I start texting.
ME: Get your baseball stuff. Meet me at the field in half an hour.
GARRETT: Why?
ME: I’ve got something for you.
GARRETT: What?
ME: Your dream.
“You want me to come?” Mai asks.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Call me when you’re done. We’ll eat pralines and cream and watch Pride and Prejudice.”
“The Colin Firth version?”
“All nineteen hours of it.”
“It’s six hours,” I say. “You think it’s longer because you hate it. We can watch something else.”
“Nope. We’re watching it. And you know that when I fall asleep, I’m still there for you.”
I give her a watery smile. “In that case, we’ll watch the extra features, too.”
We hug for a long time, and on the short walk home, I gather my emotions and tuck them away. If I’m going to help Garrett, I have to think clearly.
More than that, I have to think back.
For so long, I avoided everything to do with baseball. The sport stole my dad and taught me that it was worse to dream and fail than it was to not dream at all. But the game didn’t betray me, and it’s taken Garrett to remind me of how much I love it. With my memories, my experiences, I have an advantage his other coaches don’t. I have a father who suffered from the same issue standing in Garrett’s way. And I still have the link to my father’s online training log.
Chapter Forty-Two
Garrett is waiting for me at the field. He’s sitting on the bleachers, his feet stretched out and crossed at the ankles. In a button-down black shirt and khaki shorts, he looks like anything but a player. And he looks so good, I want to forget this stupid plan and hold on to him anyway I can.
I shove away the thought and remind myself I’m here as a coach. “You’re going to hit in those shoes?” I ask. At home, I packed a workout bag and changed my own clothes.
He glances at the black boat shoes I’ve never seen him wear before. “I’m not hitting.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“Nope. It’s your birthday.” He pushes to his feet and works his way down to the bottom step. “You had something in your hand earlier. I didn’t ask what it was, but I think I know.”
“Garrett.” I silence him with a glare. “Where’s your baseball bag?”
He slides his hands in his pockets. “I’m done, Josie.”
“You’re not.” I look back at the batting cage and see the pitching machine set up in there, but the balls all picked up. “You have the key to the equipment closet?” I hold out my hand.
“Why?”
“We need a bucket of baseballs.”
“Quit it, Josie.”
“I wish I could.” He has no idea how much. I wiggle my fingers. “Keys.”
He’s getting angry again, which is good. It’s easier for me to deal with an angry Garrett than a sweet one. He separates a silver key from his ring and hands it to me. A line from the movie A League of Their Own comes to mind. There’s no crying in baseball. I know Garrett would know the line, too, and the movie and the year it came out. He probably has it rated somewhere on his top one hundred list.
“One of the things I love about baseball,” I say, “is that there’s a ridiculous level of analysis on every aspect of the game. Including how the ball spins off the hand of a pitcher and how the eye sees that spin.” I take the key and head toward the equipment shed. Over my shoulder I call, “Get your baseball bag.”
“Josie—”
“Do it, Garrett.”
He’s back with his bag by the time I wrestle open the padlock and lug a bucket of balls to the mound. His equipment bag must have been in the trunk of his car. He hasn’t changed clothes or shoes, but it doesn’t matter.
I unzip my workout bag and pull out my baseball glove. The dry leather complains when I push my fingers in. For a second, it fights me like some alien thing that doesn’t belong on my hand. But then the leather loosens up and muscle memory kicks in, my fingers working deeper into the rough inner material while my other hand punches lovingly into the palm of it the way I did a million times before.
“Another great thing about baseball,” I say, my throat thick. “The feel of a broken-in glove.”
His expression is unreadable. “Number two on my list. I think you’re up to about twenty things by now, Walters. You better watch it or you’re going to have to admit you love the game after all.”
“I can’t love a sport that steals everything I want.”
He steps toward me. “Josie. It never could. It never will.”
“Don’t,” I say, before he can reach out to me. “I can barely do this as it is.”
“Then don’t. I’m not even sure what you’re trying to prove.”
“That you can hit, Garrett. That’s what I’m trying to prove.”
“Then this is stupid. I’ve been working with Masters. I’ve had lessons with two other hitting coaches. I can’t hit the curve.”
“You don’t have to.”
“What are you talking about?” But he’s listening now, his fingers restlessly working in and out of a fist.
“I’ll tell you while we warm up my arm.”
A faint smile crosses his face. “You’re going to pitch?”
“I still remember how to bean a player, so be careful what you say.”
His smile widens but he says nothing, just unzips his baseball bag and reaches in for his glove.
We start by playing catch. My shoulder is stiff, but it only takes a few minutes to start feeling the movement again.
The pace increases. The heat of the throws.
“Not bad,” he says.
“Good enough.”
We throw back and forth, and I slowly increase the space between us, each step back feeling like its own form of goodbye.
“So what did you mean?” he asks. “About not having to hit the curveball?”
His throw hits my glove with a satisfying sting. “The thing is, almost no one can hit a good curveball. But most pitchers can’t
