Page 18

Flying Solo

Charlie

It all comes down to this. The crowd is on their feet, cheering and hollering as if there’s no tomorrow. I take a deep breath, trying to block out the noise and focus on the task at hand.

I’m Charlie McManus. I’m a badass pitcher. I can play baseball in my sleep. I can also hit a curveball if I keep my head on straight and remember what Roy said. The rest will take care of itself.

Stepping up to the plate, I tighten my grip on the bat as I sling it over my shoulder. The pitcher eyes me warily; I eye him right back and anchor myself in the dirt.

The first pitch—a fastball—comes in hot. I don’t even think; I swing with all my might. The bat slices through empty air with a whoosh. Strike one.

I scowl, not liking the result one bit. But that’s okay. Not everyone scores a home run on their first swing. Shaking it off, I reset my feet in the batter’s box. I won’t let one missed pitch get in my head. The next one will be mine.

The pitcher winds up again, then sends a curveball my way. It dips low and away at the last second. I fight the natural urge to swing and am rewarded for my efforts. Ball one.

As the catcher throws a new ball out to the pitcher, I take the brief respite to scan the field.

What I want is to send the ball between the second and third bases, straight into the outfield.

That’ll give me the opportunity to make it to first, send Joe Bryce to third, and allow Javi Morales to come home.

Another mean fastball is thrown at me. As it inches closer, I already know that this is the one.

My hips rotate powerfully as my arm swings forward. When the ball meets the bat with a satisfying crack, it’s music to my ears.

The bat goes flying out of my hands, clattering somewhere behind me as I take off toward first base. My eyes stay locked on the ball—a perfect line drive slicing through the afternoon sun—as it hurtles deep into the outfield.

My long legs propel me forward, cleats digging into the packed dirt with each powerful stride. I barely register the burn in my quads and glutes because the only thing on my mind is not messing up this chance.

Reaching first, I risk a glance at the outfield. The center fielder lunges to make the catch, but it’s far enough out of reach that he lands face-first in the grass, empty-handed. Our first base coach urges me to keep running, so I do.

Knowing when to quit while I’m ahead, I come to a screeching halt at second base.

I bend over, hands on my knees, as I catch my breath. I did it. I came through in the clutch.

Suddenly, the pressure, the expectations, and the uncertainty are gone. In its place is pure joy for playing the game I love with the guys I’d go to war for.

For the tiniest of seconds, I let myself imagine what it might be like to do this for a living. And God, does it feel good.

After fielding a few questions from the press, I hit the showers.

Everyone is in full post-victory mode—we ended up winning 5-1.

Jokes fly through the steamy air and more than one ass receives a celebratory slap.

Javi Morales, our shortstop, starts singing a horribly off-key rendition of “We Are the Champions,” and it quickly turns into a choir of jocks.

And because this is New York, that song quickly turns into Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” complete with a dong-filled kick line.

Daniel nudges me with his elbow as he runs his fingers through his soapy hair. “You were on fire out there, man.”

I grab my bar of soap and wash under my arms. “It was a team effort.”

Daniel shakes his head, sending shampoo suds in every direction. “Don’t be so modest, Charlie. Those scouts couldn’t take their eyes off you.”

My stomach flip-flops at the word “scouts.” After all the worrying I’d been doing over the past few days, it all ended up being for naught.

I dominated out there. On the mound, at the plate. If they weren’t thinking of signing me come the summer, they certainly are now.

“Did you hear the crowd chanting your name?” Daniel continues. “They love you, man.”

It’s true—the chanting of my name was insane. I never expected anything like that, especially as a college player. Growing up, I focused on playing the game I loved. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine having real, honest-to-God fans who know my name and stats and want my autograph.

When I first arrived at Ashford, I was a nobody.

A small-town kid way out of his depth at a big fancy college in New York.

I was extremely nervous during those initial weeks of practice, terrified that I wouldn’t measure up to the other players who were all experienced and talented.

I kept my head down, worked my butt off, and prayed no one would realize I had no idea what I was doing half the time.

But slowly, I found my groove. My pitching got more accurate and my batting more powerful. The coaches took notice, and I got more playing time. And somewhere along the way, I guess other people noticed too.

