“Was it always baseball . . . uhm, yes and no,” I say, dropping my gaze back to his. I’m not supposed to stare directly into the camera, but I swear that lens is ten times bigger than it was a second ago. It’s hard to ignore.
“What do you mean by that?” His urging is easy for him, so I bury the bullshit from my childhood that drove me to the sandlot as a form of escape.
“I guess I was like any kid, figuring out what I was good at, what I was bad at. I always liked field day, and running at school. I liked to compete. And one day, some neighborhood kids back in Inglewood were throwing a ball around one of the streets, and I jumped in and joined the game.”
“Cool, cool. So, it was like actual sandlot ball, then? Wow, I’m jealous,” he says.
I laugh lightly and settle into the memory, at least the good parts.
“Yeah, it was Inglewood, so you either rode a BMX bike around and jumped wheelies off of plywood propped up on bricks or you played stick ball in the street. It wasn’t really a stick, though. This guy, Dennis, he was four years older than me, had a really nice bat. He played for one of those travel ball teams, and when he wasn’t playing in a tournament, he set up a game for us in the street. The first time I swung that bat . . .man.”
I close my eyes for a beat, the visual still ingrained in my mind of the ball sailing across the intersection and busting the beer sign hung on the open door of the bodega.
“You remember what kind of bat it was?” he asks.
My eyes peel open and my smile slowly spreads.
“Easton Echo,” I say, practically singing the words like a love song.
“I know that bat. My family couldn’t afford it when I was a kid, but I got to swing one once or twice. Black and gold, right?”
I point at him and laugh.
“That’s the one.”
I sink into the stool, my shoulders relaxing as I get more comfortable with our talk. Ted feels his way into the subject of Holly next, which I am prepared for, and we manage to navigate the subject without prying into her privacy too much, and without diving too deeply into how she landed with me.
“It seems like parenting is as important as baseball to you, at least when you talk about your daughter, and making sure you’re there for her,” he says.
“It’s more important. Being Holly’s dad is number one. Everything else is second place. I’ll say this, though. I’m a better player, a better teammate out there on the field since Holly showed up. She gives me purpose. I put in the work because I want to make her proud.”
I worked out that answer during my drive here this morning, and I’m glad I got to say it. If Holly ever sees this interview, because lord knows things live forever on the Internet, I want her to know that she has always been my reason. My inspiration. My best self.
“Now, your relationship with your own father hasn’t always been so easy.” His sudden topic shift throws me, and I’m not sure how to respond.
“Your dad, he was in prison for most of your life, but he’s out now, am I right?” he follows up.
I rock back and draw in a deep breath, blinking my gaze down to my lap. I’m not sure why this is coming up, but I have a feeling either Adler gave Ted a tip or my father’s been talking to anyone who will listen.
“I guess so. We don’t really talk. When I was a kid, I was definitely not his priority. Pretty much everything else came first, so . . . yeah. That’sthat.” I snap my mouth shut, and my short response seems to send the message I intend.
“That’s not how you’re parenting, though. Holly . . . she’s number one,” he says, his gaze meeting mine, and his eyes are weighed down at the corners with what I perceive as a touch of apology.
“Number one,” I reiterate.
“Let’s talk baseball,” he segues.
“Now we’re talking,” I say, rubbing my hands together. We spend the next ten minutes rehashing my highlights over the last two years, as well as the last two weeks. It’s a cake walk compared to the first half of the interview, but I don’t relax again until the mic is off and I’m heading out the tunnel to the field.
“How’d that go?” Adler says when I pass him in the dugout.
“Fuck off,” I say, and his chuckle tells me he is the one to thank for the deep research that landed in Ted’s lap.
I was careful not to clue Ted in that Holly’s at the game. I didn’t want him knowing about Lindsey, either. And I’m damn glad I kept my mouth shut around Adler about my fan section for the night. The only ones who realize I have family at the gameare Roddy and Jayden, and only because the two of them are peppered with chirps from Deacon and Riggs for every foul ball that doesn’t clear the net.
“Look how many we got!” Deacon says, holding the front of his hoodie out to show off his collection of baseballs as if they’re Easter eggs.
“Nice, dude! Maybe we can use them for tee ball when the season starts. For practice,” I say, ruffling his hair.
