Fools Rush in(74)

“You wish, kiddo. Next time, watch where you’re rolling.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

TRUE TO MY PROMISE to Danny, I went to a baseball game.

The poison ivy had cleared up, just a couple of pale patches not readily visible to the na**d eye. On a beautiful sunny evening, Katie, the boys and I went over to the high school to watch the big boys play. We sat on the bleachers while Corey and Mike played in the sand underneath, where Tripod was lying per Joe’s instruction. The dog was incredibly well-behaved, wagging agreeably if approached, waiting patiently for his master. Maybe Joe could give me some tips on how to get Digger to stop humping legs.

Despite having a dad who could name every player in every sport and a brother-in-law who had been as close to an athlete god as they come, I didn’t really enjoy sports. Too much of a good thing, I guess, since all my memories of childhood weekends involved some sporting event, on TV or live. But with Danny involved, I was excited. And of course, there was my boyfriend, looking rather magnificent in his Bluebeard’s Bait and Tackle uniform.

Joe and Danny were on the same team, Joe the pitcher, Danny the shortstop. Very prestigious positions, Katie informed me. Her twin brother, Trevor, was on the same team, in right field, so it was clear where our allegiance lay. Poor Sam. He played first base for the opposing team, Sleet’s Hardware. But my parents were here, so they could cheer for him. Not that they would, with their only grandchild playing for Bluebeard’s…

Katie and I chatted, not really paying attention that much, clapping when other people clapped. It was a beautiful night, a breeze just strong enough to keep the bugs away (that and the Deep Woods OFF! we had liberally bathed in). Watching Joe pitch was lovely, however. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way, for an appreciative murmur went up each time he wound up. There were plenty of high-school girls here, some to watch Danny, who had recently and suddenly gone from awkwardly cute to damn good-looking. Plenty of summer people wandered into the field to enjoy this most American of pastimes.

The game was pretty dull, and not just by my standards. Only one or two players made it to base. Sam hit a fly ball his first time up, caught by Katie’s brother. Danny struck out on his first time up, and Joe made it to first but no farther. The fun part was watching the easy grace of the men, throwing, catching, leaning on their knees. Danny looked so…adult out there. He adeptly fielded the balls that came his way and was rewarded with a good bit of applause and appreciative bellowing from my dad.

With two men on in the fourth inning, Sam stepped up to the plate.

“Easy out, easy out,” called a woman in the first row. It was Carol, Sam’s date from my birthday party. Sam heard her and turned around to grin. He tapped his cleats with his bat and took a practice swing. On the pitcher’s mound, Joe squinted at the catcher.

“Carol!” I called. “Come sit with us!”

She turned and shielded her eyes and waved. “Oh, hi, Millie! I’m with my neighbors, but thanks,” she answered.

“Oh, okay,” I said. “We’re going to the Barnacle later. Can you come?”

“Sure. That would be nice.”

“Hey, batter, batter,” someone else called. “Three pitches, Joe.” It was my dad.

Joe grinned and waved the infield in a few steps. Sam laughed easily—ever the good sport—and stepped up to the plate. Joe threw the pitch. Strike one.

“Two more, Joe,” called Carol, laughing. Sam smiled again.

“You got the stuff, Joe,” a woman called. Might have been my mom.

Another pitch. Sam swung and missed. The crowd clapped, a few feminine voices calling more support for my boyfriend. Poor old Sam! I stood up. “Come on, Sam!” I yelled. “Knock it out of the park!”

Katie and a few other people laughed, and Joe looked at me in surprise. Well, too bad. His fan club was big enough. I gave him a cheeky smile. He grinned back and wound up for the next pitch. Ball one.

“Good eye, good eye, Sam!” I yelled, still standing and clapping.

Katie stood up, too. “Take your time, Sam.”

Sam tipped his helmet to us. “Thank you, ladies,” he called. Joe wound up again and threw, high and outside. Ball two.

“Got him on the ropes now, buddy!” I yelled.

On the mound, Joe motioned for a time-out. He loped off the field toward us and climbed right up onto the bleachers where I was standing. “You’re my girlfriend,” he said, planting a big kiss on my mouth. “You’re supposed to be cheering for me.” With that, he turned around and trotted back to the mound as the crowd laughed.

“Come on, Sam!” I called again, undeterred. Joe shook his head, smiling, and Sam waved again.

The wind-up. The pitch. Crack! The ball flew high into the air and over the left fielder, who bounded after it. As Sam raced for first, his helmet flew off. The other runners on base scored, and Sam slid into second. Joe cocked an eyebrow at me, his hands on his hips. I blew him a kiss.

By the bottom of the ninth, the score remained 2–0, Sam’s team. Joe came up to bat and made it to first, and I applauded enthusiastically, if a bit automatically. After all, I didn’t really care who won as long as Danny held his own. Besides, Corey and Mike were getting tired. Sal DiStefano also got on base. So did Katie’s brother. Bases loaded. Danny came up to bat, and my heart leaped into my throat.