Text to Rick - I’m still watching. Outfielders aren’t paying attention, but that’s probably because it’s BP. There are a couple of them out there in a deep conversation. Can’t see who they are.
Text from Rick - Any observations from Seals BP?
Interesting that he’d ask.
Text to Rick - Stray seems a bit full of himself for a guy who’s been up less than a week. Probably makes him a liability behind the plate.
Text to Rick - Mason, Cross and Martin are on point. Rock looks tired. Bravo is favoring his hip. Nothing else stood out to me except your big bat.
Anybody who watches batting practice can see these things. You’d think somebody from the team would be watching everyday.
Text from Rick - Thanks. Tell me if you notice anything else.
Text from Rick - My bat and I miss you.
Text to Rick - I’ll show you how to handle your bat later.
Text to Rick - Did everybody like the cookies?
Text from Rick - Mason requested peanut butter cookies, Martin requested brownies, and Rock said more please and thank you.
Text from Rick - I thought I owed you a batting lesson.
Text to Rick - Either way I get to touch your bat.
Batting practice is over, so I check my phone to find out which seat I’m in tonight and I’m behind home plate where Rick wants me to be. I check the schedule, Monday is an off day and we’re in Seattle on Tuesday. I need to do laundry. I’ve been too busy or I should be honest—I’ve been neglecting household chores and opting to spend time with my Rick. Like there’s really any choice to consider, it’s a no-brainer. I run up to the bathroom and pull on my panties, as well as my leggings. I stop by the member lounge to pick up $5 beer and free popcorn on my way back to my seat, and I’m a happy girl.
The pregame hoopla gets started and since Rick isn’t starting, he catches the ceremonial first pitches. Which is nice because I get a glimpse of my favorite view and he’s not wearing full catcher’s gear. He turns to me and smiles before he heads back into the dugout. He’s focused and ready to play.
Stray gets set behind the plate and I wonder about his name as I read his jersey. Stray like a stray cat? Stray because he’s not loyal? He doesn’t follow rules? A wanderer maybe? It doesn’t matter, probably just his name and means nothing.
The game is moving slowly, like it always does when Rick isn’t behind the plate. It’s the top of the fourth inning, there’s no score, and Skip hasn’t put my Rick in to catch yet. Young catchers always keep a slower paced game and that’s bad because a) it bores me out of my mind, so I eat or drink more and most likely end up wasted and b) everything becomes transparent to the opposing team when you don’t keep them on their toes. I don’t know why I have an urge to numb my brain when I’m already bored, like putting myself out of my misery I guess.
I text Rick, knowing he probably can’t see it.
Text to Rick - Stray needs to pick up the pace. LA can see right through him and he’s boring me.
Text to Rick - I’ll be sleeping in your car or possibly passed out from the quantity of alcohol I’m going to require to get through this slow ass game.
Text to Rick - I know you won’t see these during the game.
Middle of the fourth inning and I need time to make two beer runs if I’m going to make it through this game. I stand up and stretch. I turn to walk up to the concessions stand and hear, “Hey, blondie! Where do you think you’re going?” It’s my favorite voice. I turn around and my Rick is standing in the on deck circle swinging his bat. His grin burns through me and I go back to my seat.
I yell at the top of my lungs, “Let’s Go Seno! Woooooooooooo!” There’s a new electricity in the stadium, at least there is for me.
Rick’s replacing Stray in the seven spot, so he’ll be catching the rest of the game. First pitch is outside. Second pitch is low. 2-0 count, and the third pitch is on fire straight down the middle. Rick connects and let’s the fastball do all the work, launching it over the Center Field wall. The horn sounds and the fireworks fly. Home run. Rick runs the bases at a quick pace and he makes eye contact with me as he approaches home plate. He kisses two of his fingers and points them at me as he steps on the plate. “Yeah, baby! Wooooo! Seno!” I yell for him and he can hear me. The next hitter pops out and the pitcher is up in the nine spot. Tommy is pitching tonight and he’s not a great hitter. He sees an opportunity to bunt and ends up half hitting it down the third base line, somehow legging it out and making it to first base safe. Mason is in the lead off spot and hacks at the first pitch, sending the ball over the first basemen’s head into the Right Field corner. Mason safe at first and Tommy on second. Cross is hitting second, “Wooooo! Cross! Smack it!” 2-2 count and he breaks his bat, knocking the ball straight up the center of the field and sending wood shards toward the pitcher and short stop. The ball choppers through the infield and right over the short stop’s head. Bases are loaded for Kris Martin and he’s swinging his bat like it’s the at bat he’s been waiting for his whole life. First pitch, hit foul into the stands off first base. Second pitch, smacked hard foul and only a few feet from being a home run in Right Field. Third pitch, 0-2 count,
