Page 132 of Mom Ball

When I’m finished with my pitches, I make the walk to the dugout with our catcher. The crowd cheers. I wave and nod, scanning the stands.

Our manager meets me at the dugout steps with a goofy grin slapped across his face. He pats my shoulder as we continue walking in our respective directions.

I rub my chin as my cheeks climb to a smile. This is the moment I’ve waited for all my life.

I’m barely inside when a hard squeeze falls on my shoulder. I turn to Ace shaking it.

“Opening Day starting pitcher! That’s what I’m talking about.”

I smile.

He plops down beside me and rips open a bag of sunflower seeds. “Why are you not more excited?”

“I’m not a super excited guy.”

He laughs. “Yeah, but you look like someone ran over your dog and kicked the carcass.”

“My mind’s elsewhere. That’s all.”

He scoffs. “Well, you best get it in the game. We need you.”

I nod. “Noted.”

I smile, but this time it’s forced. My gaze falls to the small pile of sunflower seeds Ace spits to the side. It reminds me of when the kids played the team that chewed Nicorette and got sick. I laugh, causing Ace to stare at me.

“Good. You found a good mood. Stay that way.”

I ignore him and focus on the ballpark in front of me. We’re called to take the field a few seconds later.

Ace hurls a wad of sunflower seeds in the corner and grabs his glove. I grab mine and jog toward the mound. I only faintly hear the crowd, as I’ve learned to tune them out.

When I hit a mound, it’s like living in a bubble. Pitching is my escape. The only time I let any outside influence rattle me was early on when Brooke broke up with me.

Until now.

My hand sweats inside my glove and my stomach knots. As much as I want to be here, I really want to be somewhere else.

Specifically in Apple Cart with Brooke and Timothy.

I throw the first pitch. A strike. The second, a little outside. I pitch more strikes. He fouls one, but I get him with my heater.

Good start.

We continue the inning, allowing only one run. Two of the three outs were by me at the plate. I should be elated.

But I’m not. This suddenly feels like I’m living out someone else’s dream. Maybe my old dream.

Whatever the case, it’s not delivering the high I’ve been chasing. An inner struggle of guilt for not feeling grateful and guilt for not being where I belong rolls through me.

The batters get ready, including my DH. I fumble for a ball. It’s time to do what I planned on doing one day. I just planned on it being a few years down the road.

I roll the ball across my palm and stand. I look at Aaron across the bench. He’s ready. More ready than me.

I grab a pen from the corner of the dugout and scribble something, then hustle toward the manager. I walk up to him and hand him the ball.

“What’s this?” He frowns as he stares at it.

“Turn it around.”

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