Page 38 of Unwritten Rules
“I’m right about the curveball thing by the way.” Eugenio goes and picks up his stuff, leaving Zach in the bullpen to cool off. “Come find me when you figure it out.”
Chapter Twelve
They play their last game of spring training on a summer-hot Sunday.
“At least it’s a dry heat,” Eugenio says to no one in particular. He’s at his stall next to Zach’s, changing into his uniform, and he’s checked his phone a half dozen times, waiting for final roster announcements.
Management has winnowed the clubhouse to mostly the actual big-league team, the opening-day players plus the fifteen or so who’ll make up the forty-man roster, the replacement players who play in the high minors but still get livable salaries. They’re platooning most remaining players for the game: Eugenio is slated to get the first three innings, Zach the middle ones, and Frannie that last. And Zach doesn’t know what that means in terms of the final roster, or if it means anything other than he’s catching Johnson who is, surprisingly, still there and looking more like a bona fide major leaguer each day.
Johnson comes by Zach’s stall right before game-time. There’s a pretty, dark-haired girl with him, wearing a white T-shirt and modest skirt, a tiny cross necklace. “Um, Zach.” He sounds nervous, testing out calling Zach by his first name like he would with a teacher. “This is Sara Maria.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Zach shakes her hand. “You coming to see this guy pitch?”
“Yes.” She says it softly, though increases her volume when Johnson gives her a slight nod. “It’s really exciting. We live near the stadium, but I haven’t been since I was a kid.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll make him look good.” Which makes Johnson go a little red and Sara Maria laugh.
They talk for a while, about the weather, about what Sara Maria’s studying.
“History.” Johnson lowers his voice like it’s a secret. “Focusing on labor movements.”
The conversation has a meet-the-parents vibe Zach can’t shake. And Zach can’t imagine bringing anyone into the scrutiny of the clubhouse, even if he’s never had someoneseriousto bring around. Can’t imagine showcasing some transient hookup from an app or even the coffeehouse barista, the one who stopped asking him questions when Zach didn’t come to his open mic night.
He spends much of the game leaning on the dugout railing, watching Eugenio catch. He focuses on the pitches Eugenio calls for and not on if this is the last game they’ll play together this season.
D’Spara comes up next to him. “Looking good there.” He nods to where Eugenio fields a curveball on the outer edge.
Eugenio drops to one knee, forming a low, steady target, glove and arm frozen. It convinces the umpire that it’s a strike, even though it was outside by at least a few inches. A feat that makes Zach both equally glowingly proud and gnawingly worried that he might have coached himself into a demotion.
A few guys give Eugenio his slaps when he comes into the dugout after he’s driven in on a bases-clearing single, all head rubs and attaboys. Zach contributes, tapping him on his waistband just above his ass, fingers on the leather of his belt. A long enough touch that Eugenio looks up at him, like he’s not sure if it’s a congratulations or a goodbye. Zach doesn’t know either.
Johnson pitches the middle three innings. He flaps the last fingers of his glove, no matter the sign that Zach puts down, cruising through San Francisco’s lineup like he’s ready for the bigs.
That is, until the sixth inning, when Zach puts down the sign for a curveball, and Johnson throws one. There must be something in his delivery that gives him away, because the batter makes hard, definitive contact. It lands on the concrete walkway on the perimeter of the outfield seating, a no-doubter of a home run.
Johnson yells, voice muffled by his glove, his face showing impending disaster.
Zach calls time, going out to the mound. “Breathe,” he orders Johnson. “Hold it. Blow it out.” But Johnson’s looking past him, over to the stands where Sara Maria is likely sitting. “Don’t look over there. Look at me.”
Johnson says something else, glove up over his mouth.
“I said to look at me.”
Johnson snaps his gaze up to Zach.
“I know. It’s one run. It happens to every guy. Stop thinking about what’s gonna happen after this game. Stop thinking about anything else.”
“It was going fine.” And Johnson’s face is blotchy, either from anger or, worse, because he’s about to cry.
“Everything goes fine until it doesn’t. That’s how the game is, and you know it. Take a deep breath.” And Zach waits until he does. “We only need to get through two more batters.”
Johnson manages to induce a pop-up on the next out, one Zach has to run to the netting to catch but snags, the white of the ball blending with the sky above him. And then the next batter hits a screaming line drive—right at their third baseman, who dives to field it, holding up his glove like it’s the last out of the World Series.
Johnson pumps his fist as he comes off the mound, and Zach rubs his knuckles over his hair as they walk back to the dugout. For a moment, the baseball gods feel kind.
Zach should ditch his gear, shower off, and think about what he’s going to have for dinner, though the reality is that he’ll check his phone nervously until the lineups are announced. He stands at the dugout railing, watching Frannie catch the last three innings, the remaining outs ticking from nine to six to three to none. He offers Frannie a fist bump when he comes off the field, and Frannie taps his knuckles to his.
“See you soon,” Zach says.
