Page 48

PLATOON

JAXON

When two players share playing time at a particular position.

T he late-afternoon sun beats down on PK Park, casting long shadows across the infield. The crowd’s getting restless—you can feel it in the air, that tension that comes with a tied game in the seventh.

As Jameson steps onto the mound for the bottom of the inning, the student section’s still going strong, all green and yellow, their “Let’s go Ducks” chant echoing off the press box. Sometimes I forget how beautiful this place is, the fir trees beyond center field swaying in the Eugene breeze.

All that green in the stands catches my eye between warmup pitches—Duck fans decked out in our colors. Green like her eyes.

Fuck. Didn’t mean to think about Camdyn right now.

I haven’t heard from her in days, though she’s on my mind more often than not. I’ve been too focused on learning to catch with a broken nose, trying to ignore how every pitch makes my face throb like someone’s swinging a hammer at it.

Another flash of green in the stands and there she is in my head again.

I haven’t seen her in over two weeks, and it feels like forever when you’re used to seeing someone every day.

But between the pain meds making me foggy and Coach riding my ass about my pitch calls being off, I haven’t had the headspace for anything else.

My stare shifts from the student section to Jameson.

He draws in a deep breath, holds the ball loosely at his side.

He’s in control now and he knows it. We study film together, come up with a plan for each batter.

Today that’s harder than usual. The pain meds are wearing off and my mask keeps pressing right where it shouldn’t.

But baseball doesn’t stop for a broken nose, and neither do scouts.

I adjust my mask between pitches, trying to find a spot where it doesn’t feel like someone’s stabbing me in the face.

The doctor said it’d hurt for weeks. What he didn’t say was how every sneeze would feel like death, or how I’d wake up tasting blood, or how catching ninety-mile-per-hour fastballs would send shockwaves through my skull and make me see stars.

But here I am, because that’s what we do. We play through it.

The only pitcher on our team I’ve caught for is Jameson. We paired up last season and it works for us. I know what he wants to throw before the batter even steps in the box. We study film together, make a plan for each guy.

If there’s a runner on first—and we know he’s going to steal—when I throw Jameson the ball, he’ll catch it in a certain way to let me know the next pitch will be high and outside so we can get that runner out.

If he catches the ball and holds his mitt in front of his face, I know a breaking ball is coming next.

If he touches his hat, it’s a curveball.

If he taps his mitt to his cheek, it’s a changeup.

Why does he do this? It saves us time, no back-and-forth over pitch calls.

Jameson reads batters better than any pitcher I’ve seen.

He misses things sometimes, though, and I have my own cues to let him know when he’s not seeing what I am. If I touch my left knee after he makes a call, he knows he should throw a fastball. If I adjust my mask, time for a breaking ball.

I’m looking for everything—how close they are to the plate, how they’re holding their hands, their grip, their hot zone.

Every batter’s hunting a pitch and I can tell by their stance and how they’re holding the bat which one they want.

Even so, it doesn’t matter what pitch they’re looking for with Jameson’s movement on the ball.

I could tell the batter to his face, “Hey man, sinker in—be ready,” and he’s still not hitting it.

But umpires make everything harder.

Sometimes I argue with umpires. They get on my fucking nerves.

Usually, we friends. I can tolerate their shitty calls and chalk it up to them just trying to do their job.

And let’s be real: a baseball coming at nearly a hundred miles per hour and breaking at the plate, it’s hard to make an accurate call every single time.

That said, sometimes, they’re absolute trash.

They don’t know a strike from their nut sack.

Like this guy behind the plate for the last game in the series against the Duck’s.

He’s definitely not my favorite. We’re 1-1 with them and this win matters.

The scoreboard glares 2-2 in the seventh, every pitch counting more.

The calls start to piss me off when he calls a curve—a beauty—a ball. It breaks right before the plate and curves over the top right corner.

“Ball,” he bellows as I’m holding my glove in the exact spot it was thrown.

I stay crouched, look at my feet, then my glove. I hold it there and look up at him. “Ya sure?”

He levels me a look. He’s pissed I’m arguing, but after the third straight ball he’s called, I don’t know what the hell he’s seeing and Oregon is definitely taking advantage by not swinging.

“You wanna try that again? Your feet are outside the box.” He points to where I’m crouched.

