Third Base (The Boys of Summer Book 1)(32)
As a major league player, I have goals: Win a batting title, Homerun Derby title, World Series title, and bat for the cycle... just to name a few. I like to remain optimistic and think that I can achieve each goal with the Renegades, but in order to do so I need to be consistent and right now I feel like I’m not. It’s still early in the season, but that’s no excuse. My off-season training prepares me for these moments. I shouldn’t be failing my team or myself.
It’s the bottom of the fifth and I’m on deck. Preston Meyers is up to bat, ahead in the count and with no outs. Steve Bainbridge is on third after a deep right field pop-up by Kayden Cross allowed him to tag from second.
One look at the scoreboard tells me that if we want to win this game, we need to get some hits and base runners otherwise we’re going down… again. And frankly, I’m sick of losing to the Yankees.
Meyers drills one out to centerfield, scoring Bainbridge easily, and makes it to second, standing up. Bainbridge and I exchange a high-five after he crosses the plate, and he tips his hat to the fans, thanking them. I’ve wanted to talk to him about the rumors that the BoRe Blogger keeps posting, but the time is never right. Personally, I don’t want him to leave. He’s my mentor, someone I look up to on the team.
The closer I get to home plate, the more my eyes are trained on Daisy. The BoRe Blogger asked me to comment on whether or not she’s my girlfriend and I gave the same standard “no comment” tweet back. She’s a girl, and definitely a friend, so the title makes sense, however it means something when you put those words together and label them. In this day and age it’s hard to tell if women want a label, or if they’re too independent for something like that. It’s also an awkward conversation to have, and something I’m not good at doing. Hell, just thinking about bringing it up with her makes my hand twitch with nerves.
Daisy cracks a smile, but shies away by pulling her hat down. The BoRe Blogger published her name, effectively ruining any privacy I thought we’d have, and making her a target of sorts at the game. If I don’t do well, people are saying shit to her and that pisses me off. My game performance has nothing to do with her… okay maybe it does a little bit, but not much. If anything, she makes me want to work harder to impress her more. It’s stupid, I know. I should want to work hard to better myself, not for some chick. But I can’t help it. One look at Daisy and I’m weak in the knees and willing to follow her around like a lost puppy dog.
After adjusting everything humanly possible, I step up to the plate and show my bat. With it cocked back and ready, I wait for the first pitch. This pitcher is taking his sweet ass time, and it’s pissing me off. He looks from me to Meyers - who is just off second, waiting to see what I’m going to do - and back to me before delivering the pitch. I know I’m swinging for the fences on this one. He’s sent me a meatball right down the center. I step forward, rotating my hips and shoulders as my bat comes around. The sweet sound of wood and hard rubber colliding has the stadium of fans up and out of their seats. Someday I want to be so respected that I can wait and see who catches my homerun, but this is not the time. I drop the bat, watching the ball fly into the stands before I start jogging to first to start my trip around the bases. Fireworks go off in centerfield, music plays and my teammates are at home plate to greet me as soon as I cross.
I glance quickly at the scoreboard and see that now we’re only down by three runs. We have a few innings left to score and hold the Yankees to no more runs. More high-fives are given when I enter the dugout. The adrenaline is pumping and I find myself clapping loudly as our designated hitter, Branch Singleton, walks toward home plate. Everyone’s on their feet with their rally rags flying through the air, cheering as loud as they can over Branch’s music.
“Why don’t you move her to the correct side?” Travis Kidd stands on the stairs beside me, cocking his head in the general direction of Daisy and smirking.
Shaking my head, I spit out a few of the sunflowers seeds I’ve been sucking on and continue to lean on the railings with my arms dangling over. “She has season tickets and likes it over there.”
“But if she’s behind you, or with the other wives, she can ogle your ass a bit more.”
“You’re such a dumbass.”
“Just sayin’,” he says as he spits out whatever’s in his mouth out.
“I don’t want her hassled by the wives. You know whose wife is out for blood right now and Daisy doesn’t need to be subjected to that shit, plus we just started seeing each other. I don’t want to scare her away.”
Bainbridge’s wife is on a rampage and hell bent to find out who Steve has been screwing behind her back. She’s texted all of us, asking questions, but the truth is, if he is doing something like that, none of us know about it. Not that we’d tell her either. There’s solidarity in our brotherhood and that pisses her off so she’s been going after the wives.
We all stand tall when Singleton smacks the ball into the outfield. We raise our arms, thinking it’s gone and groan when the centerfielder jumps up and snags the ball out of the air before it clears the wall.
“Shit,” a few of us mumble as Singleton returns to the dugout. He’s pissed and throwing his helmet at the wall with a string of slurs coming out of his mouth. To make matters worse, he was traded from the Yankees to Boston a few seasons back and has held a grudge ever since. The trade didn’t make sense – Branch is one of the most consistent DH’s in the league – once his name hit the trade wire, teams started a bidding war. Even if they didn’t need him, they wanted him. Boston wasn’t even the highest bidder, but they are the archrival of the Yankees, and Branch wanted to stick it to them. Most of the time he does.