Eighty-three pitches thrown. One more, and I can be done. One more, and this guy goes home. We go home. I kiss Hollis. I get that offer from Vandy that I’ve been holding out for before committing to Cal Tech. Hollis is in Tennessee, at a small D-two that has no idea the bargain they got when they offered her a scholarship. I need to be in Tennessee so I can witness it happen—the moment she changes the world.
I’m no longer able to block out the noise. I can’t focus on only my father, or coach, or Zack. It’s all chaos ringing in my ears, my mental state too zapped to do more than focus on throwing a ball ninety feet right where Hollis wants it.
I shake my arms out at my sides and lean forward for her sign. She gives me a fastball and I shake her off. She looks down then over to her dad, and I take the time for one more round of voodoo.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. No time to repeat.
Hollis punches her mitt, and I read into the force she puts behind it. She’s gonna call for a fastball, and if I shake her off, she’ll call time and come talk to me. I just don’t know if I can throw it to this guy.
She gives me the sign and I stare at it for a solid three seconds before giving in with a nod. I don’t have faith in my arm, but for some reason, she does. If I’ve learned anything from four months of throwing to this woman, it’s that she knows her shit, and when I don’t listen, I get burned.
I bring the ball in and spare a glance at the hitter’s eyes. He’s squinting, and I’m not sure whether he can’t see me or he’s so amped with adrenaline that he’s narrowed his vision down to nothing but the ball.
Hollis flashes her glove at the outside corner then sets up inside in an attempt to throw him off. I feel for the threads of the ball with my fingers, search for that perfect spot. There’s one thread that’s a millimeter thicker than the rest. I’ve located it before, and I swear it gives me an extra mile per hour on release. My index finger finds it and my lip ticks up.
Okay, buddy.
I wind up, trying hard to give nothing away, but grunt when I release the ball. I swear everything gets all movie magic-like the moment the ball leaves my hand. I hear music in my head and the ball seems to travel in slow-motion from my fingertips to Hollis’s glove. The rotation is perfect, and my leg rotation is enough to send me down the mound and off to the left. I keep my glove up, ready for the big guy to zip the ball right back at me, and with the swing he’s loading, if he does, it will knock out my teeth.
I flinch as his bat passes through the zone. When I hear the smack of the ball against Hollis’s leather, I fall to the ground in exhausted disbelief.
The rush of cheering caves in on me as I blink up at the sky, letting my glove fall off my hand and the stupid grin eat up my face. Hollis falls on top of me first, her mask tossed off somewhere along the way.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” She’s screaming in my ear, and it’s glorious. I poke at her sides and she pokes back until more of our teammates pile on. We’re suddenly children, wallowing and kicking in the dirt and grass because we won a plastic trophy that will sit in a glass case for fifty years. It’s a big-ass plastic trophy, though, and that’s worth it.
I finally get to my feet and rush over to my cousin, lifting him in a bear hug as he pounds on my head with excitement.
“Yeah!” He growls as I set him down and we bump chests. Having him here for this, still, despite everything, hits me hard, and I hug him a second time. Tighter.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says, his mouth at my ear. “So fucking proud.”
And happy tears break free.
His heavy hand pats my back as we rock, and then he hands me off to Coach who is as big a cry baby about this as I am. In fact, a quick look around the celebration and I realize Hollis is the only one of us with dry eyes. So much for stereotypes.
When the division president walks out from the dugout with our trophy in hand, we settle down, each of us taking a knee despite the fact we want to keep jumping and screaming until our voices are gone.
“Coach Travis Taylor,” the man says, holding the trophy on one side while Coach holds the other. Flashes go off for the photo op while parents and students whistle and clap. “On behalf of District Twelve in the great state of Indiana, our congratulations to the Allensville Public Fighting Eagles for winning this season’s district championship tournament. Represent us well at State.”
Our roar breaks through before he can finish his words. He shakes our coach’s hand, and takes a step back so Coach Taylor can hold that pretty award high above his head.
“You did this! Lady, gentlemen.” We all laugh because it’s maybe the first time he’s gotten Hollis’s request right.
The moment is amazing all on its own, and would be enough if it ended here. But then something unexpected trumps everything else.
“Hol-lis. Hol-lis. Hol-lis.”
Zack starts the chant, clapping with her name, encouraging others to join in. That one-run lead we had came off her
