“This is what I do. What I love. I’m excited you have a nephew who loves baseball.” He reaches out his arm to touch me and pulls back with a sigh. “God, I’d love to just touch you, only for a second.”
Chills run through my body as I take a shaky inhale.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have …” He leaves it hanging in the air.
“No. You should have. The anticipation makes it more fun. We’ll get there one day.”
He winks. “Yeah, we will,” he says before he runs off to the boys.
I watch as he takes the boys through multiple drills, showing them how to shuffle their feet, demonstrating how to stay in front of the ball, and even telling them tricks on how to keep the sun out of their face with a fly ball.
When he hits grounders to them, they field the balls with their gloves and then toss them to the side, straight from their gloves since he’s hitting them balls from his bucket.
When they practice pitching, he pays extra attention to give them the same courtesy by not touching the balls they pick up. And after he throws balls to them for batting practice from his bucket, he tells them to go for a water break, and then he picks up the balls within the cages, all on his own.
Seeing him go the extra mile for kids he’s never met is the cherry on top of this already-amazing man.
When the practice is over and the boys are exhausted, we all say good-bye.
When I go to do the same, he stops me. “Hey, Sharee?”
My sister nudges my arm before she grabs Matthew, and they keep heading toward their car.
I turn around. “Yeah?”
“Hang out a little. I thought I could show you some things too.”
I laugh out loud. “Just because you got me to run doesn’t mean I can hit a baseball.”
“Don’t doubt yourself. I bet you could,” he says with a grin.
“Well”—I playfully slide toward him—“if I had you as a teacher,” I say coyly.
He opens his arms to the sides. “I’m here, ready and willing.”
“Willing, huh?”
“You have no idea,” he says slowly and then tilts his head toward home plate. “Come on. I have a bat you can use that I haven’t touched in weeks.”
We go to where his stuff is, but I stay back to give him his space.
He grabs it by the barrel and hands it to me. “For you.”
I take it and step back, giving it a good swing.
His eyes light up. “You’re playing with me. You’ve done this before,” he states.
“That would be a no, but I’ve been to enough games that I can tell how to swing.”
“Then, let’s see if you can hit.” He steps back, moving closer to the pitching mound.
I hold the bat out and point it at him. “Don’t laugh.”
With hands up in surrender, he says, “Never.”
He throws the ball, and I miss by a long shot, swinging around and almost falling on my ass.
He tries to hold back his laughter. “I’m impressed. You gave it your all for sure. Keep your eye on the ball.”
