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ACE

JAXON

A starting pitcher, also known as the “ace,” is the team’s best pitcher.

I t’s weird being on this side of the fence.

I’m used to dugouts, cleats, the smell of fresh dirt and bubblegum—not stadium seats, not being just another face in the crowd.

Definitely not sitting between King, who’s shouting stats at anyone who’ll listen, and Fork Guy, who’s already eaten two hot dogs and is eyeing the nacho stand like it owes him money.

I haven’t been to one of Camdyn’s games all year. Not since everything went to hell last season. Watching her from the stands at a World Series game is a whole different kind of nerves. Out here, I can’t do anything but watch. Out here, I have to let her be great on her own.

King elbows me, nearly knocking my foam finger into a grandma’s lap. “You see her warm-up? She’s locked in.”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “She is.” He’s right. There’s a different kind of confidence about her today—one I haven’t seen in years.

Fork Guy returns with a tray holding something that looks radioactive. “Jaxon! Bro! They have funnel cake tacos. It’s like someone deep-fried my childhood trauma and put it on a plate.” He takes a massive bite and immediately coughs powdered sugar onto King’s Husky shirt.

“Dude,” King groans, brushing off his shirt, “you’re a hazard.”

Fork Guy shrugs, mouth full. “I’m a pioneer. Also, did you know the Dippin’ Dots lady used to do roller derby? Her name was Pain Freeze. We’re tight now.”

He’s not kidding. Three rows around us, Fork Guy’s already made friends with a retired couple from Tulsa, a pack of middle schoolers in matching visors, and a guy named Steve who sells kettle corn and has opinions about the designated hitter rule.

Brody, the kid from the hotel, is back too—now dual-wielding a foam bat and a churro, living his best life.

“Fork Guy!” a voice shouts from two sections over. “You want my extra nachos?”

Fork Guy stands, bows, and sprints down the row, leaving a trail of crumpled napkins and pure admiration in his wake.

King shakes his head, grinning. “He’s a menace. How do you know people like that?”

“I have no idea,” I admit, but I’m glad he’s here.

Glad they both are. If it weren’t for King’s running commentary (“That’s her third straight strike in warmups—she’s dialed, bro!

”) and Fork Guy’s never-ending quest to try every food in the park, I’d probably be pacing the concourse, having an anxiety attack.

I look down at the field and spot Camdyn in the bullpen. She looks so calm, so focused, like nothing could touch her. I know better. I know how hard she’s worked to get here, how much she’s carried. I want to yell something supportive, something clever, but I stay quiet.

I’ve never been this nervous for someone else. I know I can’t help her out there, but at least I can be here. At least she knows she has people in her corner, even if one of them is currently leading a conga line with the Dippin’ Dots lady and a swarm of ten-year-olds.

Fork Guy returns, now wielding a turkey leg like a medieval warlord. “Game on, boys. I’m fueled up and emotionally prepared.”

I’m not sure I am, but I nod anyway. “Mhm.”

The anthem starts. The crowd rises. And for the first time all season, I’m exactly where I should be—cheering for her , watching her be the star, hoping today’s the day everything finally comes together for her. Whatever happens, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

By the time the first pitch leaves Camdyn’s hand, Devon Park is a living, breathing madhouse.

King is vibrating with excitement, stats app open, narrating softly. Fork Guy is already on his second “official” hot dog and third “unofficial” snack (he claims the nachos were “for Brody,” but Brody is currently trading pins with a grandma from Norman). I try to block them out and just watch her.

By the third inning, Fork Guy has somehow befriended the entire row behind us—a youth baseball team from Tulsa (all with forks tucked behind their ears “for luck”), two security guards, and Steve, who’s now passionately explaining kettle corn economics.

Brody is back too—still dual-wielding, still living his best life.

I turn to Fork Guy. “We’re not keeping the kid. You’re leaving him here in Oklahoma.”

Fork Guy levels me with a serious look. “He’s from Florida.”

Why that matters, I have no idea.

“Fork Guy!” a voice shouts from two sections over. “You want my extra nachos?”

Fork Guy immediately takes them up on the offer. Minutes later, he’s back, arms loaded with snacks, and a small crowd has started chanting “FORK GUY! FORK GUY!” every time the stadium does a giveaway.

I wonder if I should regret bringing him.

Is this what losing control of your life feels like?

On the other hand, without Fork Guy’s food tour, new friendships, and crowd work, I’d be a mess right now.

I can’t tell if I’m grateful for the distraction or if I should apologize to the state of Oklahoma.

The game is a seesaw. Oklahoma scratches out a run in the third. UW ties it in the fourth on a bloop single. Camdyn is dealing—movement on her drop ball filthy, rise ball impossible to lay off. She’s sweating, breathing hard, but you can see it—she wants this more than anyone.

