Page 82 of Mom Ball

“Thanks, Carlton. I know you can throw better than me,” I assure him.

“It will be an honor to try.” He smiles and grabs a glove.

He’s already to the fence when Morgan moans.

“Your arm?” I ask.

She shakes her head, then points to Carlton. He struts to the pitcher’s circle, head held high.

“At least he’s confident,” Aniston says.

“He’s something.” Morgan sighs. “Someone help me bring this ice to the dugout. I’m gonna coach from the sidelines.”

We pile everything into the dugout and set her up near the opening. Carlton warms up with Bradley while Aniston and I check to make sure everyone’s shoes are tied.

She hops up from tying Angel’s cleat and digs around under the bleacher. “Just making sure there’s no Nicorette left over from last week.”

“Good call.” I give her a thumbs-up.

Bradley calls the kids to the field. Carlton comes and digs in Herrington’s golf bag. He pulls out a monogrammed towel and wipes his face. If he’s already winded, we’re in big trouble. Maybe it’s nerves.

Morgan yells out where she wants everyone to play in the field, and Aniston makes note of it in the scorebook.

“Carlton, you can be on first base today, and I’ll take third,” I tell him.

“Thanks.” He adjusts his sunglasses and jogs to the base.

I’m not comfortable coaching third base, but Morgan is close enough to yell at them from the dugout.

Timothy stands at first base, ready to play. I shade my eyes and get a good look at the opposing team. Only half of them have on jerseys and one kid doesn’t have a cap. I try to never judge a book by its cover, but we may have a real shot at this.

Their coach starts pitching. The first batter stands frozen for every ball. He’s out. The second batter hits a little dribble that Andrew quickly throws to Timothy. He’s out.

The third batter could easily pass for a twelve-year-old. His pants are at least two sizes too small, and unless the sun is playing tricks on my sight, I detect a hint of upper lip hair.

No wonder Morgan said we needed birth certificates.

He watches the first pitch, then nails the second one. All our players watch it like a plane flying overhead. Nobody even tries for the ball.

“Get the ball!” Morgan yells.

Half of the kids scramble. Tami’s girls are both picking flowers, and pushing-puberty kid is running the bases. He’s not fast, but he’s rounding second. His coach yells, “Run home!”

The kid stops and stares at the coach, then reverses his steps. He picks up the pace, huffing and puffing. He runs off the field and toward the parking lot.

The coach tosses his cap in the dirt and fumes. “Somebody go get him!” he yells to the dugout.

A man in head-to-toe camo with the same stature as the kid jogs toward the exit. Bradley calls time and walks to the coach. “He need to pee or something?”

The coach pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s never hit the ball and ran bases until now. I think he ran home.”

Bradley stares over his head to the parking lot. Then he lowers his chin and opens his mouth in realization that home meant the kid’s house.

“Well, they say kids are literal.” He pats the coach’s arm. “Sorry, big dog, but that’s gotta be an out.”

He steps back and calls the third out. Our crowd claps, and the kids who are paying attention cheer. Morgan screams at the sisters to stop picking weeds and come to the dugout. The kids hustle back, with Reece picking up the rear.

He’s one of the fastest when he wants to be, but right now he’s doing that Harry Potter trot.

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