Field awareness. It’s one of the first things my dad taught me. I was still in diapers when I’d stand beside him at the fence of a ball field. I’d stick one sneaker through the metal links the same way he did.
See what’s there, but see what’s coming next.
My father lied about everything else, but never baseball.
Now, I quickly scan the situation. The booth is elevated to give us a view of the field and the scoreboard through a huge cutout window. There’s no glass, so I’m not sure how they cover it for the five days every year that it rains here, but it does give us great sightlines.
I’m not an expert at sports broadcasting, but I do know it’s Garrett’s job to update the audience on everything happening on the field. As the color commentary person, I’m supposed to add in stats about the players and opinions on how they’ve been doing. It doesn’t help that this is my first game in four years at Cholla. On the other hand, it’s not as if I can’t talk baseball.
“The catcher is setting up outside,” I say. “Looking for Evan Harris to chase one.” Sure enough, he swings at a ball that’s at least a foot off the plate.
“Harris’s swing catches nothing but air. The count is Oh and One,” Garrett adds.
Two more balls follow along with another strike. “The Tigers’ pitcher is throwing really well,” I say. “He’s got a sharp curveball with great depth to pair with his sinking two-seam fastball.”
Garrett nods. “You have a good eye.”
“Better than Evan Harris. He just swung at what would have been three balls.”
Garrett winces as Harris does a walk of shame to the dugout. “The Wildcats leave two runners on base. We head to the seventh, down four to three.”
He turns two knobs on what I think is the soundboard. “We’re on mute.” He swivels toward me. “Not bad.” He measures me with his eyes, taking in my messy brown ponytail, Jane Eyre T-shirt, and my comfy but clunky sandals. He’s wondering where I fit. Five years ago, I would have said right here.
I watch the teams change place on the field. It doesn’t feel real that I’m here. In a stadium. At a game. I blink as if the field might disappear, but it’s there along with the sound of the ball smacking gloves as the players warm up their arms. It even smells like baseball. I used to devour the scents of grass, sun, chalk, and sweat like they were cotton candy. Now, I feel slightly nauseous. Everything is tainted by memory.
I study the equipment, looking for a distraction. “How does this work?” I ask.
“It’s pretty basic. Laptop. Mixer board with channels for our two headsets. The video camera and the crowd mic.” He points to a microphone strapped to the window with bungee cord.
“So you’ve got audio and video?”
“Yep.” He gestures to the laptop, and I can see the video feed of the stationary camera, along with audio levels.
“Everything’s plugged in to the school’s wifi, and the broadcast is available through a link on the school’s website. The video is grainy, but most families tune in for the commentary.”
“And Nathan was the best color guy you could find?”
He fiddles with one of the knobs. “It’s a new program. Started this season, home games only. This is our fifth broadcast.”
The pitcher is done warming up, and a player for the Tigers steps into the batter’s box. Garrett unmutes us, and we’re back on.
I’m immediately in the flow, a little surprised at how quickly all the nuances of the game come back. Without realizing it, I find myself leaning forward, a sharpened sense of sight…a sharpened sense of everything as I tune in to Garrett and to the ebb and flow of a game that apparently still runs through my blood.
For most of my life, I loved baseball as much as I loved my dad.
Now, I hate it as much as I hate my dad.
And just like that, I’m anxious to get out of here.
The Wildcats pull out a win in the bottom of the seventh, and the crowd is still cheering when Garrett says, “That’s all from the booth. I’m Garrett Reeves and my partner today was Josie…”
Again, he looks to me for a name. I don’t give it to him because I don’t want it to be official. I want to forget I was here. I pull off the headset as he turns off the mics.
“How come I’ve never seen you out here?” he asks, pulling off his own headset.
“Because I’ve never been.”
“I’ve seen you in school, though.” But he doesn’t sound like he’s sure, even though I pass by his locker most days. I’m not the type of girl a guy like Garrett Reeves would notice. I’ve seen the girls hanging out with him and the other players—all the P girls. Pretty. Popular. Perfect.
I stand and shove in the stool to clear my path to the door.
“Wait.” He stands, too. I’m five eight, but he’s still four or five inches taller than I am. He slides his hands in his pockets, smiling with the confidence of someone used to issuing orders and having them followed. “What’s your story, Josie-with-no-last-name?”
“No story. Just a baseball angel of mercy.”
“You were good.”
“I know.” It seems like a good line for an exit, so I take it, turning for the door and ignoring his “Wait!” as I let it close behind me.
I give my eyes a second to adjust to the bright sunlight. Mai is still in the same spot on the bleachers, standing now, with the other fans. The fence around the dugout begins to rattle and shake. The team appears, one at a time, loaded down with bat bags and water jugs. Mai grips the fence as she watches. Her eyes look a little glazed over. Oh hell.
“Hold up a minute.” It’s Garrett, framed by the open door to the booth. “If that was
