Lightning bolts.
A breathy laugh slips out from his guilty smile. It’s sweet, as is the way he’s stammering and having trouble looking me in the eyes. Perhaps we got a redo on our first kiss. This one is going much better.
“I want to apologize for him, my cousin?” He points over his shoulder with his thumb. He glances behind him but I reassure him before he fully looks.
“He’s in the dugout. He can’t see you,” I say.
“Right,” he says, sucking in his bottom lip.
“You don’t have say his sorrys, by the way. I know he’s not you. And you aren’t responsible for him. He can say them himself, or not. That’s a direct reflection on him.”
Cannon nods, shuffling backward a few steps to not get caught dawdling. My dad’s favorite word is hustle.
“How’d you get to be so smart?” He punctuates his flattering question with a crooked smile that turns into a wink.
“Lots and lots of lessons learned,” I say, alluding to more that he realizes. He takes it at face value, though, and nods toward the track.
“You better hustle,” he teases. I’ll have my laps done in time. The one true perk to being coach’s daughter is knowing not to fail to meet his expectations. I know what I’m supposed to do and when, which is why letting Zack get a hit he didn’t earn yesterday irks me so much.
Apparently, it’s still quite a sticking point for my dad, too. Apparently, it’s a sticking point for my dad, too. He’s pulled Zack aside in the bullpen, and based on his familiar and animated hand gestures, I’d venture to guess he’s putting some pressure on him.
Great. Pressure on Zack is going to translate into more hostility toward me.
I finish a little slower than my normal time. I don’t check on my smartwatch, but I don’t have to. I slowed down on purpose, putting off the inevitable head-to-head competition I know is coming. I was pumped for it until I caught my dad giving Zack the anti-pep talk.
I dump my gear in the corner of the dugout as they return from their chat session, and the glare Zack shoots my way is ice cold.
“Go throw,” my dad says, tossing a ball with a little extra zip straight into Zack’s chest. “With her,” my father adds, pointing in my general direction.
“Pssh.” The annoyed rush of air that slips from Zack isn’t meant for my dad, and he manages to keep it just quiet enough for me and me alone.
“Well? Hurry up,” Zack says, not bothering to wait for me or look my direction.
I follow Zack to the outfield, where we pair up next to everyone except the pitchers. My dad paces around the duos, assessing form and how serious each player is taking something so simple. It doesn’t take more than three or four throws for him to get to us and make an example of Zack.
“Is that how you throw down to second?” My dad asks the question loud enough for nearby players to hear. Zack’s cheeks burn bright red, and it’s not from the cold air.
“I’m still warming up, Coach,” Zack replies, throwing the ball back to me with more energy under my father’s watchful eyes.
“Uh huh. Well, we should always practice with the same verve we have when we play.” My father’s sunglasses hide his eyes enough that it’s hard to tell when he’s looking at you. He has a habit of never quite staring at someone head-on. It’s a trick he uses to see what expressions people make when they think he’s not fully paying attention.
He is always paying attention.
My dad spreads his legs to get comfortable in his stance, arms crossed over his chest while his head swivels to follow the ball Zack and I continue to throw. My partner’s footwork is sloppy, and I notice my father’s focus on the ground for several seconds, my clue that he sees it. He’s memorizing it. It won’t be something that comes up now, but it will come up today.
We manage to survive warm-ups without more commentary from my dad, and as much as I want Zack to get his due, I also don’t want to be this close to him when he gets it. I feel a little bit like the tool being used to punish him.
I’m grateful for the distance that comes with my dad dividing up the teams. He puts Zack with Cannon, which could be for a lot of reasons, but it’s definitely not because he’s letting him off the hook. There are enough of us out here to have three squads, and one of the new assistant coaches takes mine. His name’s Ernie Ruiz, and my dad lured him away from a school two towns over. He made the call the moment he landed this job. Ernie Ruiz has one key line on his resume that singled him out and made him my father’s number-one candidate—he was a Yankee. Only for sixteen games in the majors, but wearing pinstripes for any amount of time is as good as blood to my dad.
For most of the guys out here, today is going to be a good time. That’s what will separate the keepers from the cuts. It’s a game of three outs, and the three teams keep rotating, scoring as many runs as they can until my father decides time is up. It seems like a silly game to take everyone’s minds off of the pressure of warmups and tryouts just around the corner, but every coach out here is watching for the ones who truly work. All games count for something.
It doesn’t take long for the first two squads to make their outs, so I do a little strategizing with my squad as we take the field. I didn’t get Cannon, but I did luck out with Roland on my team, and the one thing he has in his arsenal is a really good
