Page 125 of Mom Ball

I pray Nate doesn’t decide to stay in Atlanta. I want him in our lives now more than ever.

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Nate

The season is starting this week, and Coach is talking about starting me on Opening Day at home.

That’s a huge honor for any pitcher. After all I’ve been through, it’s even more of an honor. I’ve literally worked toward this my entire life.

I rotate my arm a few times and step out of the bullpen.

We have several good pitchers who can easily get us a win. All younger than me too.

According to statistics, we start to decline at twenty-six. Considering I’m coming off a bad injury and on the back end of twenty-seven, it’s a miracle I’m still here. Add to that the superstitions that loom over the baseball world, and I’m even more shocked I’m a contender.

I grab my water bottle and chug lukewarm water as I walk toward the field.

Staring at the mound brings up memories of the first game I pitched in the majors. It was three seasons ago, when we still had Dom as our catcher. That was the most emotional day I’d had in a while. Happy, excited, nervous, and grateful—all in one ball of emotions.

It was an odd mix of feelings that gave me an out-of-this-world tingle. Like I was an invincible superhero who could conquer anything.

I’ve been chasing that high ever since, afraid I’d never feel it again. I hadn’t, until I saw Brooke again.

My chest tightens at the thought of her.

We haven’t talked since that night. And I can’t decide if going to Timothy’s game was good or bad.

I got some valuable advice from Aniston. I also got to see Timothy and the boys play ball before I left.

On the flipside, Brooke was so hurt, she didn’t even go to the game.

It was like when we were ten and Paul got a shipment of new baseball cards at the General Store. He kept them locked up behind a glass, and you couldn’t touch them unless you bought them. I’d put my face to the glass and stare at the details. Being so close, yet so out of reach, made me want them even more.

Same with Brooke, except on a much higher level.

I lean against the wall in front of a huge State Farm logo and pull my phone from my pocket.

It’s Saturday afternoon and I just threw some awesome strikes. For the first time in months, my arm doesn’t hurt. There’s a good chance I’ll actually throw the first pitch in the Braves’ season opener. Six-year-old me would pee his pants at this news. I should be elated. Instead, all I can think about is Brooke.

She’s third on my call list. Right under my trainer, who follows Mom. I click her photo and hold the phone to my ear.

My stomach buckles as it continues to ring and ring and ring. Right before I hang up, she answers.

“Hello?” Her voice is a little rushed.

“Hey, Brooke.”

Silence. A small twitch churns in my chest like a tiny hammer hitting my heart. Clearly, I will need to carry the conversation.

“I hope you’re having a good day. I wanted to call and say I love you more than anything. I love Timothy too.”

A sniffle comes across the line. I hope it’s sinuses, but I’m more certain it’s tears. When she speaks, it confirms my suspicions.

“We love you too.” Her voice is shaky.

Now my heart completely breaks knowing she’s hours away and I can’t hold her while she’s hurting. Even worse, I’m the source of her hurt.

“I’ll be back in Apple Cart as soon as I can. The season’s starting. But I want us to talk as much as possible. I want to talk to Timothy too, maybe FaceTime or something.”

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