Will smiles. “If you have to …” He laughs. “You’re something else.” He shouldn’t be so understanding, but he is. And I appreciate it.
“It will probably be summer by the time I find an opening at this rate,” I say.
“Was that a joke?” Will asks. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Yeah. I did.” I smile at him just to really blow his mind.
The truth is, ever since dinner at Hallie’s, I find I’ve been smiling more. Not that I’m Mr. Sunshine now, but I’m definitely feeling strangely lighter.
The umpire calls me and the other coach out to do a field check.
Will and I gather the girls for a huddle near the dugout. Our mascot, a local teen dressed in a unicorn outfit, runs back and forth in front of the bleachers waving a sparkly, stuffed, three-foot unicorn horn, shouting, “Make some noise for the Llamacorns!”
“Okay, Llamacorns,” I say. “Today we’re playing the Riverbend Raccoons. And it’s our first game. Just remember everything we learned at practices.” I pause, looking at each girl. “During the game, we stand up. We’re not at a picnic.” Will chuckles. I continue. “Eye on the ball. Swing hard. Run straight through first base. Got it?”
Macy sniffs the inside of her helmet. “My helmet smells funny.” Luna sticks her hand out. “Lemme smell it!” Kinsley pops hers on and scrunches her face. “Mine itches.”
“Okay. Okay. Enough helmet talk,” I say. “Do we all know what to do at bat?”
“Yes, Coach!” a few of the girls shout.
Mia actually salutes me.
Peyton drops down and picks a dandelion, then she stands and twirls it in her fingers.
“Good. Play your best and have fun,” I say. Everyone nods. Will says, “‘Go, Llamacorns’ on three.” The girls stick their hands in the middle of the huddle. Will counts down, and we all shout “Go, Llamacorns!”
The Raccoons take the field. Our team files into the dugout with the exception of two girls who stand outside the dugout even when I shout, “Llamacorns into the dugout!”
Will puts on the catcher mask and chest protector, and I walk out to the mound.
Our first batter, Charlotte, hits a weak dribbler.
I call out, “Run to first!”
Charlotte does not run to first. She stands at home, dumbstruck, helmet askew, bat loosely in hand, eyeing the ball only feet in front of her as if she expects it to get up and move.
The two girls outside the dugout hear my command to run, and take off for first base.
Macy lands on first base, waves at Will and shouts, “I’m on base, Coach!”
The first-base Raccoon looks at Macy and says, “You didn’t bat.” Then she takes off after the ball which is still sitting only feet in front of Charlotte at home plate.
“Run, Charlotte!” I shout just as Adrianna, our second rogue runner from the dugout, hits the bag at third and sprints home, launching into a full-shimmy victory dance with her hands overhead when she taps home base.
Charlotte snaps out of her daze and starts running toward first, weaving and bobbing. The first-base Raccoon chases after her, zigzagging behind Charlotte. The first-base Raccoon trips, dropping the ball. It rolls away from her.
Charlotte keeps running.
Adrianna’s on home plate dancing and singing a made-up cheer. “Oooh yeah. Llamacorns! Go sparkly! Go sparkle! And glitter! Shine, shine, shine!”
The first base player stands up and kicks the ball like a soccer striker.
The ball arcs and thunks off the shortstop’s helmet. She looks up, arms shielding her head, as if checking for some sort of baseball hailstorm. Then she weaves and sways dramatically, adds a theatrical spin, and topples over, clutching her heart.
When she shouts, “I’ve been hit!” peals of laughter explode from the players on both teams.
Two Raccoons from the infield go running for the ball. They collide. The ball rolls between them.
