We’re having a helluva first official date.
Sure, we’ve gotten more than a few looks here. I came here fully expecting that Gannett would act like an excited puppy, and I wasn’t wrong. I’m not sure if it’s just me being spotted out in public in general, or me being spotted out in public laughing and hopelessly in love with Gannett Waters that’s catching more attention here, but whatever it is, I could give a shit less. I don’t owe anyone here an explanation, after all. Love is love, and I feel like I’m truly getting it for the first time.
“That was fun! We should go again,” Gannett chirps, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Sure.” I shrug. “We can grab an ice cream or something while we wait for another turn.”
He chuckles. “Sure. You and your damn treats. What do you want? I’ll go grab it while you find us a spot at one of those picnic tables.”
Despite just having breakfast not too long ago, I’ve still got room for a brownie sundae, so I place my order with him and go find us a place to sit. All the cages are filled with batters trying to hit the balls being hurled at them by pitching machines. There’s a din permeated with sounds of everything fromtingingof metal bats, to thecrackof wooden bats, and the whoops and cheers of onlookers.
At the end of the row, there’s an empty netted-off area, presumably there so someone could practiceactualpitching. In it is a teenaged boy who is there by himself, just taking practice swings. I keep an eye onhim, waiting to see if he has anyone to practice with him while Gannett and I finish our ice creams. No one comes. The boy just practices swinging at nothing but air.
“Nice slice,” I call out to him, sauntering over to the netted barrier. My compliment takes him by surprise, jolting him out of whatever focus he had on the next upcoming imaginary pitch.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” he grunts, scratching at the nape of his neck nervously.
“Want someone to pitch for you?” I ask.
“Umm, sure?” the kid replies skeptically.
I toss a catcher's mitt over to Gannett and nod towards the plate. Gannett huffs, heading towards it, muttering something to himself about how he wasn’t meant to crouch behind the plate like Evan used to. I smirk and stuff another glove under my arm and grab a bucket of balls.
“You play for Ternbay High?” I ask the boy, swirling my arm around to limber up.
He nods. “Yeah. First baseman. Same position my dad used to play. Coach says I gotta work on my batting a little, though.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, well, you’ll be waiting forever if you want to get at one of those pitching machines, by the looks of it.”
“Been here all morning,” he mumbles, taking a step into the box and twirling the bat around, letting it come to rest on his shoulder. “I’m Easton, by the way. You any good at pitching?”
I shrug. “Might be a little rusty. Haven’t played since college.” I wind up and throw my first pitch. Before he has time to react, the ball hits its mark with athumpin Gannett’s glove. I grin. Just like riding a bike.
The kid rears back, narrowing his eyes at me. “Are you—Marlin Masterson Jr.?”
“Gordy,” I correct him. “That’s me.” I pluck another ball, tossing it into my glove.
His jaw drops. “Dude, I thought you looked familiar! Didn’t you almost get into the MLB?” He digs his cleats into the dirt and retakes his stance.
“Almost,” I agree, winding up and throwing the next ball with a little more power.
The ball cracks off the bat, sailing up and outwards. Were it not for the net, that would have easily gone out of the park. I barely have enough time to grab another ball out of the bucket before he’s back in a batter’s stance. I toss four more pitches, even adding a curveball into the mix, and he connects with all of them. Gannett’s eyes are wide with both relief and astonishment, likely thankful that his catching skills—or rather, lack thereof—are not being needed.
“Shit,” Easton hums, chuckling, “my dad isnotgoing to believe this. He followed your careerhardcoreafter high school. You’re like a hometown idol, man!”
“Thanks, but… I didn’t make it.” I throw a changeup, but it doesn’t deceive the kid. He slams the baseball well into the net behind me.
“Still,” he muses, a huge grin on his face. “I’m swinging against the friggin’ legend I looked up to most of my life.”
My chest puffs with pride. Despite getting cut short, I never thought my career was anything trackable—much lessadmired—by others. Gannett winks at me and offers me a thumbs up from behind the plate, a giant grin splitting his face. Damn, I love that man—goofiness and all.
Best. Dude date. Ever.
Another solid fastball from me, another stellar hit from Easton. Christ, this kid is good, and he’s got the reflexes of a cat. Not sure why his coach thought he needed to work on his batting. I may not bepitching at the same caliber as what I used to, but this sure as hell tops anything he’s seeing on the field at the high school level. I’d offer him tips on how to correct his swing, but honestly? Easton doesn’t appear to need my help at all…
“Who’s your dad?” I ask the kid.
“Me,” a voice says from behind, and I spin. “Sorry I’m late,” the man says to Easton.