First, it was little kids running up to me after games, their eyes wide as they shyly asked for a high five or a selfie. I was blown away when it happened. Like, who am I to warrant that kind of attention and admiration?

Then it was teenagers who wanted me to sign their hats or jerseys, gushing about how they wanted to play college ball someday, and hoped to be as good as I was. Even grown adults—parents and grandparents, and everyone in between—came up to shake my hand and congratulate me on a game well played.

“And the team”—Daniel grabs the bar of soap from my hands and rubs it over his muscular chest—“has your back, no matter what. You’re our ace, and we’ll follow you anywhere.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I have to blink back the sudden moisture in my eyes. I try to tell myself it’s the shampoo, but who am I kidding? These guys are more than my teammates. They’re my brothers. We’ve been through so much together, on and off the field.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I say, my voice rougher than usual. “Any of you.”

Daniel claps me on the shoulder, his hand lingering for a beat longer than necessary. “You’ll never have to find out because we’re in this together.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “And the scouts? Do you really think they liked what they saw?”

Daniel scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Charlie, they loved it. I overheard a couple of them talking after the game. They were throwing around words like ‘can’t-miss prospect’ and ‘future star.’ Trust me, you nailed it.”

Relief, as warm and comforting as the water, washes over me. “Thanks, man,” I say, slapping Daniel on the ass and leaving behind a big soapy handprint because why not? “For everything.”

We finish showering, grab towels from the rack by the shower entrance, and wrap them around our waists. As we walk down the hall that takes us past Coach’s office to the locker room, I ask, “Do you think Harrison’s mad at us?”

Daniel scratches his head. “For what?”

“For not making a greater effort. To see him, I mean. After that night at his parents’ place, we kinda went MIA on his ass.”

“We’ve been busy,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’m sure he gets it.”

The locker room is as much a frenzy of horseplay and half-naked manliness as the showers were.

Joe Bryce, our first baseman, has fashioned a victory crown out of tin foil— where the hell did he even find that?

—and is parading around like a deranged baseball king.

He’s converted his towel into a cloak, and his bat is now a scepter. His real bat, not his…

“Hear ye, hear ye!” Joe Bryce proclaims, pounding his baseball bat scepter against the locker room floor. The hollow thud of the aluminum reverberates around the room. “I hereby declare Charlie McManus as this week’s most valuable player!”

My face flushes as the entire team erupts, slamming their hands against the benches, the locker stalls, even their thighs. Daniel puts his fingers in his mouth and lets out an ear-piercing whistle that nearly bursts my eardrum.

“Speech! Speech!” someone calls out from the back. Others quickly take up the chant. “Speech! Speech!”

I hold up my hands in a futile attempt to quiet them down, but it only makes them cheer louder.

I’ve never been much for public speaking, constantly stumbling over my words and turning red as a tomato.

Talking to the press is fine because I’m discussing sports.

But this? Talking about myself? I’d rather end up on Fear Factor and eat bull testicles.

Clearing my throat, I step up onto one of the benches, wobbling slightly as it cracks under my weight.

“Okay, I hear ya. Settle down.” I wave my hands, and the noise diminishes to a low murmur.

“First of all, I want to say thank you. To all of you. I couldn’t have done what I did today without your support. ”

“Damn straight!” someone shouts, and laughter ripples through the room.

“Seriously, though. You guys are the best. The way you had my back out there today, the way you always have, means everything to me. I know I can be a head case sometimes”—more laughter—“but you never let me fall too far into despair. You pull me out of my funk, dust me off, and remind me of what’s important—this team. ”

I pause for a second as emotion clogs my throat. Around the room are a bunch of nodding heads and solemn expressions. They get it.

“So, yeah, I might have thrown a few decent pitches today”—someone scoffs loudly at that, and I grin—“but it was a team effort. We won this game together . And whatever happens next, whether the scouts liked what they saw or not, I know we’ll win the next one.

And the one after that, and the one after that.

Because that’s what we do. We win. As a team. ”

For a beat, there’s silence. Then Daniel starts clapping. Slowly at first, then faster, until it spreads like wildfire.