Page 1 of Home Field Advantage
PROLOGUE
Dallas
The bases are loaded in the bottom of the ninth.
We’re so close that I can taste victory on the tip of my tongue. Something we’ve never had before. In my four years of coaching the San Francisco Staghorns, we’ve never had a shot at going to the biggest championship game in the league, let alone making the playoffs.
That’s not the only reason for the pressure weighing heavily on my shoulders, though.
This game will determine if I get to keep my job as head coach.
Do I have a backup plan if we don’t make it? Nope.
Should I? Probably.
With one foot on the top steps of the dugout, I rest my elbow on my upper thigh as I watch, without blinking, each of the players on the team. The same ones I played alongside years ago. My shoulder throbs from the memory, but I shake it off.
My friend, and head pitcher, Mitch, takes his stance on the pitcher’s mound. The next batter from the Atlanta Strikers takes the field, and the crowd goes wild as he waves his hands in the air to encourage cheers from the stands. Once he gets intoposition, the stadium quiets down, or at least it does to me while I hold my breath.
We’re up by one run.
One fucking run.
If we don’t strike out here, we could lose the game.
There’s a runner on third base with a lead off the bag, ready to run. Mitch looks to Tyler, standing on third, who’s ready in position in case he tries to advance for a steal at home plate. It’s a risk if the runner attempts it, but I wouldn’t put it past them to tie the game.
With eyes back on home plate, Mitch throws a strike.
Everyone still has eyes on third base to make sure he doesn’t get the steal.
Another throw. Another strike.
It all comes down to this.
We just needone morestrike to win this.
“Come on, please make it,” I mutter under my breath as I watch intently as he winds up, and everything begins to move in slow motion. I stop breathing, afraid that if I even blink, it will throw off the ball or some shit. The ball releases from his grip, flying rapidly, and I send a silent prayer that the batter swings and misses.
But as my luck would have it, the opposite happens.
The crack of the ball connecting with the wooden bat echoes, and I follow the ball as it soars through the outfield and over the fence.
Releasing a long, drawn-out exhale, my head falls in defeat.
We just lost our spot in the playoffs.
My team played a hell of a season, so losing my job isn’t their fault. But to the team owners and fans, everything falls back on me and my ability to coach them. Every season for the last four years, we’ve won just enough games to scrape by for even a shot at the playoffs, but we always fall short.
Looking up, I see the Atlanta Strikers and the coaches flood the field with their arms in the air, shouting and celebrating theirvictory, while my team’s disappointment is painted on every face.
These are not just players to me.
They’re my brothers, and their success is my success.
“Heads up, boys,” I shout across the field as I step out of the dugout.
Even though I have no room to talk since my head was down just moments ago, I know they’re just as devastated as I am over this loss.
