“Look out, DD, here comes your nemesis,” Zack shouts from the dugout. I glare through my mask in time to catch him stretching out his hands as he puts on his batting gloves. His joke carries to a few of the other guys, who laugh at my expense, pitifully trying to cover their snickers with fists over their mouths.
Fools.
Any sympathy I had for Zack drains. I get the rough spot Cannon is in, but it’s like I told him—he is not his cousin. I won’t treat them the same. Zack hasn’t yet earned my respect.
“Batter up, Big Z!” I say, pounding my glove as I crouch into my squat. I can tell by his swagger as he steps up to the plate that he thinks I’m complimenting him, feeding his ego.
“You like that homer yesterday? I got plenty more in here. It’s gonna be a long season, babe.” I’m not sure whether his voice is as snarky as I hear it, or if it’s the filter I seem to wear whenever he speaks. I’m not sure I could hear him any other way.
“I bet it is, Big Z,” I say, echoing the nickname.
He sniffles out a laugh and digs his toes in. Everything about his approach is so affected, so cartoon-like. His feet are so set in their position, there’s no chance for him to move them at a moment’s notice.
“Come on Zack, you got this,” Cannon calls from the bench. His encouragement hits my gut in a curious way. I’m a little soured by it, which I know isn’t fair. He is being positive, which is what he should always do. And that’s his cousin, so there is that extra pressure. It’s just . . . I truly want Zack to fail this time.
I signal for a fastball low and outside, just like before, knowing it will work. And like yesterday, he swings himself off balance, landing on his knee as he twists.
“Strike one,” my dad says, marking it on his scoresheet from behind the backstop. My dad likes to watch scrimmages from off the field, to see how people react to him being present but not in their face.
“I got this. Come on,” Zack says, sniffing again, but this time as a show of how tough he is. He digs his feet into the exact same spot and I stare at them for a beat while a wave of tightness twists my insides. He isn’t learning.
“You sure you don’t want to make an adjustment?” I cough out my suggestion, keeping my voice low enough for my dad not to notice. I’m not sure why I’m helping, and I know before his reaction that he won’t take my advice.
“Thanks, Double D. I got this, though,” he says, spitting on the plate.
My eyes fall shut for a moment as I tuck my chin, acting as though I’m thinking about what to call next. Really, I’m just dreading the ass-chewing Zack has coming his way. Spitting on the plate is disrespectful, and there’s no way my dad didn’t see that. No matter where Roland throws this next ball, it’ll be called a strike simply because Zack just hit my dad’s nerve.
My head up, I send the same sign to Roland and line him up in the same location, maybe an inch or two more outside just to be safe. At this point, Zack would swing at the ball if he rolled it in. He’s too jacked and ready to show off his muscles.
Roland isn’t as good at hitting his target, and he ends up throwing the ball enough inside that Zack gets his bat on a piece of it, foul-tipping it right into my chest. It hurts as much as it always does, but the sting is gone by the time Zack is done chuckling. That guilty weight in my chest is gone now too.
“Strike two,” my dad says. I glance over my shoulder to catch the reflection off of his glasses. I squint at the brightness, but I give my dad a nod. I shouldn’t, because it’s these little communications that can get both of us into trouble, but I can’t help myself. Zack is under my skin, and he’s under my dad’s, too.
“Alright, Big Z. Time to show up or shut up,” I say. I rarely devolve into trash talk, but the guy brings out the worst of my personality.
He scoffs at me and digs in, his leg twitching with what I assume is a sense of urgency pulsing through it. He’s going to look ridiculous in about six seconds.
I signal for the curve, and Roland has a hard time hiding his smirk. If Zack were paying attention, he’d see it and be prepared. But he’s too far gone inside his head.
I set up dead-center of the plate, knowing that Zack will see me in his periphery and probably think that he’s going to get a fat meatball to rocket over the fence again. His swing comes almost a full half-second before the ball, the bat flinging end over end toward the dugout from his failed grip.
“That’s one!” I shout, counting the outs as I throw the ball around with my team.
I’m still standing on the plate when Zack leans forward and spits again, purposely targeting my cleat. The act is purposeful, spiteful, and cruel. And he is about to wish he weren’t in his own shoes.
“Bad move, Big Z. I mean, Big Zero.” I give in and let any hope for mercy slip away.
“Jennings!”
There’s no confusion about who he’s calling. My dad’s glasses are off, tucked into the front of his shirt by the time I spin around. He throws the clipboard down on the metal bleacher seat behind him, the clatter echoing around the field. My dad takes long strides around the backstop, through the gate, and into the dirt behind home plate where he steps in close enough to Zack
