Page 136 of Mom Ball

Jeffrey’s voice scrapes my ear like fingernails on a chalkboard. He has to say something with every pitch.

“Elbows up . . . You’ve got two on you . . . Good eye . . . Fifth pitch . . . Load up.”

I crane my neck and blink at the sun. This is getting annoying. But the good news is some of his heavy hitters aren’t performing as well as usual.

We’re tied up with one inning to go. Morgan stretches her arm. I don’t see her lasting another game. She gives me a tired grin from the pitcher’s circle.

Our starting batter is up and gets a double. Everyone cheers, and I hold my waist so I don’t throw up. Timothy is up next. He pops up, and they catch his ball.

“It’s okay, son, good hit.” I say it just loud enough for him to hear me.

He gives me a sad nod and hustles to the dugout. We only score two runs before Jeffrey’s team is up to bat. We’ve got to hold them.

Jeffrey is now wearing his fake sleeve as if he needs it for the closer. I bite my thumbnail from inside the dugout. Maybe he’s feeling the pressure as much as me, because he looks a little distracted.

In between pitches, I follow his gaze toward our bleachers. Tami sits at the top in a miniskirt, eating a pickle-sickle in a very suggestive manner. Jeffrey’s next pitch bounces in the dirt.

The kid holds the bat, and Bradley calls him out.

“That was the fifth pitch! Why didn’t you swing?” Jeffrey yells.

Bradley comes toward him with a stern stare. Jeffrey wiggles his jaw as if trying to contain more outbursts, but stops when Bradley faces him.

They have a few words on the field, then Bradley goes back behind the plate. Jeffrey’s son, Conner, steps to the plate. I count at least three necklaces between gold chains and bedazzled gems on the kid. He’s also outfitted with a fake sleeve and Pit Vipers, which I find strange for batting.

The Red Armadillos have two outs, one run, and one guy on first. Conner fouls two balls right away. Jeffrey goes into critiquing mode, showing him how to swing from the mound.

I watch Bradley, who has taken an annoyed stance. His radio buzzes. Something about a suspicious person at the Pig. He calls time and lifts his mask.

“Sheriff Bradley Manning, repeat the Pig report, please.”

“Suspicious individual parked an RV behind the Piggly Wiggly in Moonshine County.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ten-four, out of my jurisdiction.” Bradley lowers his mask and yells, “Play ball!”

I’d like to think that mistaken call was God smiling on us, because it took up enough time to rattle Conner. He swings at a terrible ball the next time.

“You got two on you. Buckle down, load up, big grip, and let ’er rip.” Jeffrey might as well read aloud a book of annoying dad advice for baseball.

Morgan snorts beside me.

Conner nails the last ball. I squat down and close my eyes to shield myself from the opposing team’s cheers. Instead, I only hear Jeffrey’s voice. “Run, crazy boy, run!”

I blink one eye open to Conner staring at the bat in his hand. Or half a bat. The top end is at Bradley’s feet. He literally “let ’er rip” and broke a bat.

He’s in such shock that our team has enough time to field the ball to Andrew, who tags Conner before he even takes a step. Andrew then stands on home to intimidate the other kid running, even though Conner was a clear third out.

Bradley raises his hands and calls, “Ball game.”

Everyone on our side cheers, and the dugout goes crazy. I’m pretty sure someone spilled Gatorade in my hair, but I don’t care. Our kids run off the field, and Timothy dives in my arms.

Bradley grins at Morgan and me. “Don’t get too excited, we start the championship game in ten minutes. You can stay where you are, but Gray Armadillos are home team next.”

Morgan smiles back tiredly and lifts her left arm. Unfortunately, her right arm is already immersed in a cooler. Not good at all.

* * *

Nate

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