Page 61 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

SENIOR: Be there in 5.

He must be close. Probably at the Hampton across the street from the campus admin building. I kill the engine and toss my phone, keys, and wallet into my duffel in the passenger seat, then grab the straps on my way out of the car. I pop the trunk and haul out my gear bag, then lug it over to the main gate.

A perk to being a senior and a team leader is keys to the kingdom. In this case, the kingdom is the stadium gate and the practice facilities. I’ve been using this key a lot, coming out here in the fall late at night to try to get my swing back. I haven’t come as much since Nikki and I got together because, well, honestly, I’m happier with her than I am working out my failures. Maybe I was trying too hard anyway.

I lean against the wall of honor, where my dad’s name is carved as one of Tiff’s greats, along with about fifty other men, and wait for the familiar rumble of his pickup. I can’t even fathom the gas he blew through on his drives back and forth over the years. That thing gets about eight miles to the gallon.

That thought sits in my chest for a moment, and I work through the math. Not because I want to be shocked at the outrageous expense but because it hits me exactly what he did to be here for me. I’m still computing when he rolls up next to my car. He holds up his hand, then reaches into his truck bed, pulling out the ratty old maroon bag he’s carried around with his glove and a few balls since I was in junior high.

I wonder how he knew he’d need that?

He clutches the bag in his right hand while he cradles his mitt to his chest with the other.

“You got the keys?” he asks when he makes it to me.

I push the gate open and he smirks, his eyes masked behind sunglasses. He glances to his right, to the wall, but doesn’t mention the fact his name is there. He’s not a bragger. He’s not much of a talker, really.

I close the gate behind us, then lead him through the clubhouse and out to the side yard where the batting cages are.

“You know we have our own buckets of balls,” I say, pointing at his bag. He drops it at his feet and shrugs.

“I like these,” he says.

I puff out a short laugh and call him a curmudgeon. He’s in his mid-forties, in reality, and in incredible shape. He’s a handsome man, I’ll admit, and I’m thankful for his genes. But he’s also a dog, and I remind myself of that before I get too comfortable with him.

I pull out my bat and lean it against the screen while I wrap my wrists. My dad scoffs, but I simply roll my eyes. He thinks the precautions my generation takes make us soft. I think it’ll keep me from crackling with tendonitis and shit the way he snaps and pops around the house.

My dad stretches, rotating his arm a few times. I go through my routine, stretching my quads and flexors, then twisting side to side.

“How’s the new stick?” He gestures to my bat. The team all swings the same brand, thanks to deals the school makes. I don’t love this one, but I also know better than to blame the bat for my woes. They’re all essentially the same.

“She’s all right. I don’t like the sound,” I say. That’s something my dad can get behind. We both like the solid click of wood. This thing? It pings. And it’s obnoxious.

“Let’s give her a ring,” he says, moving behind the screen. I nod and take my bat in my hands as I make my way to the plate. I line myself up and twist my back foot into the mat.

“Ready?” my dad asks, holding up one ball, three others clutched in his opposite hand.

I nod.

He winds up and throws it in a little low, but I manage to get the barrel on it and it zings right back at the screen. He flinches, and I snicker.

“Yeah, you always did love telling people about the time you knocked my hat off my head,” he says, winding up and throwing another. I hit this one less solid. On the field it would be a pop out. He winces because he knows it too.

“I didn’t just knock your hat off. I split your hair.” I tap my bat on the plate like I did when I was a kid, then swirl the bat a few times before he readies again.

I read his arm slot and know a curve is coming, so I sit back and drive this one right over his head.

“Woooo weee,” he says with a whistle, turning around and pretending to watch the ball sail. It tangled in the net.

“That’s over the batter’s eye for sure,” he says when he turns back around.

I’m not loving how cavalier he is all of a sudden, so I simply nod and dig my foot in again.

He throws another fastball, and while I’m on time, I top it and bounce it back to him. He manages to leap high enough to snag it with his glove, then he pretends to toss it to the invisible first baseman.

“Fuck!” I say, flipping my bat to the ground.

“You’re lucky I didn’t pay for that,” he says, and I know he’s joking and making a point at the same time. He doesn’t like tantrums. But this isn’t about my shitty hit. Or maybe it’s partly about my shitty hit. Mostly, it’s about him.

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