Page 392 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

The tunnel to the dome is narrow and rubber-floored.

As we move through it,

the sound of balls pinging against bats,

of balls snapping against netting,

of balls thudding into leather gloves

echoes louder⁠—

ping, snap, thud.

Then the dome spits us out,

the turf fluorescent green.

Black netting hangs like cobwebs from the curved ceiling, trapping line drives that slam into the mesh and drop dead.

A group near the bench turns

when we step up to field three.

“About time, pretty boy.”

“Yo, whoa—who’s this?”

“What’s goin’ on, Harding?”

Andrew dusts his hands off at the back of his joggers as his team surrounds him—shoulder slaps, half-hugs, insults instead of feelings, someone calling him a motherfucker, someone else asking if he brought his bat this time.

Andrew rapid-fires a string of names,

introducing the crowd.

“This is Allison,” he finishes.

That’s it.

Which, technically he’s correct⁠—

this is Allison.

But the introduction feels so unfinished.

Peter’s head pokes sideways around Marco’s shoulder. His eyes flare wide, a laugh jumping out. “Oh, no shit. Allison?”

He’s standing near a bat rack with a faded Brooklyn Brawlers sweatshirt stretched across his chest—colors maroon and khaki—with a matching cap, face flushed from warm-ups.

He looks at Andrew.

Then me again.

I lift my Dunkin’ bag in greeting.

“Peter.”

He walks over, smacks the back of his hand against Andrew’s chest. “Twice,” Peter mutters out of the corner of his mouth to him. “That’s Allison—twice, kid.”