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AMANDA

TEN YEARS AFTER THE FASTBALL

“ B oys!” I shout up the stairs, anxiously glancing at my watch. “Hurry it up! Your dad is waiting for us!”

My twin sons, Ben and Sam, race down the stairs in their baseball uniforms, hair disheveled, and skid to a stop in the mudroom where they dig for their cleats and grab their mitts before heading to the car where James is patiently waiting.

After a short drive, we arrive at the ballfields and Ben and Sam race out of the car to meet up with their cousins in the dugout while James and I cross the field to the other dugout where the grown ups are waiting. Jake, Jax, and Jenna are already working on a game plan when we arrive, and Penelope hands me the scorebook so I can set myself up behind the backstop with Claire and Ben.

Ben and Sam take to the field with their cousins and the six of them start warming up; batting practice, a few infield drills led by Ben, my shortstop, and Leigh warms up her pitching arm, ready to face her dad in the batter’s box. It’s July Fourth, the day of our annual Hutchinson Kids vs. Grown Ups baseball game, and for the last few years we grown ups have had our rear ends handed to us by the kids.

And we have a Cy Young winner on our team.

We’re six on six, so infielders play a combination deep infield/shallow outfield, and we’ve made it work, but those kids move fast and we can’t keep up with them anymore. Not with a softball player, soccer player, and my two baseball players on the team. Ben has an affinity for shortstop, just as his dad did, and Sam loves playing second base. The two of them work in tandem so well together, turning double plays like they’re nothing.

“We ready for this?” Marcus calls from his spot behind home plate.

“Sure are!” The kids take to the field first, declaring themselves the home team, and Leigh takes the ball in her hand as Jake steps to the plate to lead off. Leigh has been playing softball for two years, so I expect a softball wind up and pitch, but she hikes her leg up and fires a fastball right at the heart of the plate. Jake is so stunned he doesn’t even try to swing.

“Strike one!” Marcus calls.

“What was that?” Jake ask a grinning Leigh as the rest of the kids cheer her on.

“ That was a fastball.”

After a three-up-three-down top of the first, it’s the adults’ turn to take to the field. Jake is on the mound, and Jenna crouches behind home plate as Ben leads off. He smacks one into the gap, and it’s far enough into center field that Penelope can’t get a jump on it. Ben stands on second base, taking a decent lead in what I’m sure is an attempt to steal.

If I were cheering for his team I’d tell him that it’s not a good idea to try and steal with his Auntie Jay crouched behind home plate, but that’s a lesson that needs to be learned firsthand. Leigh steps to the plate and digs into the batter’s box, a determined look in her eye as Jake stares her down from the pitcher’s mound.

He winds up and fires a wicked fastball down the heart of the plate. Leigh swings and misses, but gives it an honest effort.

“Strike one!”

Jake tries not to, but smirks at his daughter before winding up and firing another pitch, just outside to get her to chase, but she’s got a good eye.

“Ball one!”

Another fastball.

“Strike two!”

And then, I see it. The gleam in my brother-in-law’s eye.

He winds up and hurls a pitch down the heart of the plate, right in Leigh’s sweetspot. But it’s off speed, and Leigh swings too early as the ball drops.

“Strike three! You’re out!”

“What was that ?!” Leigh stands at the plate, stunned.

“That, my darling daughter, was a curveball.”

The kids make us pay for Jake’s little display of hubris and after they’ve handily beaten us, we all head to Mom and Dad’s for a cookout in the evening. We cook hot dogs on the fire, and s’mores of course, and as the sun goes down, James and I bid the family goodnight before walking home, leaving the boys with the family for the night.

July Fourth has never been James’ favorite observance, and he still struggles with it sometimes, so as night falls, we step into our library and shut the door behind us. He grabs my hand and pulls me down onto the couch beside him, picking up a book from the end table and opening it to where we left off.

Leaning my head on his shoulder, I sink deeper into his side, soaking up his warmth as he begins to read aloud. James and I have spent countless nights in this room over the years. This room that James so painstakingly and lovingly crafted for me all those years ago. He reads aloud from an old favorite, the book I was reading the day I met him on that plane from Seattle to New York. The day my life changed.

I hear the first round of fireworks in the distance and reach for a blanket from nearby, spreading it across our laps as James holds me just a bit tighter against him. After a few chapters, James lays the book on the end table, and presses a kiss to my temple.

“Did you have a good birthday?” I ask him, turning to face him.

“I did,” he nods, contemplatively. “It would have been better if we’d have beaten the kids, though.”

“Be careful how you say that!” I laugh and stand up from the couch, reaching out a hand to him. “Come on. Your birthday isn’t over yet.”

We turn on a baseball game and I shoo James into the living room while I put the finishing touches on his birthday cake. After my first birthday celebration with James, Penelope shared her confetti cake recipe with me, and I’ve been making it for him every year since.

Handing James a plate, I drop onto the couch next to him as we dig into the delicious cake.

“Best birthday ever.”

“You say that every year,” I mutter around a bite of cake.

“And I mean it every year.” He presses a kiss to my cheek. “Baseball. Cake. Time with you and the boys? That’s the makings of a perfect birthday.”

When the cake is gone, we move into the library and curl up together on the small couch. James pulls a blanket over us and opens a book – the same book that we’ve read together every summer since our first summer together. A book that he sent to me back when we only knew each other by nicknames. A book that he sent to me when I was at my lowest, that he reads to me anytime I’m sick, and that we’ve had to replace a few times over the years.

“Hey,” James pauses in his reading, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. “Would you look at that? The duke gets his duchess in the end.”

“She’s pretty lucky.”

“No Love, he’s the lucky one.”