Page 29 of Breakout Year
He checked his phone, which he’d silenced to concentrate. A few texts from Eitan. Well, a few more than a few.
Eitan: What are you having for breakfast? I got this [picture of a bacon, egg, and cheese]
Eitan: Do you think this bodega cat looks like me? Williams said it does [picture of a calico cat with little white paws that did in fact look like Eitan]
Eitan: I had a really good time last night
And Akiva considered a dozen possible options, ranging from ignoring the text to sending back a screenshot of The Contract, before he typed Me too. Just as quickly he erased it and sent a thumbs-up instead.
That night, he watched Eitan’s game with his laptop balanced on his knees. There was something nostalgia-inducing about the grainy feed of an illegal stream. It’d been a while—a long while—since he’d watched a ballgame. He didn’t recognize many of the players, didn’t know the rule changes that the commentators explained in semi-clarifying detail. Also, had pants gotten tighter or was he just that hard up?
Still, the game was the game. Something he would not allow himself to miss.
Akiva sent a text to Mark, who was a die-hard fan. Has the Cosmos score bug always been this ugly? Because Akiva’s familiarity with the game might have faded but his opinions on the aesthetics for displaying balls and strikes certainly hadn’t.
Yes. Followed by, Rivkin the new third baseman is Jewish.
Akiva had to laugh: because that also hadn’t changed—that Jewish fans were quick to tell you which players were Jewish.
Which one’s him? Akiva asked, mostly to be difficult.
The one at third base. Rachel says to tell you he’s the hot one.
You don’t think he’s the hot one?
Mark didn’t answer for a moment, like he was considering the question seriously. Sure, he’s hot.
Mark and Rachel weren’t wrong. In his street clothes, Eitan was handsome, approachable. Dressed for the game, he was on another level. His uniform hung on the broad beam of his shoulders. His jersey tucked into the barrel of his waist. He was wearing bright blue high socks that clung to his calves, and Akiva resolutely didn’t have a thing about them except for how he apparently did.
Eitan set up on the basepath, ready to field, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The feed cut away to a shot of the Cosmos pitcher, then to the batter awaiting the next pitch.
Switch back. The camera operator did not listen. So Akiva reconciled himself to watching a pitcher he didn’t much care about throwing to a batter he’d never heard of.
A minute later, the ball hurtled off the opposing hitter’s bat right at Eitan. He fielded it cleanly, throwing it to the Cosmos shortstop stationed at second base, who should have been able to toss it to first for a double play. If he’d caught it properly. Instead, he bobbled the ball, and it rolled into the outfield to be scooped up by the Cosmos center fielder who had on a despairing baseball expression that plucked something in Akiva he’d thought he’d long forgotten.
After the play had ended, Eitan signaled to the shortstop—Aguila, apparently—and they had a conversation that appeared to be Eitan reassuring him and Aguila looking everywhere but right at him. Perhaps Aguila was embarrassed by the error. Perhaps he didn’t want to be talking with Eitan. The camera cut away before Akiva could reach a conclusion.
An inning went by. Eitan came to the plate in the bottom of the second, bat propped on his shoulder.
Time had made him less fussy in the box, without the complex rituals of adjusting batting gloves and protective cup that some players went for. He took the first pitch for a called strike, stilled his hands for the next one that dropped just low of the zone. Another pitch, a foul confidently hit into the netting protecting the stands. Foul, foul, another foul, patient and irritating all at once.
Even with the camera angle, the shade of a batting helmet, Eitan’s smile was obvious, like there was nothing he’d rather be doing, no place on Earth he’d rather be than annoying the hell out of a pitcher during a Thursday night game.
I missed this. A realization as sharp as the hit Eitan finally sent down the right field line, a low line drive that just cleared the fence for a home run. He laughed as he rounded the bases, held up his hand in what was apparently his customary salute to the stands: thumb, index, and pinky fingers raised in the sign for love.
Somehow, Akiva’s arms had also found their way skyward. He cheered, then glanced around in delighted semi-embarrassment. Only his plants were watching him.
“I know him,” he said to a spider plant, then laughed at himself. He should be working, or answering emails from Sue, or writing. That familiar pulse of You need to be… hummed under his skin. He reopened his manuscript from earlier. The word count still hadn’t gone up. He glanced through it for exactly half a second. Closed the document. Kept watching.
After the game, another message arrived from Eitan. We’re going out. Not surprising, since the Cosmos had won, a decisive victory before a screaming New York crowd.
We’re going out.
And an addendum: Come with us.
10
Eitan
