See Me After Class(128)

At least, that’s the word on the street.

You know how people love to gossip about tragedy.

I don’t believe a word of it.

I’ve seen Kirk around campus; he’s a klutz and doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body. If you want to know the truth, I think he was an idiot freshman trying to prove his place on the team and got overzealous, taking out the wrong person.

That’s me just giving the guy the benefit of the doubt.

“I don’t blame Disik. Look how Stone’s been playing, he deserves to be benched.”

I pick up my cup from my drink holder and suck down a large gulp of Sprite before saying, “Carson’s been playing a great second base. There hasn’t been any issues there; it’s his bat that’s suffering.”

“And a player without a bat is a nobody,” Shane says, as popcorn flies out of his mouth while he speaks.

It’s true. You can be the best infielder or outfielder in the world, but if you’re not swinging the bat, you’re worthless. The only player on the team who can get away with a .200 batting average is a pitcher, not a former All-American second baseman.

“You should give him batting advice,” Jerry says, nudging my shoulder.

“Yeah, okay,” I scoff. “Let me just step into the dugout and offer my help. I’m sure they’ll welcome me with open arms.” I roll my eyes. “They have the best college baseball coaching staff in the country, so the last thing they need is a kinesiology major butting her head into the dugout, offering suggestions.”

“From the looks of it, Carson Stone should take any help he can get.” Jerry brushes off his hands. “Come on, we have to get to the field.”

I check my watch. Crap, we’re going to be late if we don’t start moving.

Standing together, we vacate our seats and head out to the parking lot where Shane’s blue Corolla is parked in a money spot. The Brentwood baseball stadium is enormous, has a rooftop for rainy days, and costs far too much money to even think about. If I ever wonder where my tuition is going, I only have to look at the seats I was just sitting in.

“Google Maps says we’re going to get there a minute early, so we better book it,” Jerry says. “Do your best work, Shane.”

Two hands on the steering wheel and a determined look in his eyes, Shane revs the engine to his sensible sedan and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll get us to the church on time.”





Five minutes late doesn’t look good to parents who are trusting three college students to coach their eight-year-olds.

Shane blamed it on the red lights, but Jerry and I know the truth; he drives like an old man who’s lost his glasses. Head perched forward, chin nearly kissing the steering wheel, and hands constantly on ten and two, he drove the streets like the wheels were trying to trudge through quicksand.

It will be the last time we let Shane be in charge of driving.

“Hustle up,” Jerry calls out as the kids run from foul pole to foul pole and then back to home plate.

Turning to my co-coaches, I say, “So I’m working with the boys on the tee. Shane, you’re doing soft toss into the net; Jerry, you’re pitching from behind the screen.”

Jerry stretches his arm over his head. “Yup, I’m ready to strike some suckers out.” A former pitcher in high school, Jerry has a hard time toning it down sometimes when pitching to the kids. He calls it his turbo arm, but I call it his death arm.

Reinstating the rules, I place my hand on his shoulder and say, “Remember, they are eight, so turbo arm needs to stay on lockdown. We don’t need parents coming at us with a lawsuit because you can’t control yourself.”

“I dare them to sue me. I’ll flash them my student loan debt and say good luck.”

Sighing, I reply, “Please take it easy on them. We need to instill confidence in these kids, not break them down into emotional messes.”

“Breaking them down is how you build them back up.” Jerry winks at me.

“I’m serious.”

He rolls his eyes. “I know. Don’t worry, I won’t mow them down with my pitches, but I’m also not going to lob them in. These kids need to learn how to hit.”

Shane pats Jerry on the back. “That’s why we recruited Milly. If she can’t get these kids to hit, no one can.”

We break into our different sections, and I wait over by the tee with a bucket of balls and my practice bat so I can demonstrate techniques while teaching the kids at the same time. Finishing up their laps, I take in the bright blue sky and the cool breeze that picks up the freshly cut grass scent around us. Baseball season, my favorite season of all.

Growing up with three older brothers and a dad obsessed with baseball, I had no choice in the matter of what sport I liked to watch. They started me at a young age, taking me to every Chicago Bobcat game my parents could afford, decking me out in Bobcat gear, and sticking me in front of the TV whenever the game was on, listening to them analyze every swing, every pitch, and every catch.

I became addicted.

I spent my weekends driving from ballpark to ballpark with my parents, watching my brothers play, offering them my advice and encouragement. I soon became my brothers’ good luck charm and they started to fight over whose game I attended during the season. My parents got so sick of the bickering they finally wrote out a schedule of what games I attended based on importance.