Page 133 of Mom Ball

He spins the ball to see what I wrote. “I’m through. For Love of the Game.” He snorts. “What the Billy Chapel is this?”

“My retirement letter.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Miller.” He stands, knocking the chair over. “You struck out two players in the opening inning of Opening Day. And now you want to retire? Are you on drugs?”

“No, but I have a family I need to get home to.”

“I’ll move your mama’s trailer here myself if that’s what this is about.”

“Not my mama, the love of my life.”

He rolls his eyes. “Good Lord, I thought baseball was the love of your life.”

“It was just a placeholder.” I nod toward Aaron. “He’s ready, and he wants it.”

“And you don’t?”

I shrug. “I already started the game. Checked that off my bucket list.”

“Even after all you’ve been through with the injury and stuff.”

“If I truly thought y’all needed me to win the game and this season, I’d stay. But there’s a lot of talent on this team, and my heart is elsewhere.”

He shakes his head and laughs. “There’s no coming back from this.”

“I know. But I’ve put in my years.” I look at Aaron on the bench. “Time to retire and give someone else a shot.”

The skipper leans closer to me. “If you think I should put in Aaron, I will, but I want one more inning out of you.”

He tosses the ball back, and I catch it. I grin and turn it over in my hand.

“Maybe I’ll draft something more legit about my retirement and submit it to the team?”

He nods. “That would be wise.”

I walk back to the dugout, half-deflated, half-happy. This next inning will be my last to pitch.

Might as well go out on top.

* * *

Brooke

“Mama, Nate isn’t pitching this inning.”

I lean to the edge of the booth to get a better look. Mary brought in a large TV for this very occasion. And from the crowd of people eating around it, I’d say it’s here to stay.

“It’s fine, Timothy. MLB players aren’t known for pitching full games.”

He spouts out a few semi-familiar names from history of guys who pitched complete games.

“That’s a very low percentage of all the games among all the teams of all time.”

He frowns, then nods. I lift my lips to try and convince him it’s fine. I stroke his hair and try to ignore my nerves firing with worry.

Is Nate injured again?

If it happened on the mound, they might announce it on TV. But if he’s suffering silently in the dugout—as Nate would—there’s no way of me knowing.

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