“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” my uncle mutters, his volume loud enough that I hear him easily. I’m sure most of us did. I recognize the way Zack’s jaw tightens and his lips come together in a tight seal. Uncle Joel was merciless when Zack struck out growing up, and as we get older, my cousin bottles his anger in and buries it under that same expression.
I feel trapped, so many outcomes possible in the next few minutes. Nobody knows what I can throw better than the guy at the plate. Zack and I have been apart for two years, but when we came back together, it was seamless. That is, until Hollis ripped things open. I stare into her eyes sixty feet away. She’s squinting with thought, probably working out how we navigate this situation her dad purposefully put us in. She bangs her glove against her hip a few times to clear the dirt away then squats, glaring up at my cousin as he takes a few warm-up swings.
Zack is a solid hitter. If I throw anything near the plate without something wicked on it, he’ll get a piece of it. And maybe that’s what should happen. Maybe I throw for a duel, several pitches wasted, so no matter who comes out of this as the winner, really, we both do. But something tells me Coach Taylor has a nose for bullshit play. He’ll see right through it, and do I really want to be soft? This is too important for me, but if I humiliate Zack, his world will be crushed, and I can’t live with that either.
He creeps into the batter’s box, digging his heavy feet into the loose dirt and twisting on his toes. This guy has had the same swing for years, and it’s dramatic and filled with all the little mannerisms he’s grown up watching the pros do on TV. Uncle Joel eats it up.
“Come on, son!” My uncle claps three times before hooking his fingers into the backstop. He won’t be sitting down.
Hollis signals for a fast ball, then sets up low and outside. She’s right. My cousin has trouble hitting the outside pitches because of his wannabe-pro-style swing. He’s too far from the plate, which makes him vulnerable. I nod, knowing it’s the right thing to do for me, but it’s going to make Zack look foolish.
I wind up and send the ball flying at Hollis with my usual amount of pepper, but I miss her spot, giving Zack just enough to foul off and please his dad.
“Atta boy. Come on, show him what you’ve been working on for two years!” My uncle cups his hands to clap this time, amplifying the slapping sound. It’s his way of boasting.
Hollis stands and tosses the ball back to me after sliding her mask up on her head. She holds a palm out along with her open mitt. There’s a stink on her face, a sourness that has her lips sneering while her nose scrunches up. We’ve thrown enough together for her to know when I miss my spot on purpose. Damn her father for putting me in this situation. I know he’s trying to prove a point to my uncle, but I’m the one feeling the stress.
I turn and kick at the rubber to ignore her stare, though I swear I feel the heat of it in my back. The smart move is to throw my slider, because that pitch starts out looking like the perfect strike then veers right into my cousin’s dead zone. Hollis must be in my head because that’s exactly what she calls. I breathe in through my nose and pause for a few seconds before shaking her off. Instead of calling a different pitch, though, she gives me the sign again. I shake my head one more time. Any pitch but this one. It will make Zack look stupid. I’ve gotten so much better at it over the last two years, and he hasn’t seen it enough to know it’s coming.
Hollis drops her chin, eyes on the plate and her glove hanging limp on her hand. She snaps her head up again to meet my stare while I remain hidden behind my glove. I wish it were bigger, big enough to hide my entire body. I’ve muted my uncle’s clapping, but every now and then it breaks through. I wonder if Zack’s immune to it by now. He doesn’t seem to be fazed, digging his feet into the dirt while he anticipates my next pitch. He’s like a bull waiting to be let loose in the ring.
Hollis gives me the same sign one more time, and when I shake her off yet again, she pulls her mask off and rushes toward me. I can see her gritting teeth by the time she’s halfway to me.
“What the fuck are you doing, Jennings?”
Wow, no mincing words.
“I’m not feeling that pitch,” I lie.
“Bullshit. You’re being a chicken. It’s the right pitch to throw. If this were a game, you’d throw it,” she seethes.
She pulls her mask down over her face and runs back to the plate, crouching down and giving me the same sign as the last four, insistent and not waiting for me to nod in agreement. She sets up and snaps her glove for the ball a few times, no longer giving me the luxury of throwing anything but what she wants. If I don’t throw this, it’s going to look like a huge miss on my part. Stuck, I pivot and lift my knee, giving her the perfect slider that leaves my cousin whiffing the bat through the strike zone, not even close.
“Oh, come on! Dude, you hit that! You know how to hit that, don’t you?” My uncle comes off like a drunk Little League dad, and if he were any other parent, Coach Taylor would toss him off the field. But my uncle approves his paycheck. Enough nay votes
