I wonder where theyallare now. The ones I haven’t thought about since this happened.
The ones who didn’t matter as much to me as
the ones I can’t live without.
89.
once
“You’re a mess.” Jack hung over the chain-link fence, grinning, sweaty, one game behind him, one game to come. The grass of the baseball field was almost luminescent green, thanks to the way the dusky light was hitting it slantwise. It was a hot, humid, late-summer evening.
“Thanks a lot,” I said. I’d gotten done with a solo evening run. Sweat was dripping down my back, and my hair had started to frizz out from its ponytail. “Be nice to me or you won’t get this.” I held out the Gatorade I’d gotten him, lime cucumber, his favorite. I’d put it in in the freezer a couple of hours before so it was part slush, the way he liked it.
Jack and I went to each other’s stuff as often as we could. Spring was tricky, because the high school track and baseball seasons were at the same time, but I went to lots of his summer league games, and in the fall he came to lots of my cross-country meets.
“I take everything back,” Jack said. “You look great. Amazing.”
“Did you guys win your first game?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Gonna win this one, too.” His coach called something out to him, and I tossed the Gatorade over the fence, my aim perfect because I was used to lobbing balls at Jack for him to hit. He caught it in one hand.
“Show-off,” I said. After Jack was gone, I looked into the stands for my dad. He wasn’t hard to find, standing up to stretch, wearing the ball cap he’d had for as long as I could remember.
I climbed up into the bleachers next to him. “How’s Jack been playing?”
“Great,” Dad said. “He had a double last at-bat, and his fielding’s been good.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“Book club,” Dad said. “She left after the first game.” He looked down at me with his kind, crinkly-edged eyes. “I’m going to get a hot dog. Want one?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be right back. You save our seats.”
I sat down among the other parents and siblings, waving to a few I knew. It was cooling off, turning into a gorgeous night. The teams took the field. Jack was hitting first, and within a few minutes, it was his turn.
I glanced over in the direction of the snack shack to see how close my dad was. Did he know Jack was at bat?
He did.
Of course he did. He always timed his refreshment runs so he could walk along the fence without getting told to move along. That way he could be closer to Jack, see the swing better. They’d talk about it later, go over it in the backyard, whatever the outcome. Bad or good. My dad was walking slowly, a hot dog in each hand, his eyes on my brother.
Jack tapped his bat on the ground, taking his time. He looked so relaxed, easy. I knew that feeling in a different way. When Iwas striding it out right at the beginning of a race and could tell it was going to be a good one.
My phone buzzed. I tucked it away. I was going to be here now.
CRACK.
SHOOM.
Jack’s bat connected with the ball at the exact moment that the lights came on.
I flew up, arms in the air. “YES!”
My dad and I looked at each other across the bleachers, grinning.
Jack loped to third, easy as pie, that frustrating, beautiful stride that would make him such a good runner if only he’d ever give it a shot.
