Mac practically choked.
“Jesus, Dad,” Chance said.
Coach Carter threw his hands in the air. “Just a little friendly advice, is all. You still on a girl strike?” he asked, directing his question at me.
I wondered how he knew so many personal details about us. I realized that he must listen in whenever we traveled on the bus and whenever he sat in the dugout. Or who knew what the pitching staff confessed to him back in the bullpen during practices and games? Jack obviously knew way more than any of us realized.
“I am. At least, I’m trying,” I said, deciding to be honest.
His brows shot up, and a sly grin appeared. “Ah. You met a girl then,” he said.
“I’ve always known her,” I started to explain before feeling frustrated. “It doesn’t matter, sir—Coach. I can’t focus on that right now. I need to fix my swing.” My tone came out almost pleading.
Every at bat felt like it might be my last. If I couldn’t pull myself out of the hitting slump I had been in, there was a good chance that Coach Jackson would start putting Logan in instead of me. I knew Logan was waiting for it, chomping at the bit to take my position.
And I couldn’t let that happen regardless of how I personally felt about Logan. It wasn’t only that I hated him, but I was also terrified that if he, or anyone, got to start over me, what would happen if they went on a hitting streak? There was no way that Coach Jackson would pull a player whose bat was on fire and replace him with someone whose stick was lukewarm. I could very well spend the rest of the season warming the bench, never to see the outfield grass again.
That meant I wouldn’t get drafted.
And there weren’t any more chances after this one. It was my last.
So, like I’d said, I couldn’t let anyone get a chance at playing over me. I had to fix my broken swing. You see, it wasn’t enough that I was the best center fielder in the league. I had to be able to hit at the plate. The only people with an allowance to fuck up their at bats were pitchers and the occasional infielder who was too valuable to replace. But even that was rare. When you were up to bat, you had to perform. It was part of your job. And I was currently failing at mine.
Coach Carter turned serious. “Then, get in the cages,” he directed before grabbing a bucket of balls and arranging a small L-shaped screen for him to sit behind as he threw me some live pitches.
Even though Jack was technically the pitching coach, he was so knowledgeable about baseball in general that if he offered extra help, you would be a fool to not take him up on it. He had hit the shit out of the ball when he was here at Fullton State. As far as we’d all heard, Jack struggled with nothing on the field and excelled at everything. We all wanted to be just like him in that regard.
I took a bunch of hacks with him in the cages, and Coach Carter shook his head as he stood up.
“Stop,” he said, walking over to me, and I suddenly got anxious.
“How bad is it?” I asked, hoping he could tell me exactly where I was going wrong in my mechanics so that we could fix it. A swing was made up of a million different facets, and any one of them could throw the whole thing off.
“There’s nothing wrong with your swing, Cole,” he said, throwing the ball into his glove with a pop over and over again.
Say what? “Coach?”
“There’s nothing wrong. Your swing looks good. You’re balanced. You’re centered. All your mechanics are tight.”
Dammit. “So, why can’t I hit the ball then?” I asked as my hand holding the bat dropped to my side. I tapped the end of it into the dirt, gripping it tight, knowing what he was going to say next.
If there was nothing wrong with my mechanics and everything technically looked good, then there was only one other explanation. My approach at the plate. Also known as a hitter’s mentality when walking up to bat.
Mechanics could be adjusted and fixed with a few swings on the tee and live pitching, but your mental state? That was another issue altogether. There was no cure for being in your own dome. And the more you thought about it, the worse you made it.
I waited for him to say what I already knew but didn’t want to be true.
“It’s your approach.”
Annnnnd … there it is.
I exhaled a loud, frustrated breath, my head shaking, as Coach Carter added, “You’re in your own head. You’re overthinking.”
Tossing the bat onto the ground, I walked over to the three-foot concrete wall and hopped up on it, the heels of my cleats kicking against it like I was a five-year-old kid. Coach Carter hopped up next to me.
“Is there anything going on? I mean, I know it’s your senior year, so that alone is enough to make a batter choke at the plate sometimes.”
He said the words, and I winced. Visibly fucking winced. I wasn’t choking at the plate. I just couldn’t hit anything other than easily fielded ground balls to second base. Shit. Maybe I am choking at the plate.
“Cole?” he said, pulling my attention to him.
“Sorry, Coach. I appreciate you working with me and helping. It’s just the worst-case scenario, you know?”
He nodded because he did know. Jack fucking Carter knew how important a baseball player’s mentality was and how it affected everything. There was no other sport that was as superstitious as baseball.
“I know this sucks. And I should probably yell at you and tell you to stop being a fucking pussy and fix your shit, but I know that’s not really helpful.”
“Do you think it’s because I’m worried about getting drafted?” I asked and watched him take off his hat and fuck with his hair.
“Do you think it’s because you’re worried about getting drafted?” He tossed my words back at me.
I shrugged with both shoulders, holding them up for a breath or two before dropping them. “I’m not, not worried about it.”
“I know it’s hard. And it sucks being one of the few seniors still here on the team after a draft year. I wish I could fix this for you, but I can’t. You have to get out of your own head and stop trying so hard. You know it doesn’t work like that. Keep swinging for the fences, and you’re going to keep striking out or hitting fly balls. Whatever it is that’s going on in there”—he tapped a finger against the side of my head—“figure it out and shut it up.”
Jack pushed off the wall and hopped down right as Coach Jackson yelled, “Hey, Anders. Plan on joining us on the field today, or do you want to run till you puke?”
Jumping down, I extended my hand toward Coach Carter and gave it a firm shake. “Thanks again, Coach.”
“Anytime. You got this,” he said, and I wanted so badly to believe him, but I’d been struggling since fall ball. “Coach Jackson might still call you a pussy though,” he added with a laugh, and I took off running toward the field and the rest of my teammates.
“Get out there.” Coach Jackson pointed toward center field where Logan stood with a shit-eating grin on his face.
We rotated players during practice, each person taking grounders and fly balls respectively at their shared position, but I went first since I was the starting center fielder.
“How nice of you to join us,” he said when I got onto the grass. Even something as simple as Logan going first in practice felt like I was losing my grip on the position, but I pretended to not give a shit until he added, “You can stand behind me. You should probably get used to it.”