Third Base (The Boys of Summer Book 1)(2)
I pick up my glove and one of the loose balls sitting by my feet and toss it into the stands. We have two home games before we hit the road for six away and then back home for three before we get a day off. It’s the start of the season and I’m already looking forward to a day off.
Before each home game, a young fan, along with his or her family, is chosen to be our guest for the game. Not only do they gain early access to the ballpark for a tour, but if a few of us are here early, we’ll come out and throw the ball around for a little while so they can watch. The fan becomes our honorary bat boy or girl for game, going home with a ton of selfies with the players, autographs and souvenirs.
Tonight’s fan is a girl with pigtails and a thousand watt smile. Her Renegades hat sits on top of her head, barely hanging on. Her face lights up when she catches the ball easily in her glove and waves at me before turning to her parents with excitement. Being good to your fans is something my college coach instilled in me after every single game. It didn’t matter what test we had in the morning, what the weather was doing, how tired we were, or whether we got our asses beat – we’d stay to sign autographs and take pictures until the last fan left. Our boss, Ryan, feels the same way. He says fans make or break you and he’s right. That’s why the BoRe blogger gets under my skin so much. I don’t know who he is, but I’d like to meet him to find out what his beef is with me.
Reporters line the wall outside of our clubhouse, waiting for an interview. The media are allowed in the clubhouse until batting practice begins. Cal Diamond, our manager, has a list of guys who will talk each day, even though the media tries to get audio clips from everyone. I’ve yet to be chosen. I try not to let it bother me, but it does. I know I’m young and say stupid shit sometimes, but I don’t do it to be harmful to the team. My mouth just works faster than my brain. It’s something my agent says I need to work on. Stone says he’s looking for someone to come in and give us all some media training. In the meantime, I usually visit the trainer or go into our lounge before batting practice, which is off limits to the media.
They call my name. I wave and smile like I’ve been instructed and enter the clubhouse. It’s chaos in here, but it’s expected on game day. The Renegades are high energy, unlike some of the other teams out there. I’ve heard rumors that some clubhouses are quiet zones, the ‘zen’ zone. We tried that once last year and most of us fell asleep before the game started. The idea was quickly nixed and since then the clubhouse has been a mecca for craziness.
On any given day, this room is filled with towel snapping, raunchy jokes and guys running around bare-assed with only their jock straps on. The one rule we have in here: No women, no wives, no girlfriends, etc… Not because we walk around naked, but because we’re disgusting and our antics will give off a bad impression. We want the women to remember us for what we do on the field, not the shit in here. Besides, the wives have a pretty stellar lounge that they can hang in until the game starts.
I change quickly, slipping on my long sleeved jacket before heading back onto the field for warm-ups. It’s still downright cold in Boston. There are a few cheers as we start coming out of the dugout as season ticket holders arrive early. Kids line every available space in hopes of getting a high-five or to snag a fly ball from batting practice. After a while, you start to recognize the same faces. I look for one in particular that I’ve been looking at since the midway point of last season. She usually sits parallel to third base, behind the enemy. When I look over in between plays, I swear she’s staring at me. I can’t always tell, though, because she wears her Renegades hat low and I can’t see her eyes.
She’s always in a black and white BoRe baseball shirt with her long hair pulled back. I’ve noticed that she changes the color from blonde to brown depending on the season, but it’s always long. She’s always in the same seat for every home game, which leads me to believe she’s a season ticket holder, even though, by all accounts, she seems too young to be able to afford tickets this close to the field. It also hasn’t escaped my notice that the seat next to her is always empty. It should also be noted that I look for her each time I walk out of the dugout and walk to home plate, or when I finish warming up in between innings. There’s just something about her that keeps me interested, even though I don’t know her name, or anything about her.
What I do know and like is how she’s at every home game, wearing her Renegades gear. I really like that she’s a baseball fan, but more importantly that she never brings a guy with her, leading me to believe she’s single. I also like that she’s a mystery - I know finding out who she is wouldn’t be hard. I could send an usher to get her, or ask the office who the seats belong to. One of these days I’ll hit up the usher because asking the front office seems like a bad idea. I don’t want the ladies teasing me, and even though they’re nice and motherly, they’ll tease the crap out of me for showing interest in someone.
As soon as I step out onto the track, I’m looking in her direction. Her seat is still empty, but it’s early. We have two hours before the first pitch. I won’t start to worry yet. I’ve grown accustomed to having her there, even though I know in the back of my mind I’m making up most of the subtle looks I get from her.
“Looking for your girlfriend?” Travis Kidd, our left fielder, slaps me on my ass as he walks by. He turns and makes a lewd gesture with his hand and mouth. I throw a ball at his head, but he dodges it easily and starts laughing as he walks toward centerfield for warm-ups.