Page 62 of Mom Ball

A kid yells something from the dugout, and Jeffrey turns his head. At the same time, the other coach throws the ball back to him. Jeffrey turns just in time for the ball to smack him square in the eye.

He hits the ground like falling timber.

I can hear the gasps from my toolbox perch. Bubba hurries to the pitching circle, followed by the other coaches. The one who threw the ball still stands in shock.

The ump comes on the field and checks on Jeffrey. I can’t hear what anyone is saying, but I can tell Jeffrey is mad. They help him to the dugout, and one of the moms pulls out a first-aid kit.

I finish my afternoon snack while I watch Jeffrey get a gauze eye patch. There are a few words exchanged between him and the umpire. Then Jeffrey grabs a glove and ball and returns to the circle.

He pitches half the game before allowing another coach to pitch. It’s a shorter guy in an Enchilada T-shirt. He’s a better pitcher than Jeffrey. But to be fair, I’ve yet to see Jeffrey pitch without an eye patch and throbbing pain.

Each inning is back and forth until the opposing team comes out one run ahead. The Red Armadillos, or as Jeffrey affectionately calls them, “the Reds,” get last at-bat, but the Grasshoppers hold them for the win.

Everyone in lime green goes crazy, and Jeffrey slings his glove to the ground. His players pout and go through the motions of lining the bases and slapping hands with their opponents.

The umpire comes out with medals for the Reds and rings for the Grasshoppers. It’s not hard to pick out Jeffrey’s kid from the attitude. He snarls at his medal and doesn’t put it on.

I wait for the Grasshoppers to receive their rings, but Jeffrey doesn’t. He leads his boys off the field and gathers their things in record time.

More than anything about his coaching abilities, I hate how he’s teaching his team bad sportsmanship. Double congrats to the Grasshoppers on that note.

I toss the empty chicken box in a nearby trash can and hop down. I close my truck door just in time for Bubba to ride by in a Jeep, hitting a nearby mud puddle. Red globs sling across my window and windshield.

A lot of good it did to hit up that fancy car wash last time I drove through Tuscaloosa. I leave the park and settle for the self-serve car wash beside the gas station.

Two familiar kids stand near the edge of the concrete wall wearing jerseys, slides, and boxer briefs. No pants.

I drive a few feet closer and notice Jeffrey’s truck parked outside the first bay. He’s inside spraying down pants with one hand and holding a cigarette with the other.

He glares at me with his good eye. I smile and keep driving. What’s he going to do to me? Spray the mud off my truck?

I pull in the next slot and get out. I’m shoving quarters in the machine when I hear a whistle. Morgan’s whistle. I turn around.

“Good news, I’ve got your balls,” she says louder than I’d like.

“What?”

She drops two baseballs from the window. They roll toward me. I shake my head and stop them with my foot.

“Come here.” She motions me over.

I sigh and walk away from my truck before putting in the last quarter.

“Brooke and her parents are feeding the team tonight.”

“That’s nice of them.”

“Yep. I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

“No.” I look down.

“I’m inviting you, then.”

I lift my head and sigh.

“You know she wants you there.”

“If she wanted me there, she’d have told me herself.”

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