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A player who commonly hits with great power.
SYDNEY
The game has already started when we walk into the stadium. With Tatum in my arms, we’re met with a sea of maroon uniforms with gold numbers. The Sun Devils. ASU’s baseball team that currently ranks third in the PAC-12. From my research on the team’s website, he’s leading the NCAA with 51 strikeouts. And then there’s that mystery 105 mph pitch that’s been following him since its appearance last Saturday night. Since it’s virtually unheard of to throw that hard, it’s been talked about all over every sports outlet, and if I had to guess, the sold-out crowd here has something to do with it. They all want to know, was it a fluke, had the radar been off? It couldn’t have been because three different radars clocked him in at 105.8 at one point during the game.
I’m impressed, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see it in person, because I do.
I’ve been to the stadium a few times, and the moment I smell the hot dogs and popcorn, it’s as if I’m coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas.
Sadie leads us through the crowd to seats above the dugout along the first baseline. She scans the seats and points to them. “Here we are.”
Within minutes of sitting down, Tatum wants a corn dog. “Can I have a corny dog?”
I don’t know why she calls them that, but it’s become a habit for me to say it now too.
Just as I’m about to tell her yes, she can have anything she wants from the concession stands because that’s part of going to a baseball game, the announcer says, “Now taking the mound for his thirteenth appearance this year, Cason Reins!” the announcer drags out his last name as the stadium erupts with shouting and cameras going ballistic upon him emerging from the dugout. Tatum startles in my arms. She’s refusing to sit in her seat and instead on my lap.
I kiss the side of her face, my eyes on the chalk of the first baseline and Cason stepping over it. I focus on his name on the back of his jersey and his number 4. Funny enough, that was my dad’s number all through high school. Coincidence? Maybe. Probably not.
Tatum startles in my arms again when music begins to play and people start cheering louder. “It’s okay. It will be loud here.”
“Who hims?” she asks, leaning her head back against my shoulder and pointing her tiny finger at Cason.
I watch Cason strut to the mound, the rich brown silky groomed dirt beneath his cleats. “That’s the pitcher. He throws the ball to the batter, that guy over there.” I pause and point to the other dugout with the guy in the green jersey holding the bat. “And he tries to swing at it.”
“Oh” is all she says, her eyes darting around to everything around her. There’s so much to take in at a baseball game, especially for a child. I’m dying to know what’s going through her mind.
To me, baseball is a beautiful game. To some, it’s boring. If you think that, you don’t understand the true meaning of it. Rich with history, the true hardcore fans of the sport will look at you like you’ve lost your mind if you tell them it’s boring.
I can still remember my first game when I was a little older than Tatum. My dad took me to opening day for the Kansas City Royals. And it’s not until this moment, sitting with Tatum on my lap, that I’m brought back to those childhood memories I’ve stored away.
The sounds of cleats on pavement and theclack clack clack. The smell of the popcorn and hot dogs. Looking to the pitcher and noticing the sweat beading on his forehead of that distinct clap of the ball hitting the leather and the bellowing of the umpire calling a strike. The pine tar and the dirt clad knees of the players.
“From Lake Charles Louisiana, Cason Reins has been exactly what this team needed these last four years,” the announcer tells us.
I focus on Cason on the mound. He doesn’t look over at us, but I can tell it’s because he’s focused.
“Can I have that?” Tatum asks.
No, he’s mine, kid.
What? Ugh. Stop it, you stupid heart. Oh, wait, she’s talking about something else.
“What?”
Tatum points to the cotton candy another kid has. “Yummy?”
I nod. “It’s certainly yummy, but you’ll be bouncing off the walls.”
That does nothing to deter her. Sadie ends up taking her back to the concession stands for me as Cason stands on the mound.
With a deep inhale, he lifts his head and darts his eyes around the field. He kicks at the dirt in front of him, his eyes focused on Ez sixty feet from him. Nodding, he leans back, raises his hands in front of his face, and in one fluid motion, draws his right arm back and releases the ball. Thankfully he doesn’t hit a Tesla, and in turn, the ball whizzes by and hits the catcher’s mitt with a loud pop. The scoreboard lights up as the umpire bellows out the call of a strike.
98mph.
Not bad. Also, it’s stupid how good he looks in a baseball uniform. I hate it because I can’t stop staring at him.
Removing his hat, he waits for the ball to be returned and sweeps his hand across his forehead.