“Are you really playing the Armadillos today? Isn’t that going to be weird?” Emma asks, holding her phone at me. She’s pulled up a browser showing stats about today’s game.
Nola rolls her eyes. “Go sit down.” Emma hunches her shoulders and steps back to their seats, where they have prime Hutch viewing. Satisfied her child has listened, she turns back to me.
“Maxford Hutchings, you are a 007.”
I laugh. “Why’s that?”
“Suits, pirate costumes, baseball uniforms. Is there anything you don’t look good in?”
I deadpan, “Stella’s kaftans.”
Her laugh fills the area around us, filling my canteen, and I squeeze her once more before dropping down onto the field. “I gotta go but prepare yourself to be impressed!”
It’sthe third game in the series against the Armadillos and we’ve both won one. I cannotforce myself to focus during our first at bat. Being sixth on the roster today means I may not be going up this inning. My mind wanders to how I’m looking forward to having tomorrow free. A rare Friday off that I won’t see again for much of the upcoming season. I plan to take the girls hiking in the Superstition Mountains in the morning and then spend the afternoon in the pool. We can’t go out on a proper date with Emma here and that’s fine—I bought a projector and screen and put up some outdoor patio lights for a movie by the firepit.
“Gramps, you’re on deck!” Spalding calls down the dugout, snapping me back to attention.
I grab my helmet and bat before going to the on-deckcircle. Larsen, who’s at bat, takes a few practice swings. He strikes out and when we pass, I give him a good-natured grin and a, “Let your elder show you how it’s done, son.”
My name is announced and I swear I can hear the Adlers screaming for me all the way down the third base line. It fills me with adrenaline. My old buddy from the Armadillos is pitching today. I’m feeling good about this because I know his tells. We’ve got two outs, but the bases are stacked and I’m going to bring a couple of guys home. That’s all I have to do. I point to the gap in center field and spit out some sunflower seed shells.
Hope Emma didn’t see that.
Bowman nods to the catcher and winds up, sending it just outside the plate and I let it go by. Easy ball one. I step back and toe the dirt, step back into the batter’s box and set my elbow just right. The second ball goes low. Ball two. Knowing Bowman, he’s either going to walk me, hoping our next batter is an easy out, or he’s going to paint the corners. A strategy that will forever remind me of Emma thinking she was cleverly onto Nola and me. Bowman digs his toe into the dirt. That’s it. He’s going to throw it just down the edges of the plate still in the strike zone. Most batters would assume he was throwing another ball and let it slide by.
Not me.
The pitch comes and it’s perfect. I swing wide. It connects, sailing into the gap, and bounces into the corner. Just like that, we’re up two in the first inning.
By the fifth,it’s tied up four to four. The game’s started to lag all of a sudden—we were up at bat for a long time,attempting to get ahead again, and now the Armadillos are fighting hard for their chance to score a run or two. I’m protecting my base, watching the guy on first dance his way into stealing position. I wait for Stewie, our pitcher, to throw the ball to second base so we can tag this guy out and we can move on to the sixth inning.
When I played before, I never got self-conscious knowing eyes were on me, even if they belonged to a woman I was taking out later. It actually drove me to push harder and prove myself. But with Nola, I don’t have anything I have to prove to her. She would like me even if I were back in Boise, handing out paddles for pickleball day in and day out at Garnet Charter. I still want to do well and be the best for myself, but there isn’t the weight of needing to show off sitting on my shoulders anymore. It’s refreshing. If we lose today, I’ll still go home and hold my head high, order us pizzas, and have a great night. Nola makes me feel like I’m enough and that’s something I haven’t ever felt.
Stewie checks the runner on first, who quickly goes back to the plate. I stretch my neck side to side. Come on, Stewie, let’s do this. We need a strike, a pop fly, or to tag this guy who is looking to steal second. Simple outs are everywhere.
The man on first leads off again. Stewie pitches. The batter hits the ball toward center field, where it bounces, is easily grabbed, and is tossed to the shortstop, Larsen, just after the runner rounded second base and has his eye on third. This should be textbook play to end the inning. Should be. Instead, we end up in a pickle between second and third. Larsen and I start our rundown, forcing the guy to pick a base or get tagged out. The ball goes back and forth. Schoolyard stuff.
I’ve got eyes on the runner and on the second baseman, Davis, as he tosses me the ball. I’m closer to the base than therunner, so I go to tag the base as the runner heads back to second. I throw it to Davis and the runner makes a break for third. I’m yelling at Davis for the ball and I catch it, ready to tag him out as he tries to sneak by. I pivot my body and bounce off of our mascot and trip backward, smacking the back of my head.
23
NOLA
The scene plays out in slow motion, much like a movie sequence. My brain can see the end from the beginning, but it still has to run its course at a snail’s pace. The team’s mascot, the Seafarer Steelhead Salmon, has made his way over toward third base, near the team’s dugout, trying to excite the crowd when the inning drags on.
At the same time, a single bee makes his way into section 115, buzzing all of us. It lands on people with hot dogs, is swished away, and eagerly flies to the next. Emma’s cradling her hot dog against her chest, furious at the insect’s invasion of her space, when the action starts on the field.
“Get ready, Max!” she eagerly shouts, sitting on the edge of her seat, watching the guy on first get in position to steal.
We follow the pitch. The Armadillo batter connects, and the ball sails into centerfield. I’m still cognizant of where the bee is, for Emma’s sake, and I watch as it heads toward the giant salmon, who’s turned to take in the action on the field. Somehow, the bee makes it inside the costume.
As Max and the shortstop engage the Armadillo player inthe pickle, the Steelhead goes flailing onto the field, shaking limbs, pulling the headpiece up just enough to let the bee out without giving away their true identity. As this plays out, Max is oblivious. He’s focused on the task at hand: tag the opponent out before he makes it safely to third, end the inning. I watch him get the ball. In what should be a final play, he turns right into the mascot, bounces off the costume, and loses his footing. He goes down hard, right onto the back of his head.
Emma and I stand as the general manager runs out, yelling for players to escort the salmon off the field and checking his downed player with the athletic trainer. The short stop and second baseman crowd around, making it impossible to see what’s going on, and my breath hitches. Max is still. Too still. The umpire joins them. Soon, with vigor, they wave over the team doctor, who runs out on the field.
There’s an uncomfortable murmuring through the stands. In the past, when I’ve been to a sporting event and an athlete’s gotten hurt, it’s been unnerving, but I’ve never had a personal connection to the injured. Being the fake wife in today’s incident brings a new sense of stress to what’s happening. I immediately envision the worst-case scenario: a coma that leads to his death. Just because that’s how Elliott met his end doesn’t mean Max is going to have the same fate. It’s not even the same situation. Lots of players get hurt in sports and they’re fine. Max will be fine.
Emma looks up at me with wide, nervous eyes, and I force myself to stop catastrophizing.
