“Oh yeah, what do I know?” Robin called out.
Jake ignored her. At the bottom of the eighth, Ruben was the go-ahead run on second. All Jake had to do was get a single to pull the team ahead. Hey, no pressure there. He stepped up to home plate, assumed the position, and let the pitcher throw him a ball, then stepped back, knocked the dirt from his cleats with his bat. When he was good and ready, he very casually stepped into the batter’s box again, taking all the time he needed to position.
The next pitch was a slider; he swung hard, wrenched his back again, and hopped out of the batter’s box on one foot as the ump called, “Steeee-rike!”
“Jesus, what are you doing? Step into your swing!”
This had to be his worst nightmare ever. He was going to step into it, all right, and take a swing that would knock her butt all the way into next week. He survived one ball, then another, and followed those two pitches up by stupidly swinging at a lousy curve ball in the dirt.
“Ah jeez,” he heard Robin moan.
“Got your batting coach here today?” the catcher asked, snickering.
“I got your batting coach right here, pal,” Jake growled. With a full count, he crouched down, anticipating the payoff pitch. The pitcher wound up and uncorked a sinker. By some divine miracle, Jake managed to get under it; the ball went sailing high toward right field. He dropped the bat and raced toward first, rounded it like an old pro as he heard a cry go up from the crowd. The ball had sailed well over the right fielder’s head; the go-ahead run was rounding third and headed for home.
As Jake hit second base and ran for third, Bob Richards looked like a contortionist, jumping up and down and waving him home. Jake did not break stride, rounded third without knowing where the ball was, and in the last few feet, hurled his entire body through the air, diving headfirst into home, his hand outstretched, his fingers reaching the plate just ahead of the catcher’s tag.
The small crowd went wild; the team rushed out to home plate to help him up. Every fiber in him burned, but he grit his teeth, spit the sand from his mouth, dusted off his pants, then laughed at his great luck with the team, high fives all around.
As he turned toward the dugout, he saw Robin pressed up against the fence, her hands loosely tangled in the chain links above her head. She grinned at him with such admiration that Jake actually felt himself grow an inch or two. He grinned right back, sauntered toward her, his smile as wide as Texas.
“Now that was a nice at bat,” she said as he neared the fence. “You finally got up on the balls of your feet.”
Jake laughed. “So, are you going to hang around for the last inning, or are you going to go coach some other team?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, dropping her hands to her hips. “There’s really not much around here to work with. Besides, after that performance, I wouldn’t miss the end of this game for the world!”
“Good,” he said, earning another winsome grin. With a little wave of her fingers, she turned toward the bleachers. He watched her walk away (could never see enough of that), then stepped into the dugout and collapsed on the bench. He was pleased when Victor Hernandez put them up another run before the inning ended. The opposing team could not muster even a base hit in the last inning, and thereby ended the game.
As Jake headed for the dugout to get his gear, Robin and Cole stood at the same time, both making their way down the bleacher steps. In his extra-wide pants, Cole had trouble negotiating the bleachers. On the ground, Robin walked about three feet ahead of Cole, who was doing his usual reluctant shuffle, head down, hands stuffed in pockets. The kid had to be exhausted—it was hard work to stay that miserable.
“Hey, you’re really good,” Robin said brightly as she walked up to the fence.
Jake did not confess that his performance today had more to do with lucky pride than any skill. “Thanks. So do you often hang out in the park watching old men play baseball?”
Robin’s laugh was rich, warm. “I told you I was going to come by.”
“I didn’t believe you,” he said, latching his hand to the fence and leaning toward her. “I think you probably say lots of things you don’t really mean.”
“I’m wounded.”
“So how did you find my nephew?” he asked as Cole shyly slunk over to them.
“Your nephew?” Robin made a sound of surprise as she shifted her gaze to Cole.
“Meet Cole Manning. Cole, say hello,” Jake said, and the kid pulled one hand out of his pocket, stuck it sort of halfway to Robin.
Robin graciously accepted it. “It’s very nice to meet you, Cole. I’m Robin.”
“Hey,” Cole muttered, quickly withdrawing his hand.
“Robin is . . . She is . . .”
“His batting coach,” Robin interjected when Jake could not seem to think of an appropriate word.
Cole squinted up at Jake. “She said you were a big baby.”