Page 72 of Nothing Like the Movies

“Control. Since my dad died, I’d had zero control of anything in my life. But that ball in my hand was under my power, and it felt good.”

“Is this when you started trying?” he asked. “When did the switchofficiallyflip?”

“When my mom got better and my genius sister started getting full-ride offers to great schools, Michael convinced me to reach out to my UCLA coaches.”

“And…?”

“And I made some calls and sent some emails. They were nice and sent a few responses back, but when I mentioned the possibility of throwing for them or getting a tryout, they ghosted me. I couldn’t reach anyone anymore, which I absolutely understood. A pitcher who takes two years off? That’s an absurd gamble. I would’ve done the same thing.”

“So what’d you do? How’d you get them to finally respond to you?” Clark asked.

“I started texting every staff member—all of them—every single day, sending them time-stamped videos of my pitching practice,” I confessed, grinning at the memory. “I even emailed the AD every damn day. My high school coach let me use the gun, so I just spam-texted them all videos of me throwing hundred-mile-an-hour fastballs that were right in the zone.”

Clark was laughing when he asked, “So did they fly you in for a tryout after all the spamming?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “They told me that if I was ever going to be in LA, to reach out and they’d let me throw for them.”

I’d never say it on camera, but Ross was the only one who’d been honest with me. He’d called me one afternoon, and said in that minimalist cowboy way of his, “I like you, kid, so I’m going to tell you what you need to hear. It’s been too long, and you need to move on. Knock this crap off before you ruin your life wishing.”

Clark asked, “So you flew there, right?”

“I couldn’t afford to fly; are you kidding me?” I laughed at that, able to laugh now at how impulsive I’d been. “No, I left that night and drove my shitty car straight to campus, with Sarah sleeping in the back seat when she wasn’t taking turns driving.”

“How long of a drive is that?”

“Twenty-two hours.”

“Woooow,” Clark replied, his voice loud. “Were they happy to see you?”

“Between you and me,” I said, “I think they were pissing themselves. Like,oh no, he actually came.”

Clark threw his head back and started cackling. He half yelled, “And how was the tryout?”

“Better than I could have ever hoped for.”

Two coaches, begrudgingly letting me throw even though it was obvious they weren’t considering me. Lots of hushed conversation and awkward tension.

Ross shaking his head when he saw me.

An obnoxious little sister, loudly cheering me on from the empty stands.

A slight anxiety attack as I took the mound and got ready to throw the first pitch.

And then—perfection.

Strike after strike after strike.

More coaches watching, one with the gun.

Ross grinning.

More strikes, faster pitches. Ridiculous changeups. Badass breaking balls.

It’d been better than the movies, I swear to God.

When we finished the interview, Clark hugged me—“bring it in, man”—and it pissed me off.

Because it made me feel like an asshole.

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