Despite superstitions. Injuries. Illnesses. The teammates we lost to trades, the family members with health scares, our own egos getting in our own ways.
Arguments with coaches.
Slumps.
Fans who couldn’t even talk to us becoming part of the Fireballs family, like Mackenzie.
Players who didn’t want to be here last year, like Brooks, who’d sacrificed his own personal life for the sake of his own home team that traded him to the worst team in baseball. Luca, who’s more or less the most-traded guy in baseball and just wants a home team and still doesn’t trust that he gets to stay.
Darren, who’s been with the team so long that he has that same fear that we’ll wake up and find out this is all a dream.
We’ve all had our ups and downs, our doubts, our hopes, our worries on and off the field.
Butwe’re here.
Game fucking One of the World fucking Series.
From worst of the worst to best of the best in two seasons.
Doing the absolute impossible and bringing a city back to baseball in the process.
I swipe my eyes.
God, I wish Waverly were here.
Third game. Third game of the series, she can make it.
Until then, I’m playing like she’s here, and I’m calling her the minute every game is done.
Not for phone sex.
But because I want to hear her voice.
And for as much as I want this series to be over so I can be with her, I’m also taking in every single damn minute.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime event.
Thrice, my subconscious whispers.We’re doing this every year until your contract is up.
The way I get on board with that makes me feel like my heart is splitting in two.
Will Waverly wait that long for me?
“Surreal, isn’t it?” Tripp says.
We all turn and find him sitting about ten rows behind the dugout. Didn’t see him when we came out.
His two kids from his first marriage are with him, both still young—James is in first grade this year, and Emma’s two years behind him—but they’re both clearly taking in the moment too as they realize their daddy’s getting choked up.
“We’re gonna make you proud, Mr. Tripp,” Diego says reverently.
Levi’s older brother shakes his head. “Already did, Diego. You already did.”
Sobbing breaks out in another part of the bleachers, and we all collectively turn to see Mackenzie Montana Elliott sitting by herself, hugging a Baby Ash plushie while the tears fall.
“You did it,” she says. Maybe to us. Maybe to Baby Ash.
“Not yet, baby,” Brooks replies thickly. “Give us four games. What are you doing hiding up there? Get down here. We need our lucky charm.”
