I listen as they tell me about shows they’re watching and things they’re doing to stay busy.
When I get to Nick, he’s eager to ask me, “Ms. Witzel, do you know Andrew Miller?”
I think about the name Andrew and shake my head. “It doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”
He frowns. “He’s the new guy they just signed to the San Francisco Giants. He made a YouTube video, going over tips for kids on how to stay in shape for baseball at home and how to keep practicing when they have no one to practice with. In the video, he said he got the idea from a teacher who made a video of a rapping King Tut, so I thought that was you. I know his parents live here and—”
My eyes widen, and my face flushes when what he said sinks in. Then, the name Andrew—Drew—clicks in my head.
Oh. My. God.
“Did you say San Francisco Giants? As in the San Francisco Giants baseball team?”
Memories of him wearing a jersey the other day and making a joke by tying it to the movieField of Dreamsflash through my mind.
Was thathisactual jersey?
“Yeah,” Nick says. “I can’t believe there are other teachers who would rap about King Tut because, come on, Ms. Witzel, that was a little”—he makes the international sign for crazy by circling his ear with his finger—“cuckoo.”
“No, it wasn’t,” a few kids chime in to defend me.
I laugh. “Well, I’m sorry you didn’t like my very cool song, but I’ll look into this other teacher who’s rapping to my tunes.” I make a fake angry face while I’m internally freaking out.
We end our Zoom, and I’m quick to do an internet search for this Andrew Miller guy. Multiple results pop up, and I read all about the golden boy who shone during spring training and was finally making his way up to the major leagues after being in the minors for five years.
I click on a photo, and on my screen is the face of the guy I’ve come to know as Drew.
* * *
I’ve thought about calling him all day, but I still haven’t. What would I say?Hey, are you the baseball player who just signed a nine-million-dollar contract?
Ugh!
All I can think about is,Why didn’t he tell me?
But then, when I think back to our conversations, he was stating it without actually saying it. He talked about moving a lot, how he’d just signed on—shit, he even showed me a picture of himself inhisjersey!How was I supposed to know that washisactual jersey withhisname written across the back instead of Posey or Crawford?
Does he assume I know who he is? Is he one of those guys who has this huge ego and thinks that everyone should automatically recognize him?
I’m so confused.
And this is why I’ve fought all day not to call him, instead waiting to see if he calls me.
When my phone rings at nine o’clock that night, I’ve gone through all the emotions, and really, I’m over it, so I answer the phone call, making sure he knows that I know.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say instead of the normal hello.
I can hear his nervous laugh over the line and the fact that he is totally caught off guard when he replies, “Uh, tell you what?”
“Who you are. I mean, who youreallyare.” The line is silent. “Did you assume I already knew?”
“No.”
With how fast he responded, I believe him. I calm down slightly, knowing I’m being a little overdramatic. “Then, why didn’t you tell me?”
He lets out a breath. “Do you know how hard it is to meet someone—I mean, genuinely meet someone—when they know you’re a baseball player?”
I sigh. “Okay, go on.”
