Long Ball(14)

“That’s twice this game, Bonilla.” Coach doesn’t look at me, just keeps his arms crossed and stares at the mound. “I understand some you’re just not going to get, but it’s like you don’t even give a shit out there.”

“Sorry, Coach.” I grab my bat and fiddle with my batting glove, trying to avoid the stares of everyone else on the team. “Won’t happen again.”

“The hell it won’t. One more error and your ass is on the bench for the next four games. Got me?”

“Yes, sir.”

His glare doesn’t subside when I strike out, either. If Cora is here, she’s got to be embarrassed that her dad is playing so poorly.

“Talk to me.” Kemp corners me during the eighth inning while we wait for the Rangers to make a pitching change before coming up on the middle of our order.

George looks like he wants blood tonight. At least someone has their shit together, because I sure don’t. Even though the stadium is impossible large, I find myself staring down each section, wondering.

Are they here?

“Hey.” Kemp shakes my shoulder. “Jamie, do we need to get a trainer?”

“No.” I manage, tearing my eyes away from the stadium. “Sorry, bro. I’ve just had a hell of a few days.”

“I get that. I do. You know, of everyone here, I’m the one to get that.”

“I know.”

“Get your head out of your ass.” He says it kind but firm, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Coach is already in a shitty mood and you’re supposed to be the one who keeps us all in line. Everyone can have their off nights, but yours are becoming more frequent. I’m the team f*ck up, okay? Not you. You’re Big Daddy Bonilla who keeps the hens in line with Old Lady Doug.”

“Fuck off, Kemp.” Doug lobs, sorting sunflower seeds in his hand. He doesn’t look up. “Look, Jamsey, your two errors lead to two unearned runs and we’re down by exactly that many runs.”

“Thanks, Doug.” I grit my teeth and go back to looking through the sea of royal blue.

“Shut up and listen. Last week, Gregerson pulled damn near the same shit when he was on third. This happens. No one likes it, but it happens. Remember that and get your ass back in the game.”

Kemp lets out a low whistle and nods. “I like Doug. That old man knows what he’s talking about.”

I run my hands over my head and down my face, trying to get myself realigned with the game, with the spirit of baseball. It’s been shit ever since the bus, because all I can think about it starting my own family, and now how I probably already have one.

She didn’t look happy to see me. Half my brain tells me I should be pissed at her for never telling me. Cora could be mine. Cora has to be mine. Her mom knew where to find me and she never did. But I can make that up to them now.

All I can think about for the entire ninth inning is the birthday parties I’ve missed, and the Christmases I could have been Santa, and wonder if she’s already started losing teeth. How old are kids when they start losing them? Do I still have a chance to play Tooth Fairy?

Fortunately, it’s a 1-2-3 inning on all counts, riddled with strike-outs and pop flies. Bad for us, terrible, really, because we’d had a nice winning streak going on, but at least I couldn’t rack up another error before the end of the game. Errors are some of the most embarrassing things to happen to a ball player, and I’ve done nothing but rack them up over the last week.

Kemp is right. I’m off my game and I need to get my shit back together. If nothing else, I need to be someone Cora can be proud of. Having a famous daddy doesn’t mean shit when everyone only knows you because of the record number of errors you drop in a game.

“Next time.” Harrison slaps me on the back in the locker room. “It happens, man. Purge the shit in your system and we’ll get ‘em next time.”

“At least Coach doesn’t keep asking to see you in his office.” Kemp rolls his eyes and sprays on deodorant. “I feel like I need a frequent flyer card or some shit for back there.”

“Yeah.” My body stiffens at the mention of it, because he’s not wrong. I have no doubt Halstead is floating around somewhere, waiting for me to surface so he can tear me apart.

I hit the showers to drown in hot water and pretend this game didn’t happen. Days like this, I wish I’d stayed home and taken over the ranch. Things are so much simpler there. Muck the stalls, feed the chickens, mend fences. Errors aren’t the same there that they are here. Here, there are heavy fines and disappointment and crowds booing every time you go up to bat. There’s being benched and having Gregerson (that jerk) take your position.

I don’t think anyone actually like Gregerson, and it’s because he’s eternally waiting in the wings to scoop up someone’s position. Well, he can’t have mine. I’ll figure it out. I always do.

I’ll just come in for extra practice and hit the gym extra hard in the morning. My new goal is to be the kind of guy Cora and her mom want to be around, whatever that takes. I’ll do it. For Cora.

“Yo, Jamesy!” Carlos calls out as I leave the showers in nothing but a towel. Standing in the middle of the room is none other than the beautiful Shelbie Saint, dressed to the nines with a hint of blush around her cheeks.

“I didn’t want to barge in, but I got dragged.” She shrugs her shoulders a little and grins. Octivio very visibly checks her out from behind. Most of the rest of the guys, thankfully, are gone and probably out somewhere, drinking away the loss.