Coach Carter calls a timeout, and I let my shoulders relax. Peeling the damp ball cap from my head, I run my wrist and forearm over my forehead before slipping my cap back on. My eyes briefly dart to the stands, wondering if her flight came in on time.
It’s been six weeks and three days since Magnolia and I have seen each other in person. We’ve spoken every single day, and shared plenty of late-night video sessions to get us through the distance. She was going to fly out to Florida after her afternoon practice today, and she thought she might get to see part of the game.
Maybe that’s why my focus is out of whack. I keep trying to look into the stands. My eyes peek out the sides for a head of light blonde hair and for that smile that stops me in my tracks. I rub at the invisible ache rooted inside my chest. We’ve been at this long distance thing for two, almost three, years now, clinging to our phone calls, text messages, and the occasional naughty picture to get through this distance. We knew it wouldn’t be easy going into it, but knowing, expecting it to be hard didn’t make it any easier.
We knew the sacrifice we’d be making and the strain it would take on our relationship, but we’re both getting to live out our dreams. Not many people can say that, let alone two people from a no name town like ours.
“Hart!” Coach Carter barks once he’s within range. Diaz stands a foot behind him, biting his lips to temper a smile since he knows I’m about to get my ass reamed.
“Yes, sir.” I smile, doing my best to look as serious as I can be.
“You freezing up on me, son?” He comes to a halt with his hands on his hips. Coach Carter must be sweating balls, wearing a cut-off sweatshirt in this heat. It’s his lucky sweatshirt, he told us earlier. He only pulls it out for special occasions, and today is one hell of an occasion because if we do this right, if we clinch the victory today, then our team proceeds to the championship tournament.
And more than that, if I keep pitching like I have been, I’ll get pulled up to Double-A, and then I’ll be knocking on the door of the Majors before I turn twenty-two. Getting to pitch even afew games in the Majors would be life-changing. One game with them would earn me more money than a month with the Minors.
“No, sir, definitely not freezing.”
“So, why did I have to peel my arthritic ass off the bench and come talk to you in the middle of a goddamn heat weave?” He spits a wad of sunflower seeds to the side, narrowly missing my feet.
“No idea, sir, I was just about to tell Diaz that we’re good with the fastball.” I look behind the coach at Diaz, and he rolls his eyes at me, already spinning to make his way back to home base.
My mind takes that second to wander, and I peer over to my left, zigzagging along the rows of fans. Coach says something, barking at me to move this way or that, but it’s all a haze. My ears ring, and I instinctively take a step toward the stands when I see the tall blonde holding up a pink paperboard sign that reads,
My Hart belongs to #7
Fuck me.
She made it.
A whirlwind of emotion takes over, from excitement to nervousness, a little sadness mixed with euphoria. She’s here, only a few hundred feet away from me. After weeks of missing her, I’m tempted to say the hell with it all, to drop my glove, spring over to the stands, and pull her into my arms.
She must notice too, because she lowers the sign, and with an exaggerated movement, she points right to me. I can see from across the field that her eyes are wide, and she’s mouthing,“Don’t you dare,”to me. My feet still, and the crowd be damned, I raise my glove to my mouth, covering it as I blow a kiss, and reach my arm out in the air toward her.
As if it’s muscle memory, which … hell, it practically is since it was my calling card to her every single high school game, shereaches up, catching my imaginary kiss and pulling it down to her chest, right over her heart.
“Alright, love birds, now that we got that lovey dovey shit out of the way, are you ready to play some real ball? Gimme three more outs with that golden arm, Hart, and the game will be won, and you can go play house with the wifey.” Coach doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead, he gives a quick swat with the back of his hand against my side and turns to make his way back to the dugout.
I don’t correct him that she isn’t my wife. Hell, I like the way it sounds.
Giving Mags another lingering look, I turn back to the mound, the roar of the crowd picking up, and I’m sure the jumbo screen has been locked on us with the entire stadium watching me make googly eyes at my girl.
The dirt on the mound shuffles under my feet. I grind my cleats in the dust, twisting my heel just right. With my hands curled around the ball, my gaze flows down the field to Diaz. This time when his hands fly, I shake my head no, then with a newfound certainty, agree to a backspin fastball.
Straightening my spine, I blow out another heavy breath, the stagnant air nearly strangling me. I swipe the sweat from my face with my sleeve, and then it’s go time. Arms locked. Back taught. I push off with my left foot, pull my knee up, and stretch my right arm back.
It’s a fluid motion. Perfect symmetry as my arm rolls forward, wrist snaps and the ball leaves my fingertips with enough force that it spins and then rises. To the audience, and to everyone watching on television, it happens so fast. But to me, that split second stretches into several slower ones.
My eyes are on the batter, watching the muscles in his arms, waiting for one to pop, one that might tell me he’s getting ready to swing. I watch his eyes, and with this particular move, I waitfor him to look upward, expecting the ball to drop as it normally would.
The smile is already curving my lip before he realizes it’s too late. His eyes widen, and he abruptly swings anyway, but it’s too late, because the ball has already slammed into Diaz’s glove with a thud that echoes back toward me.
The crowd bellows, fans are on their feet, and I cheer right along with them, screaming out in glory as I pace the mound.
Mags whistles from the stands, and then I hear her voice call out, reminding me to sink two more. My heart hammers in my chest, and I bite back a smile, trying to keep my game face on, but it’s no use.
As I swipe my shoes in the dirt, I take a peek over my shoulder at my girl back in the stands. The crowd beside her has realized who she is, or at least know she’s someone special to me. They’re trying to get closer to her, shouting something over her shoulder, and she’s turning, nodding to whoever she can and shaking hands with anyone who’s excited to meet her.
Two more.