I hold the ball in my right hand. “My man, my feet might be outside but my glove is inside. Look there before you make the call. My glove was on the outside corner.” I stand and toss the ball back to Jameson.

I know exactly what I’ve been doing. I’d set up for the pitch, give the sign, then move outside.

My glove was in the box. My feet? Who knows.

I have big feet. Maybe they were on the line, sure, but I’m in the fucking box.

I look at Coach Allen and he glares, as frustrated as I am with the calls this joker is making.

“This is your warning.” The ump takes his mask off, stands inches from me. “Keep your feet in the box.”

I snort and take mine off too. “Why ya gotta say it like that?” I squint into the sun and wipe sweat from my forehead. “I didn’t say anything about the last six pitches you called balls that were right down the middle.”

Coach Allen stomps out of the dugout, his cleats clicking against the concrete. “What’s the problem?”

I motion toward the ump with my helmet. “He’s calling balls because he says I’m setting up outside the box.”

Coach Allen looks at him and the ump on the line, pushing his purple Huskies cap back. “As long as his glove’s there, it shouldn’t matter.”

They exchange words, but Jameson throws three knuckleballs that are untouchable to strike out the next batter.

Those pitches move so much the Duck at the plate looks like he’s swatting a drunk butterfly.

He has no chance—swings like a screen door in a hurricane—to end the inning.

A handful of Husky fans try to get a “Go Dawgs” chant going, but it drowns in the sea of green and yellow.

The visitor’s dugout at PK Park smells like pine tar, Big League Chew, and sweaty desperation. Ollie’s working on his third Gatorade tower of empty cups, and our right fielder is doing his usual ritual of lining up his gear like he’s prepping for a satanic baseball ceremony.

The Oregon mascot keeps waddling past our dugout, doing this stupid dance that’s getting old real quick. Even the damn fir trees beyond center field seem to be mocking us.

Jameson, completely unbothered by the calls at the plate, shrugs. “I’d give my left nut to have a dumpy like that.”

I have no clue if he’s talking about the ump, the mascot, or maybe even Ollie.

Sometimes I wonder if Jameson’s actually in the same game as us, or if he just blocks out everything but pitching.

I’ve known a lot of pitchers—they’re a different breed: quiet, calculating, obsessive, perfectionist. Jameson?

He’s watching the crowd like he’s scouting for his next ex-girlfriend while we’re trying to steal a win in enemy territory.

He nods to a girl in the stands. “She’s smugglin’ coins in her cooch.”

I stare at him. He’s random, sure, but this is another level. We’re in the middle of a tied game, surrounded by drunk Oregon fans heckling us since warmups, and my man’s out here doing reconnaissance on their student section’s anatomy. “The fuck, man?”

“Never mind.” He waves his hand at me and points to Kingston, who’s up.

Kingston’s doing that thing where he adjusts his cup every three seconds like his dick’s trying to escape, and some Oregon kid keeps yelling, “Daddy’s money!

” like UW doesn’t have better academic standards than this place.

“Pay attention. What’s King’s count? And why the hell’s he grabbing himself like that? ”

“I don’t know.” I spit seeds to the side and they hit Coach Lou, who’s standing like a statue with his arms crossed, clipboard tucked under his arm like it’s part of his DNA. The sunflower seed shells scatter across the dugout floor, joining the mess of tape, dirt, and gum wrappers.

Coach Lou stares, that vein in his forehead doing its usual dance. He’s got this way of looking at you like he’s planning your murder and the funeral at the same time. I hold up my hands. “My bad, Louy.”

Again, nothing. Just that dead-eyed stare that makes me wonder if he practiced in the mirror.

There’s a conversation behind me that saves me from Lou’s death glare.

“Yo, ain’t Camdyn dating that soccer player?” Ollie asks, and despite him getting on my nerves today over a missed tag, he has my full attention.

My stomach drops like I missed a step downstairs. I stare at him and our eyes meet. “Who?”

“Camdyn, you know.”

I know why he says that. All the guys know my history with Camdyn and probably filled Ollie in. I don’t know how much he knows about us still sleeping together. The fact that he’s bringing it up has me thinking he doesn’t know shit.

I clear my throat and try to look relaxed, but my grip on the dugout bench tightens until my knuckles go white. “No? What soccer player?” I don’t want to lead on but I’m sure by the flush in my cheeks I’m showing my annoyance. Camdyn hasn’t said anything about talking to him or going on a date.