Page 12 of Nailed at Home Plate

“I…I need to go.”

I didn’t give Tiffiny a chance to protest. Tossing more than enough money on the table for my half of the meal and drinks, I made a mad rush for the door. If Jamie was going to be a part of Philadelphia, and my favorite team, for the foreseeable future, I needed to come up with a better game plan for him to get his head out of his ass and back in the game.

Been Like This

MEGHAN TRAINOR & T-PAIN

Inever thought that baseball could be utter torture.

And then I saw the Sillys play.

I mean sure, the games were over in a blink of an eye, but it was absolute unbridled chaos that happened in between the first and last pitch. It turned my stomach. How was this even considered a sport? And ownership thought this was a good idea? They had to be off their multi-million-dollar rockers.

Two straight weeks of watching this nonsense and I could barely keep track of the rules. A time limit on a baseball game? Insane. And the fact that you scored “points” instead of runs every inning? Complete lunacy.

Aside from the dancing, the games were mostly like normal baseball games. There was a batter and a pitcher along with a full field of players. But instead of doing everything normally, the guys went out of their way to try a trick catch or throw. During the last home game, left fielder Arlow caught the ball down the front of his uniform. Kellan at shortstop did a front flip as he threw the ball to home plate. The catcher, Schmidt, didn’t blink an eye as he caught the ball and did a little spin on the ball of his foot before easily tagging the guy out.

While the game was chaotic, I had to admit, they looked like they had a lot of fun. Most of the time they were doing two things at once, playing baseball and dancing. It took a lot of skill to manage both. This game suited their personalities to a T. Whoever did the Sillys recruiting had done a stand-up job.

Coach Topper kept me benched for the games as he knew that I still was green around the gills with this whole endeavor. Even with this dumbass excuse for baseball, I was itching to get back into the game.

Maybe the change of scenery would knock me out of my batting funk. Or maybe I’d be the worst I’ve ever been due to the fact I was stressed out of my gourd about dancing in front of people. But the longer I sat in hesitation about officially joining the Sillys ranks, the longer it was going to take to get back to my rightful place in the majors’ roster.

The Sillys guys were cool though. They were perhaps the only saving grace of my sanity. Even though they were rather insane themselves. I was pretty sure that you had to have some degree of insanity to play Entertainment League ball.

A few of my teammates from my old team checked on me from time to time. One even had a case of beer delivered to me to help “drown my sorrows”. I think he also was hoping for an invite to tackle said case of beer. Because of that unexpected drink delivery, I did overindulge a bit more than I usually do during the season.

Playing ball while hungover sucked, but being hungover and then doing dance choreography? That was a brand-new circle of hell for me. Since then, the rest of the case of beer remained untouched. I figured I could save it for the end of the season. Whether itbe next week or sometime in September or October. Whichever end of my life came first.

My new coach was relentless. A real pain in the ass drill sergeant. For some reason, it seemed that she had it out for me. I knew I was the new guy. I’ll admit that I fucking sucked at dancing, but she had a real kink for public shaming. Public shamingmespecifically. I was legit terrified of my first game as the Sillys’ starting catcher.

As much as I wanted to blow this popsicle stand, I was stuck here.

My knee was back to how it felt before it started giving me issues. So, it wasn’t the pain that was holding me back from my job. Being behind home plate was my domain. I felt at home there. Literally and figuratively. Straddling the plate was no longer a chore thanks to the surgeon who put me back together. My reaction time was still a little sluggish, but I chalked that up to the downtime I had in recovery. One week of rest and recovery was like losing four weeks of conditioning. It was a huge hill to climb after being down and out like that.

It was my batting average that tanked the most in my off time. I was second or third in the batting rotation in March and April. Early batting rotation placement meant you were reliable enough of a hitter for the coach to give you more chances at batting.

As soon as I got the all-clear from the doctor, every spare moment I had was spent in the gym. I used to push myself, but now I stop while I’m ahead. Being my age, in a rigorous physical sport where you’re bent in all sorts of positions, was just asking for trouble if I went beyond my limits. It sucked that I had to be more careful now.

My practice at-bats have improved since I arrived here. I still wasn’t getting the power behind my swing, but I was finally hitting the ball more consistently with my timing. Having a change in coaching staff helped me more than I thought. It gave me some new insight into what I was missing.

Field and batting practice was only the half of this recovery nonsense. The other half was dealing with the coach-from-hell day in and day out, Cadence Andrews. I’ve had some real doozies for coaches but for some reason the short, strawberry-blonde, dancer with freckles across the bridge of her nose, took the cake.

First, it was her attitude that got me. But being stuck on her radar every day made it difficult not to admire her whenever I could. As for that, I couldn’tstop staringat said freckles. Or her ass. Or the fact that I secretly looked forward to seeing a different matching sports bra and yoga pants outfit every practice.

Even though I couldn’t seem to get her out of my head, she certainly couldn’t be bothered to give me the time of day. It was as if she went out of her way to punish my ass for being a shit dancer. It wasn’t my fault I had no rhythm.

Day in and day out it left me in this frustrating push-and-pull conundrum of daydreaming about the sway of Cadence’s hips while simultaneously being pissed off at her. She was like a mental puzzle that I kept coming back to, unable to solve it. Everyone else had her figured out. Why couldn’t I?

“You’re making that face again.” The first baseman, Benson, chuckled as he toed off his cleats while seated on the bench next to me in the lockerroom. He was tall but built with solid reflexes. An ideal man to have at the first stop around the baseball diamond.

“What face?” My head shot up as I attempted to nonchalantly rearrange my expression. With our fieldwork practice, I’d gotten to know the guys. They liked to razz me like a rookie, but they were a good group. A talented bunch of players.

“The one you always make when coach is around.” Truitt leaned down to my eye level with a wicked, knowing grin that flashed white through his scruffy beard. My brow furrowed. Did I make a face around the head coach? Was it a bad face? A weird one?

“What? I don’t make faces.” I tried to make my face as impassive as possible before I bent down to unlace my cleats. “Topper’s a good coach.” And he was. He was a tough old bird with only one expression, but damn he was good at his job.

“I wasn’t talking aboutcoachcoach.” Truitt was egging me on at this point. From the corner of my eye, I caught his brows wiggling playfully at me as I fingered the tight knot in my shoe. “Coach Andrews.Cadence.”

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