Page 76 of Diamond Ring
Something in Jake’s chest unlocks. He scoots closer, and Alex does the same, the leather and plastic of their armrests separating them. It feels like doing this ten years ago, especially when Alex hands him the iPad and Jake, after a moment’s consideration, drapes half the blanket across Alex’s lap.
“What kinds of video did you ask for?” Jake says.
“Old guys who pitch slow.”
“Wow, thanks,Angel.” Though Jake mostly says it so Alex will nudge him in the shoulder, which he does, and Jake nudges him right back.
“I asked for guys whose fastballs top out around ninety, but whose secondary stuff was still sharp,” Alex says.
“That’d mean my curveball has to actually be good.”
“Also your changeup.” Alex says it with a teasing edge that might have bothered Jake a few weeks ago. It doesn’t now since he knows Alex did something he hates—talking to the analytics guys, who are almost universally soft-handed Ivy Leaguers—to get these videos.
Alex cues up the first clip, game footage of a pitcher a few years older than either of them, a guy with a now-fizzled fastball and an arsenal of about twelve other pitches.
“Don’t know if we’ll have time to develop”—Jake ticks them off on his fingers—“a slider, a splitter, a cutter, and a knuckle curve.”
Alex rolls his eyes, the kind of eye roll he might do with other pitchers, though Jake thinks is specific to him. “Watch this sequence.” On screen, a meandering fastball, followed by a glacial curve, followed by a slider with a nasty sideways trajectory like a scythe. All thrown at different velocities and to different locations and the batter—an accomplished big-league hitter—can’t do much with any of them.
“You think I can pitch like that?” Jake asks skeptically.
“Sure.” Said with a confidence that warms Jake’s stomach. Alex adjusts how he’s sitting so he can better point things out on the screen, his right arm brushing Jake’s left. “Here’s the video I really wanted you to see.”
Of all the players he expected Alex to pull up on screen, Jake’s not anticipating a video of himself. He looksyoung. Skinnier than he remembers being, with some puppy fat on his face and a fastball that could probably blast the wings off a fly. “I don’t know if I want to watch this.”
“Trust me, okay?” With it, a tap of Alex’s hand against his, knuckle to knuckle, that softens Jake’s apprehension.
The video plays. A game Jake barely remembers, that first year a delighted, successful blur before the end. He pitches: a curveball, then a changeup, then a fastball. All thrown to the same location but at different velocities and arriving at slightly different times. A three-pitch strikeout that left the batter wobbling in his cleats.
It hurts to watch—that his past self is gone, that he skidded off as assured a course as the game ever allows. He looks up to find Alex studying him, brow scrunched with worry. He nods to the tablet. “I want to try that again.”
Jake almost laughs. A decade ago he pitched like he had the ball on a string. Now he’s lucky if it goes where he tells it. “Don’t know if that’s gonna work out so great.”
“Seem to remember you saying you were gonna listen to me.” Alex isn’t exactly loud, but his voice is deep enough to carry, especially on an otherwise quiet flight. A few of their teammates glance back at them, possibly because they think he and Alex are going to fight or just because ballplayers have two primary emotions: hungry and nosy.
Jake inhales, counts, blows air out of his mouth. Does it again. Anger sits on his skin like a slick of sunscreen. That Alex showed himthatvideo in a place Jake can’t really react. He presses his lips together. His hand goes white-knuckled on the blanket.
“Hey.” Alex’s voice is soft. He clicks a button on the iPad, darkening its screen. “We can do something else.”
“It’s fine.” Jake digs his thumbnail into his palm. “We can watch it.”
“There are other videos.”
“You don’t need to do that. I’m not gonna have a breakdown or whatever.”
“Jake”—Alex should really be calling him “Fischer” the way everyone else does, especially with their teammates definitely not listening to their conversation; especially with how gentle his tone is—“I thought it’d be good to see what we used to do.”
“Some stuff doesn’t come back, okay?” Jake’s throat hurts as he says it, a declaration that breaks slightly.
Alex shifts the blanket over where his hand is still clenched. A second later, Alex’s hand covers his, followed by the careful stroke of his thumb.
Jake shuts his eyes. Imagines a set of squares, blocks of different colors he moves around in what his therapist calls “mental Tetris.” Feels the strength in Alex’s hand, and the brush of his shoulder, and how he smells the same as he did ten years ago.
Grounds himself in the present: That he’s on this flight. That Alex is here, and that if Jake asked, he’d put on another video. Jake breathes. Opens his eyes. “Play it again.”
“We don’t have to.”
“No, it was a good thought.” It’s easier like this, with Alex’s fingers gripping his.