Fork Guy starts a chant: “LET’S GO CAM!” The entire section joins in, Brody waving a homemade sign that says, “MY MOM FOUND ME. GO UW!”

Fifth inning, UW down 3-2. Two outs, bases empty. Camdyn steps in. The crowd is buzzing, but for me everything narrows—just her, bat on her shoulder, jaw set.

First pitch, ball one. Second pitch—a fastball low and inside. She turns on it, and time stops. The crack is so pure, so loud, it echoes off the stadium roof. Left fielder drifts back, back—runs out of room.

Gone.

Tie game.

King is screaming, hugging everyone in sight.

Fork Guy dumps lemonade over his own head, then throws his visor into the air, nearly decapitating a popcorn vendor.

Brody starts the worm down the aisle. I just sit there, grinning like an idiot, watching Camdyn round the bases—head high, smiling for the first time all game.

Sixth inning. Both teams threaten, nobody scores. Fork Guy is now running stats on napkins for everyone in our section. “Probability of Camdyn being a superhuman: high. Probability of me finishing this tray of nachos: also high.”

Seventh inning. Tied 3-3, two outs, UW has a runner on third. Brynn at the plate. She fouls off three straight pitches. The tension is unbearable; King looks like he’s about to faint.

Brynn lines a single up the middle. Runner scores. 4-3, UW.

The bottom of the seventh is agony. Oklahoma puts two on, one out. Camdyn digs in, eyes sharp. She gets a pop-up. Two down. The stadium is roaring—half crimson, half purple. Last batter, OU’s best hitter.

Fork Guy is standing on his chair, arms raised, leading our whole section in a bizarre, off-key softball cheer I think he Googled. King is muttering, “Just one more. Just one more,” and I can barely breathe.

When you’ve played the game as long as Camdyn and I have, these are the moments you dream about. Sometimes you get there and it all falls apart right before your eyes. You never know when everything will finally fall into place and that dream becomes reality.

Camdyn shakes off the first two pitch calls, then nods to the third.

I watch her breathe in, blink slowly, step back, and wind up.

First pitch, swinging strike. Next pitch, outside, ball one.

Third pitch—a changeup, perfectly placed.

Swing and a miss. The place is shaking. Fourth pitch, ball, low. Still have two balls to work with.

One strike away.

Camdyn takes a breath. Shakes off another pitch, then sets. Delivers.

Rise ball, just above the hands. Hitter chases. Strike three.

Game over.

UW wins the College World Series for the first time in history, 4-3 over Oklahoma.

Chaos erupts. King hugs strangers, Fork Guy is crowd-surfing (I have no idea how this started, but two dads in Sooner hats are helping), Brody’s trying to find a security guard to high-five.

I stand there, watching Camdyn leap into her teammates’ arms, her face pure joy. She’s never looked more alive.

She finds me in the stands, eyes shining, and I lose it—cheering, yelling, not caring who hears. All the nerves, the waiting, the not-knowing—gone. She did it.

We did it, in a way. But it’s all her.

Fork Guy appears beside me, holding up a lemonade in toast. “To the queen of the diamond! And to whatever snack is next.” Brody is right behind him, wearing two rally towels like a superhero cape.

I turn to Fork Guy, lowering my voice. “Hey, man, I know you and Brody have a vibe, but you can’t bring him back to Seattle. He’s got parents.”

Fork Guy’s face falls, genuinely bummed. “But he’s got so much potential! He’s already learned the secret handshake, and he beat King at tic-tac-toe with a hot dog. Plus, he’s the only one who laughed at my fork jokes.”

“Still.” I try to keep a straight face. “Pretty sure there are laws about this. You have to give him back eventually. Maybe even today.”

Brody shrugs, totally unbothered. “My mom says I need to be home before America’s Got Talent anyway.”

Fork Guy sighs, melodramatic. “Fine. But it’s a real loss for the Seattle youth scene. Brody, if your mom ever wants to send you to summer camp, I know a guy with a lot of Capri Sun and a dream.”

King snorts, and I shake my head, grinning. “You’re not allowed to open a camp.”

Fork Guy perks up, already distracted by his next wild idea. “What if it’s a food truck that’s also a camp?”

I ignore him and ruffle Brody’s hair. “Go find your mom, bud. And maybe don’t follow strange guys in fork necklaces next time.”

Brody grins. “Okay! Go UW!”

As Brody runs off into the crowd, Fork Guy salutes with a half-eaten churro, looking like a proud, slightly heartbroken uncle. “He’s gonna go far, that one,” he says with a sniff.