“I’ll be fine. I already said I’d go. I’ll . . . I’ll let you know where I’m sitting. After the game, we’re meeting up for drinks at the Battery. But maybe I’ll see you all before then.” I take another bite of chicken and chew really slowly so that I don’t have to say anything else.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather be with us?” my mother asks. “In case you find it . . . challenging?”
There’s no seat that’s going to make this easier, but watching the game with people who expect me to fall apart feels wrong on every level. “I’ll be fine,” I say in a totally kick-ass kind of way. “Really. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
My mother frowns and looks worried. My father looks doubtful and worried. My brothers look ready to do battle over the last piece of chicken.
* * *
• • •
Sounding kick-ass and being kick-ass are not exactly the same thing. I’ve spent the last two days grinning like a goon while the excitement over Josh’s addition to the pitching roster and how that might impact the team’s season builds in the press and at the office. On Friday night, I make sure my smile is in place and pull on what little emotional armor I have left, but when I climb out of the Uber at Truist Park and make my way to where Meena, who’s tan and glowing from her beach vacation, Judith, and Chaz are already waiting, I’m feeling kind of shaky.
“Hey! It’s a great night for baseball, isn’t it?” The three of them are wearing Braves hats and T-shirts and great big smiles that appear way more real than mine. On the bright side, they’re not looking at me as if I’m someone who needs to be pitied, babied, or handled. They just look glad to be here, and suddenly, I am, too.
Judith’s seats are on the first base line directly behind the dugout at Terrace Level, which means we’ve got a great view of the field but aren’t right on top of it. We get peanuts and popcorn from the vendors, and I tell myself that everything’s going to be okay. I’m just another person here to watch the game. There’s nothing I have to do or prove. But I’m careful not to watch who comes in and out of the dugout too closely. And I definitely don’t use Chaz’s binoculars to see who’s warming up in the bullpen out behind right center field.
I do see my family and Josh’s parents take their seats overlooking home plate, but I’m careful not to be caught looking. I think we’re far enough up and behind them to keep them from spotting me. Especially since I’m sitting just beyond Chaz, who’s way bigger than me. It takes me a couple minutes to realize that he’s noticed what’s going on and is giving me a pretty large shoulder to duck behind.
Just after the national anthem, Meena, who’s on my other side, hands me her popcorn to hold and gets up. She returns with a cardboard tray of cocktails just as the first batter strolls out of the dugout. “We’ve got you covered.” She winks as we all take a Braves Bramble. “Just sit back and relax as best you can. No one’s going to notice you unless you want them to.”
I don’t want to sound like an alcoholic or anything, but the drink does help. So do the people around me. Chaz seems relaxed, but he’s super aware of his surroundings in a way I guess people who are always ready for an emergency are. If a foul tip came this way, he’d catch it or protect us with his body. If I pass out from nerves or hyperventilate while Josh is pitching, at least there’ll be someone who can resuscitate me.
Meena and Judith do their part, too. Meena makes sure I’m included as she goes on about the glories of her romantic getaway and how eager she is to schedule our online dating intro. Judith occasionally rolls her eyes at Meena, but she’s listening intently.
Judith kind of reminds me of my mother but maybe a couple years older and with an extra layer of sadness underneath her smile. It must be even worse to lose a husband you’ve had so long than to lose a fiancé. It’s another reminder that people deal with all kinds of stuff every day. For about two seconds I try to picture my mom without my dad, but I just can’t go there.
Judith’s neighborhood is only a couple of miles from the one I grew up in. Sure enough, when I ask, she tells me that both her kids went to Walden. One of them lives and works in New York, and the other one’s in Denver.
“My kids graduated from Walden, too,” Meena says. “Judith and I moved into River Forge right around the same time. My son, Justin, lives in Midtown. Julie is in Charleston.” I listen as they talk and tease each other. Meena has the bigger personality, but Judith’s got a pretty wicked sense of humor when she lets it loose.
The game begins and . . . as much as I love baseball, the past runs through my head. All the bleachers in all the places where I cheered my heart out. First for my brothers and then for Josh.
Even my chosen sport of cheerleading was more about urging others on to victory than competition. But I guess that makes me a natural for representing athletes, right? All I need is to develop the killer instinct that agents are supposed to have and that I’m really hoping is hiding inside me, waiting to be tapped.
The first few innings fly by. We’re playing the Marlins, and our guys are hitting the crap out of their starting pitcher. In the third inning we’re up four to zero. In the fifth, even after a pitching change, it’s six to one. I keep my eye on the game as I open my program and begin to flip through it.
My breath catches when I reach the roster. There’s Josh’s headshot. Clean-shaven. Earnest smile. Official team hat on his head. He’s number 45, just like he was all through Little League and high school and college, one up from his idol Hank Aaron. R/R 6’2” 210lb. There he is in black and white. Suddenly, it’s completely real. I tell myself to stay calm. That I’m totally okay. But I’m dragging air into my lungs a little loudly. Braves shortstop Dansby Swanson, another hometown boy and former number one draft pick whom Josh used to play against in high school, hits a homer at the end of the sixth inning. We’re up seven to one.
“You okay?” Chaz asks.
I look into his face. He’s square jawed, and he’s got really nice blue eyes. There’s an air of calm about him that has to soothe the people he is sent to save, just as it’s soothing me.
“Yeah.” I nod to reinforce the fact. “I’m fine.”
“Good.” He peers into my eyes, double-checking. “Because it looks like they’re warming him up in the bullpen right now.”
I look up at the scoreboard. It’s the top of the seventh inning. Then I hear this roar from the crowd. Josh, my Josh, is on the field and jogging toward the pitcher’s mound. Tyler Flowers runs out to meet him and hands him the baseball before jogging back to home plate.
Josh digs at the mound with his left toe. Then he jiggles the ball lightly in his hand. Getting its feel. Relaxing his hand around it. As if it’s an egg. Getting his breathing under control. I know every habit, every move he’ll make before it happens.