Flowers crouches behind the plate. Josh goes into his windup. Hurls a few warm-up pitches right over the strike zone. Not too fast. Not much movement. Just confirming that he’s ready.
The umpire signals the batter to step in. Josh stares at Flowers. Nods that he’s got the signal. My heart beats so fast in my chest that I’m afraid Chaz will hear it. And then he sends a fastball flying into Flowers’s mitt at 99 mph. The batter swings, but he’s way too late. The crowd goes wild.
The second pitch is another fastball. This time it’s low in the strike zone, and the batter doesn’t even go for it. “Strike two!” Another roar when the speed of the pitch registers on the scoreboard. 100 mph!
“Wow!” Chaz shakes his head in admiration. Every team has its special flamethrower, but not many of them hit 100 mph or more.
Tears form in my eyes. My chest feels so full I’m afraid it’s going to burst. People chant Josh’s name. A couple of guys in the row in front of us are debating whether the catcher will call for an off-speed pitch. Maybe a slider. But I know what’s coming. Even if the batter doesn’t. The final strike roars in like a hurricane. 101 mph.
I cry full out while he sits down three batters in a row, then jogs off the field, where Flowers pounds him on the back. The crowd shouts his name. He faces six more batters, ultimately sitting down their entire lineup. No hits. No walks. The whole team surges out of the dugout and wraps itself around him.
This will go down in the record books. This is as good as it gets. This is exactly what we dreamed of but never really expected.
It’s the most exquisitely beautiful and achingly painful thing I’ve ever experienced.
I can hardly breathe as the crowd goes crazy. Embracing the people around them. Pounding one another on the back. Shouting with happiness.
Here, in the midst of strangers who are unexpectedly turning into friends, the tears slide down my cheeks unchecked. They stain my face and soak my T-shirt. I look around, take in the mass euphoria. I’m not the only one smiling and laughing and hugging. But I am the only one crying.
Jazmine
The celebration in the agency suite is still raging when Angela and I make our way to the door to leave. Larry Carpenter is the happiest I’ve ever seen him. And possibly the drunkest. Rich Hanson has been matching him drink for drink but barely looks buzzed. Ever since our outing to the Bookers, we aren’t exactly what I would call simpatico, but he’s not as combative. Or maybe seeing his softer side has made me a little less knee-jerk.
“Where are you running off to?” he asks.
“Meeting up with some friends.” In the past, I would have tweaked him about not even knowing what friends are, but our visit with Isaiah and his aunt has proven otherwise.
“Ah, a secret assignation at an undisclosed location.” He arches an eyebrow, but there’s a flash of something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match his flippant tone.
“We’re having margaritas at Superica,” Angela says for some reason. Then she adds, “With friends from book club.”
“Ah, literary ladies who like baseball and margaritas. How fascinating. I’d give a lot to be a fly on that wall . . .”
There’s the Rich Hanson I know and don’t love. Is it odd that I’m almost relieved to see that version of him?
“Have fun.”
“Okay, that was weird,” I say as we exit the suite and make our way to the Battery, which is jam-packed with happy Braves fans.
“No, that was a man who’s interested in you,” Angela says, sidestepping a family that stops suddenly and looping her arm through mine.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap while we wind through the crowd past overflowing restaurants and bars and shops. I’m about to add that Rich Hanson isn’t interested in anyone but himself when the memory of Aunt Yvonne’s iced tea and cookies raises its head and compels me to keep silent.
Superica is the opposite of silent. It’s a pulsing, buzzing beehive of activity. We find the others already seated at a large round table not far from the bar. Pitchers of margaritas, baskets of chips and salsa, and various colors of queso dot the table. This is what people mean when they talk about perfect timing.
My eyes immediately go to Erin, who’s sandwiched between Judith and Chaz, and although I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, I’m relieved to see her smiling.
Phoebe and Wesley are there with Carlotta beside them. I almost don’t recognize Dorothy in the Braves T-shirt and baseball cap, but she and Sara are smiling, too. Annell is Annell. Unflappable. Smiling in welcome as she scoots over to make room.
Annell and Meena fill glasses, then pass them around.
“He had a great outing, didn’t he?” I say, leaning toward Erin.
“It was absolutely crazy,” she says. Her smudged eyeliner hints at tears, but however many she may have shed, they’re gone now. “It’s what he worked so hard for. I was . . . I’m glad.” Sincerity and wonder ring in her voice. “It was incredible to see him light up the crowd like that.”
“I’ll drink to that.” I raise my glass in Erin’s direction.
“To the Braves!” We clink those nearest us and take happy gulps.
“To us! To . . . Boy, we really do need a name, don’t we?” Annell muses. But in a content “it’ll happen when it happens” kind of way.
We shrug and clink and take another gulp.
“Well, it would make toasting easier,” Dorothy says in that unexpectedly droll tone that always surprises.
We toast a lot of things. And grin at even more. I let go in a way I never could or would at an agency function. “To Erin! Who’s made of strong stuff and is already making Louise proud.”
Erin blushes with pleasure.
“And who figured out how to move on when love didn’t go as planned!” Carlotta adds. “You go, girl!”
We finish our margaritas in Erin’s honor. Then we refill our glasses. With twelve of us shoehorned around a table for ten, we have no shortage of things to drink to.
We toast with verve and, I like to think, panache. We are at that point where everything seems deep and meaningful. So we laugh and pontificate. On the surface, a stranger would probably wonder what we’re doing together. We don’t look as if we should have anything in common. But I realize that although the people and the food and drink were fancier in the agency suite and lots of other places where I do business, there’s nowhere I’d rather be right now.
The empty margarita pitchers disappear. Before I can register their loss, twelve shot glasses filled with tequila appear, along with a large saltshaker and a plate of quartered limes.