Page 7 of Wait For It

Late one night, after a few too many beers, I made the decision not to take another woman to bed unless:

A) I could testify under oath that she wasn’t married, engaged, or otherwise spoken for.

B) I clearly saw a future with her.

Twenty-one-year-old me would have promptly choked on his beer and told me I didn’t deserve to own a penis.

Still, I held steady as one month stretched into two, taking matters into my own hands when the going got tough. That was over a year ago, and I’d still yet to meet a woman who didn’t see dollar signs or a tabloid story when she looked at me.

But, I was still on top where it counted.

My first love had always been the game, and we had a long life ahead of us. The rest was just details.

The ancient PA system crackled to life as the announcer informed the stadium I was up. The Hurricanes’ playoff chances rested in my hands. Completely in my element, I swaggered up to the plate with “Walk on Water” by Thirty Seconds to Mars blasting through the ballpark speakers.

This was it.

We were down by a run with Jimenez on second, and, thanks to Chris Harms chasing three straight pitches into the dirt, we now had two outs.

This was game seven against theKansas City Bears—at home, for crying out loud. We’d dragged it out long enough. It was time to give the fans what they wanted.

Me.

I cut my eyes over to the dugout and got the sign from the manager to take the first pitch.

Dammit.

The Bears’ pitcher, Adam Coley, wound up and sent a fastball in on the inside corner. It was a good pitch, but I knew I could’ve turned on it and at least pulled it into the outfield.

Behind in the count, I had to watch for his curve. He had a good fastball with a bit of movement on it, but his curve was downright nasty.

Coley knew I could hit and, just as I expected after the first pitch, threw a curve way outside. The catcher kept it in front of him, preventing Jimenez from advancing to third. His next one was more garbage outside.

Another ball.

I was given another sign to take the pitch but decided to disregard anything other than a sign to swing away. My hunch paid off when Coley threw a hanging slider. I was already moving when I realized my error.

That’s no hanging slider, it’s a goddamn breaking ball.

The momentum from my swing pushed me forward, and I ended up chopping it. Out of options, I began hauling ass to first, knowing the ball was fair without even looking.

It was identical to my first Major League hit, with the minor exception being I now had six additional years on my legs. My cleats pounded against the dirt, each steady thump matching my heart rate.

The crowd’s roar became deafening as the announcer shouted, “And he’s hit a chopper down to third. Sanchez bare hands it—”

Fucking Sanchez. For a rookie, he’d been killing it all season.

I could leg it out.

I’d almost hit it right off the damn plate.

If Jimenez made it to third, we still had a shot.

The wind whistled in my ears as I sprinted, drowning out the crowd. With each inhale, the scents of childhood flooded my nostrils.

Dirt.

Pine-tar.

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