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Thirty-nine
Patrick
The situation with Cari is beyond fucked but this I can count on. The crack of the bat and the whip of the ball. The way the brim of my hat shades my eyes from the bright morning sun. The sting that thwacks into the center of my palm and radiates up my arm when I catch a fast ball. Being out here, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in days.
“You look like shit,” the kid I’m catching for tells me, his tone matter-of-fact. His name is Chris and he’s about fifteen. A neighborhood kid—they all are, ranging in ages from thirteen to seventeen. Behind him, Declan lobs balls deep into the outfield while kids hustle to keep up.
Chris is our starting pitcher and I’m crouched about twenty yards away, hat turned backward, so he can get warmed up. “Yeah?” I say, standing to toss the ball back to him. “I’d rather look like shit than look like you.”
“Ohhh,” Chris shoots back with a laugh, his arm rocketing out to throw me a more than decent curve ball. “Old man’s got jokes.”
“I’m twenty-five.” I catch the ball before popping up from my crouch. “I won’t be old for another five years.” I throw the ball back, putting a little more zip on it that usual to make my point.
Chris keeps laughing and gives me a fast ball. “Whatever you say… old man.”
The kid’s curve is better than decent but his fastball is a thing of wonder. Fifteen-year-old me is more than a little jealous. The ball hits my hand so hard it goes numb. “Just keep throwing the ball, asshat,” I tell him. “I’ll let you know if I need a Geritol break.”
Chris stops for a second and cocks his head, grinning. “A what?”
I walked right into that one. “You talk too much,” I say, lowering myself into a crouch, planting my feet shoulder-width apart. “Just throw the ball. We don’t have all day.”
The game is at ten but Dec and I try to get here at least an hour early. He picks up kids who need rides in a company van while I stop at Benny’s and pick up a fuck-ton of breakfast burritos to feed the team. We tell them it’s because they need the protein but the real reason is because I know a lot of these kids don’t eat breakfast. To be honest, I don’t think a whole lot of them eat on a regular basis at all.
My senior year in college I had a business professor who assigned my class with drafting a business plan for a non-profit—that’s how Boston Batters was born. I knew from spending summers here as a kid that club ball cost a small fortune and city leagues didn’t offer the kind of instruction or involvement needed to help kids develop their talent or their character. So, instead of entrance fees and expensive equipment to buy, we offer the league for free. In return, the kids are required to participate in community service projects—some we set up and some they do on their own. So far, we have ten teams in the league, each sponsored and coached by different local businesses as well as a few larger firms and corporations. We practice a few evenings a week and have games on Sunday, going on two years now. As soon as I went into business with Declan, I talked him into sponsoring our first team. Tess and I are still working on Conner. It’s not the sponsoring he objects to. It’s the waking up before noon on a Sunday he isn’t sold on.
“Where’s my woman?” Chris called out, delivering his question with another fastball.
He’s talking about Cari. The kid’s had a crush on her since he joined the league, not that I can blame him. She comes to every game, somehow making jeans and a team T-shirt look downright sinful, to make sure the team stays hydrated and cheer them on.
“She’s got other plans today,” I say evasively.
“You guys fighting?” Chris says, concern spiking his tone. Like most of these kids, his home life isn’t the greatest. Fighting usually involves the cops and domestic battery charges.
“No,” I say shaking my head, tossing the ball back before dropping onto my haunches. “She has a date.” I think I manage to say it without sounding like I want to hunt that Chase prick down and stomp his skull in.
I must’ve pulled it off because Chris rolls his eyes, and throws me a slider. “Another douchebag?”
I catch the ball and throw it back. “He’s an artist—seems nice enough.”
“Seems nice enough,” Chris stops and laughs. “That’s what you said about that shit-face lawyer she was dating a few months back.”
“I’m gonna start charging laps for language,” I tell him, but only because I know I’m supposed to be a responsible adult. Truth is, I’m sure developing a gutter-mouth is the least of this kid’s worries. His mom pops oxys like they’re breath mints and his dad is a barely functioning alcoholic.
“Why don’t you just quit dicking around and ask her out already?” Chris says, completely ignoring my threats about his language.
“Because we’re just friends.” I’m so used to saying it that it comes out automatically. Catching the ball, I don’t toss it back. Instead, I stand and start walking, closing the distance between us.
“I don’t get it,” he says, pushing his hat up to scratch at his head. “According to Sean’s sister, you’re supposedly the hottest guy on the planet.” Sean is his best friend and starting shortstop. For his part, Chris looks skeptical. And a little jealous. Sean’s sister is seventeen and, besides Cari, his current object of infatuation.
Even though it makes me uncomfortable, I shrug. “So?”
“So, what’s the deal?” Chris widens his eyes at me and gestures broadly. “Apparently, you’re not a carnival freak and Cari’s a total smokeshow. It shouldn’t be that hard to bag—”
“Don’t talk about her like that.” The tone of my voice, flat and heavy, is something he’s never heard from me before and it shuts him down completely. Fuck. I’ve worked for years to get these kids to trust me and here I am practically ripping the kid’s head off for stating the obvious.
Even though I want to apologize—know I should—I don’t. “Declan’s lining everyone for batting practice.” I’m close enough to Chris to drop the ball into his gloved hand. “Why don’t you go get some swings in before the other team gets here.”
Chris doesn’t answer, he just bobs his head once before turning to leave me behind at a moderate jog. He’s halfway up third before he turns back to me and grins. “I take it back—you are a total carnival freak.” His gaze drifts past me and the grin on his face goes from sheepish to shit-eating in less than a second. “Someone’s here to see you,” he says, jerking his chin in my direction before loping off to join Declan and the rest of the team.