Page 16 of Totally Fanatic

“Yeah. Oh, right. Mouse said she didn’t ask if you were a cat person or a dog person. I told her it didn’t matter because both cat people and dog people can love Banana Ball. It’s not like we can bring them to a game or anything. I mean, there was this time last year when I swear I saw an old guy holding a cat, but then it turned out to just be a bowling ball bag. Do you bowl?”

“Ahhh, no. I don’t… bowl.”

“That’s too bad. It’s fun. I went bowling with a few guys from the gym. We started a team, but I guess Charleston would be too far away from Savannah to drive on a Wednesday night for bowling. I mean, we have a spot open in the team. But you don’t bowl, so never mind.”

The last three hits have gone to the left, and I can tell Tim is getting anxious to get his hands on the ball again. He’s bouncing from foot to foot, smacking his free hand into the pit of his glove over and over. If they’ve hit it left the last three times, they have to hit it right soon. I grab out my phone and hit record. Tim will love it if I get one of his catches on camera. He replied to every comment the last time I shared a video of his catch.

Just as I thought, Stevie Peterson skies it out to right field, and Tim takes off to get under it. The crowd is cheering, and I’m doing everything I can to keep the camera steady, then I scream along with everyone else when Tim backflips and catches the ball on the landing. It’s his seventh trick play this year already. He’s on fire.

I upload the video right away, add a few comments and share it from other profiles and then sit back and let the internet do its thing. By the time Tim is out of the locker rooms, he’ll have a bunch of people telling him how amazing he is.

Tim manages to get a hit off Gordon’s fast ball but is tapped out by Phillip on his way to third base in the eighth inning, and he slumps off field without the point. They go into the ninth tied, but they can’t get a run. If they keep Animal Control out, they will go into a tie breaker. As much as I would hate for Tim to lose tonight, winning by sudden death tie breaker would be pretty cool, too. Animal Control has one on base when they send out Benny G. Tim is bouncing from foot to foot as he waits for the pitch, the crowd is silent, all of us watching, waiting for whatever comes next.

Ryan sends down his fast ball, but Benny gets his bat to it. Lifts it out to right field. They’re in trouble. It doesn’t matter what Tim does, it’s all the way to the wall. Tony Parks jogs from third to cross home in a triple cartwheel to the cheers of nearby fans. Benny G has done it. He walks it off, securing two points for Animal Control and a four, two win over The Funky Monkeys.

At least Tim will have some great game shots to keep his spirits up after the loss. I should post some more on the train on the way home. I grab my jacket from the back of the chair.

“It was nice to meet you, Chad. Get home safe,” I say, shaking his hand and stepping past him to make my way out. It’s only game one for this week, and while they might not have walked away with the win tonight, Tim still played great.

I don’t see much of Tim at game two. With both the OG teams playing each other, Animal Control and The Funky Monkeys are littered through the crowd, and I only spot him once or twice on the other side of the stands, chatting with a few fans. It’s okay, though, because I’ll get to see him loads when he plays on night three.

At least that is what I thought. But when the teams run out onto the field, Tim isn’t with them.

At first, I think I must have just missed him, he was probably somewhere on the other side of the stadium, but when he’s still nowhere to be seen twenty minutes in, I know something has to be going on. I grab out my phone and head to his page. Nothing.

What if he got hurt at warm-up or something? I keep checking his page through the game, hoping he’ll post something, anything, so that I’ll know he’s okay. But when the horn sounds and the OG’s take the win, I’m out of my seat so fast, heading to the grounds for the meet and greets. I spot Duckie and Ryan walking my way.

“I didn’t see Tim out there,” I say, and Duckie nods, then looks away.

“He’s sick,” Ryan says. “Picked up some bug. Don’t worry, he’ll be back with us as soon as he can.”

“Thanks,” I say and leave them to sign autographs and chat with the Banana-Ramas who start to crowd them. There are other fans waiting, too, but with their matching shirts and caps, they sort of stand out in the crowd.

Tim is sick. Who is looking after him? The last time I was sick, I had my sister and brother both checking in on me, and Mrs. Crisps from next door brought me her special soup. It really was special, too. A few bowls of that and I was good as new in like a day. It’s just over a two-hour train trip from Charleston to home. I look at the time, then call Mrs. Crisps.

“How long does it take to make a batch of your special soup?”

Chapter seven

TIM

I’m dying. This hasto be what dying feels like. Cold but hot, my legs like iron weights, bones trying to rip free from my skin, throbbing and pulsing in sharp bursts. Death is coming for me, I am sure of it. At least that is what it feels like right now as I sit naked in my shower eating ice and letting the steaming hot water run over my body as I shiver and ache in pain.

The second I said I felt a bit off at warm-up this morning, the trainers had me isolated in a room, and when my temp spiked, they pulled me from the roster and sent me home. Good thing they did, too, because I was only home for about an hour before the chills started. My head was throbbing next, and despite the blanket of exhaustion that has surrounded me, I can’t sleep. The shower is the only place I feel even remotely human, and in another two minutes my alarm will sound, and I’ll drag myself out so that I’m not using too much water. Technically, I’ve used three days’ worth of showers already. I hate wasting water. It might be an Aussie thing ingrained in me from the summers spent under water restrictions.

The alarm sounds, and I reach up and push the lever to shut the water off. My bathroom is filled with steam, and it fills my lungs, warming me from the inside out, but I still can’t stop shaking.

I pull myself up, dry off as best I can with a towel, wrap myself in my dressing gown, and open the door. The cool air of my loft brings my teeth chattering together, and I crawl into bed, snuggling under the covers and pray for sleep.

At some point, it must have worked because the next time I open my eyes, it’s dark outside, and there’s a knock coming from my door.

“Just a minute,” I call, and then there’s rustling and footsteps, but when I open the door, no one is there. Motherfuckers. Seriously, who knocks and runs a sick guy?

As I turn, I catch sight of a bag at my feet. This better not be a bag of dog shit, I think, remembering my school days back in Aus when a few douchebag teens would drop bags of dog shit off on old Mr. Tucker’s doorstep and run away. They used to light it on fire, though, and this bag is warm, but it smells good, not like shit at all.

I take it inside and set it on the table before opening it up to look inside.

A large tub sits with a cat-shaped sticky note attached to the lid.

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