex’s hood in my fist and hold it against my heart. It’s Cole, and I feel guilty rooting against him, so I send up a silent prayer that he’s allowed to tie the game if need be. He just can’t win it.

“Please, please, please,” I mutter softly, over and over, as I rock where I stand. Omar slips his arm through mine and rocks with me.

Cole strikes out and there’s an audible, crushing aww from the surprisingly decent crowd of a few hundred. I, however, smile. Because this is how I planned it. This was my instant play-by-play that I sent up to heaven seconds ago. I’m sure it was Senior’s too.

As Alex steps up to the plate, everyone in the stadium gets to their feet. I glance to my right, and Senior is on his too, though his arms are still crossed over his chest and his shades are still snug on his face.

Alex digs in, and I find myself taking a deep breath. I see him exhale when his shoulders drop. The first pitch is low for a ball and the crowd roars.

“Okay, that’s good. He can walk too. Walk scores a run,” Omar chants.

I shake my head.

“Uh uh,” I say. “He’s got this.”

The next pitch comes in for a strike, a fastball that Alex swings through and fouls into the dugout like a bullet.

“Or he can walk,” Omar says, only half joking. For wanting to be a trauma nurse, he’s not great at stress.

“Nope,” I say, holding out for my wish to come through.

Alex nods, his eyes studying his hands as they stretch around the grip. He pushes the top of his helmet down snug, an anxious habit he used to do in high school, and my mouth curves into a grin.

“He’s back,” I say.

The Commonwealth pitcher slows down his approach, and he stares at the runner on third for an extra second or two before slinging the ball home, a slow curve that even I see coming. Alex’s weight shifts, his body coiling and his front foot lifting for a high kick. It’s the sound that clinches it. That perfect, crisp pop of the leather meeting its match. Alex doesn’t run. He flips his bat back and strolls, nodding as he watches the ball sail over the scoreboard and into the maintenance lot.

“Yeah, baby!” I scream, my hands up as I jump up and down.

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