Page 109 of Diamond Ring
He breathes around the sudden lump in his throat, the realization that maybe that’s what he’s doing all over again: that Jake might be uncertain about their future only because Alex hasn’t given him a reason not to be. Because he knows if he doesn’t do something, he’ll be left with his pension and his house and another decade’s worth of regrets.
“Uh”—he unclips the mic pack from his waistband—“I have to go.”
He barely has time to register Toni’s surprise as she puts out a hand for the pack and tells him not to worry about wrapping the cord.
“You get what you needed?” he asks, though he doesn’t think he can say much more.
Toni nods. “Yeah, all good. Thanks for doing this.”
Once he’s out in the safety of the hallway, he pulls his phone from his pocket. A call to a vaguely remembered contact. He leaves a message, then listens to it on playback. His voice sounds as breathless as he feels. His name, his number.I need a few things, including something custom-made. Can I come see you tomorrow?Like it can’t wait. Because it can’t.
A tone reminds him to save the message, then leaves him with the click of a disconnected call and the silence of the clubhouse that hovers like an unasked question.
Jake
It rains during game five, a misty October rain that forces every Californian to say both how much they needed it and to complain about the cold. A game that will leave one team a win away from a title, the other a loss away from defeat.
Jake takes his now-customary seat on the sidelines, hands stuck in his hoodie, determined to enjoy every freezing second of this slog of a baseball game. The Elephants hit the ball hard enough to draw the hopeful ooh of the crowd, only to have those dreams die in an outfielder’s glove on the warning track.
How metaphorical, Jake thinks and hunches into his chair.
During the sixth inning, their starter, having labored through eighty-five pitches, begins visibly tiring. A loud “Fischer, get hot,” accompanies it. A preventative measure, but one Jake will gladly accept. Until their pitcher induces a double play, a beauty of a thing toward which Jake feels an ugly pulse of jealousy.
“Guess I’m not going in,” he says, when Martinez yells for Johnson to get ready for the seventh. He gets only a compensatory arm pat from Johnson for his troubles.
They lose, a one-run loss that feels like a gut punch. Jake drags himself into the clubhouse as other guys do the same. A few toss stuff in bags in preparation for the long flight back to New York the next day. A few more sit with their heads in their hands. Alex is among the latter. He scrubs his face and levers himself out of his chair like he has weights tied to each limb, then sinks back down.
“Here,” Jake says, “you sit. I’ll grab whatever from your stall.”
“No, I can do it.” Though Alex doesn’t move.
Jake snags his duffel, contemplating what Alex wants to bring that the team won’t pack for him. He holds up Alex’s catcher wristband, then adds it in the bag at Alex’s nod. The batting gloves he favors go next. Then Jake finds a jewelry box, a long velvet one like he transports his necklace in, tucked back among the jerseys.
He shows it to Alex. “You want to bring this?”
Alex doesn’t generally blush, but he goes a color Jake’s rarely seen on him, a mix of embarrassment and something else. “Yeah, toss that in.” Said nonchalantly, like he’s trying to avoid Jake asking about it.
“Is that for me?” Jake asks, mostly to watch him go a shade deeper, to offset their postgame disappointment with the time-tested method of teasing Alex into feeling better.
He gets a broader smile for his efforts. “I guess you’ll have to see in New York.”
Alex
A reporter shoves a microphone in Alex’s face after game six, asking about what he thinks was key to the Elephants’ success in forcing a game seven.
“Probably scoring more runs than the other team,” Alex says.
He’s met with an unamused New York media look, though the Elephants PR person buries her laugh in her hand.
“Uh,” Alex continues, eloquently, trying to think of what to add. He was present for the game—he has the aching muscles and beat-up thumb to prove it. He came off the field grateful for the win and momentarily regretful of having to play yet another game, a thought that evaporated when he saw Jake shucking his still-clean jersey. “Sorry, I think my mind got lost somewhere between pitching changes.”
Which is the other thing. They won but burned through most of their pitching staff save Jake, a parade of appearances that’ll be a problem the next day, even if everyone is supposedly available for the last game.
Alex goes through the rest of his postgame routine as if hovering above his body. Tomorrow is it. He laughed at the possibility of losing—that he’ll be recorded in baseball history as a three-time almost-champion. A feeling supplants it now, amaybe-possibly-could-bethat they might actually pull it off. Or that he’s stepping into the trap of false hope again.
The walk from the clubhouse to the team bus takes him down a long hallway that has all the charm of a subway station: sodium lights and scuffed-up floor tile. Two figures stand near the entrance. They eventually resolve into Morales—who tried, mightily, to drag his team to a victory today and almost succeeded—and Zach Glasser.
Glasser says something, gesturing, then snags Morales’s hand. “If you win, you should wear both,” Glasser says. He looks up when Alex makes his footfalls a little heavier to alert them to his presence.
