Gordon is wearing a full uniform and I can’t help but notice he has added the wordCaptainto his sleeve in thick, black Sharpie marker.
It is the least official thing I have ever seen in all my years playing sports.
“Nope, not baseball, Gordy,” I say. “Slow-pitch softball.”
“Eh, baseball, softball, who cares? It’s all balls, am I right?” he yells back. He’s trying to imitate my dad’s attempts at hyping up the group, but I am standing about ten feet away, so the yelling just reminds me of a loud toddler throwing an unnecessary tantrum.
“What’s all balls?” Dom says, strutting in with his gear.
“Gordy’s Saturday night,” I respond.
“Sounds about right,” Dom agrees, smirking.
“Glad you could join us, Dominic!” my dad says.
Dom gives my dad a thumbs-up.
Dad barks out some orders, starting with telling Gordy to lead us all in stretches. We gather around him and do jumping jacks, a light jog, arm circles, toe touches, stretches for our hamstrings, quads, shoulders, triceps, biceps, and forearms, Gordy crying out when it’s time to count off for the next exercise, but not actually doing the exercises himself—rather, he just “models” the exercise, as if this is second grade PE and he is a retired circus clown. We run karaoke twists, high knees, butt kicks, side shuffles, and sprints, all while Gordy flails about in the middle of our circle like that old children’s song, “We’re going to Kentucky, we’re going to the fair, to see the senorita, with flowers in her hair.” See, that’s the thing. Even though Gordy’s “leading” the group, he’s actually just serving the purpose of providing the rest of us with live entertainment. Once theopening act ends, Dad takes back the reins, letting us know which drills he wants to run.
“Colin’s got the pitchers,” he says. “Girls, practice batting and running bases. You ladies really need to work on hitting the ball on the ground. You pop up too much.”
“I’ll work with the girls,” Dom suggests.
“Good thinking, Dom!” Dad announces.
I shake my head, wondering which firm will handle the impending sexual harassment suit.
“Rest of the guys can run some sprints and do some long toss,” Dad declares. “Now, split up!”
I stand at the mound with Richie, who is our only other pitcher. Meanwhile, Daisy, Jess, Rachel, and Courtney all go with Dom. “Nice shorts, Jess,” he says, admiring her from behind.
Daisy shoots me a look. I laugh.
Raoul, Gordy, and my dad are left to practice long throws in a triangle in the outfield. That’s a threesome if ever I saw one. Raoul is a skinny, short, quiet guy who wears glasses and looks sort of like a Puerto Rican version of Gordon, minus the righteous attitude. I keep an eye on them for a moment, watching as my dad throws a bright yellow softball to Gordon. It sails over his head, and he jumps to catch it, missing by a mile.
“Well, if we win any games, it won’t be because of our fielding,” Richie says to me.
“Yeah, no shit.” I laugh.
He puts on a catcher’s mask and heads to home plate. We warm up with a few easy lobs, just to find the strike zone. We switch about fifteen minutes in. Richie’s pitches have power behind them—he’s showing off, pitching windmill-style. I remember what it feels like to be able to throw that hard. I would remind him this isslow-pitchsoftball, but I’m not in the mood to be the target of a potential roid-rage episode.
Daisy, Dom, and the girls seem to be doing more talking than practicing, which is right on par for Dom. My dad, Gordy, and Raoul are running the bases now. It looks a whole lot like jogging to me. Richie and I get bored after a little while, and I take a break to stretch my arm out a bit more.
Dad notices. “Colin!” he calls out. “You good, son?”
“All set, Dad,” I say.
Next, Richie and I split the pitching duties for the team’s batting practice. Once everyone’s gotten up to bat twice, Gordy walks off to use his puffer, which is the universal signal to my father that we’ve been at it for ninety minutes.
“Let’s bring ’er in!” he yells to the team. The groups trot toward the mound. Daisy gets her Whole Foods bag and offers snacks to everyone. I gratefully grab two granola bars.
“Mmm,” I tell Daisy. “So good. What’s in these?”
“Yours are baked with extra love,” she says.
“I can tell.” I nod.
“Okay, team!” Gordy says. His voice is firm, but I detect a slight quiver, the remnants of his narrowly avoided asthma attack. “As your captain, I—”
