“What happened?”
“If I had known a full cup of beer was right behind me, I would have thrown it in Laycee’s face. But the beer had other plans. Get Robin, will you? I’m drenched.”
Good thing the night air was warm, because the beer and my wet T-shirt were ice-cold. As I wove through the crowd and entered the restroom, I heard a loud cheer come from the stands. I found an empty stall and pulled the soaked fabric over my head. Standing in my bra, a calm fell over me. At least I had the chance to tell Laycee what I thought of her. Cathartic.
“Liz? Are you in here?” Robin’s voice echoed through the concrete walls and metal stalls.
“Over here,” I said, opening the door a crack.
“You missed everything. The Dodgers just scored a run.”
“Me, too. A deep fly onto my center field.”
“Huh?”
“Baseball talk. I crashed into a beer. The shirt, please?”
Fortunately, my bra was dry enough to keep on. I wiped the residual beer off my skin with the dry side of my white shirt, dropped the wet tee into the plastic bag Robin handed me, and then slid into the new pink T-shirt. I recapped my run-in with Laycee for her on our way back to the seats.
“My only question is why you ever hung out with someone like her in the first place? She doesn’t sound like the type of women you’re close with,” Robin said.
“Proximity. Loneliness. I spent a lot of time working, and didn’t make a lot of female friends in Atlanta. Laycee lived right next door to us. I doubt if I’ll ever see her again. At least, I hope not.”
Nick had saved two hot dogs and beers for us. After enduring a mini-lecture from Mom about missing an inning then getting the play-by-play recap from Dad and Dave, I settled down to watch the game.
At the top of the seventh inning with the score tied at one, the Cubs loaded the bases with two outs. Their ace left-handed batter came to the plate. The Dodger manager took a time-out and brought Jarret, his ace left-handed specialist, out of the bullpen. After three warm-up pitches from the mound, Jarret easily struck out the batter and retired the side.
Jarret’s skill as a left-handed reliever extended his career beyond the life of normal pitchers. He usually worked only one or two innings, leaving his arm always rested. At thirty-nine, even his chronic sore shoulder didn’t hamper his performance.
“Jarret’s in good form today,” Dave said. “There are three lefties batting in the eighth. I bet they leave him in.”
“If they do, he’ll have to bat. The Dodgers are near the bottom of the batting order.” Nick turned to Dad. “Gee, it would be just awful to see Jarret strike out, wouldn’t it, Walter?”
Everyone except sports-clueless Robin turned at Nick’s snide remark. Dave leered. Mom sneered. Dad chuckled. I enjoyed Nick’s heresy. Jarret’s shoddy behavior during our marriage got set aside whenever our family came to see him pitch. Dave, who usually ignored my ex, let his Dodger loyalty soften his feelings toward Jarret only if and when Jarret got in the game. Mom, taken by Jarret’s Midwest boyish charm, liked having a celebrity in the family and still referred to him as her son-in-law. She watched him on the field, enchanted.
I had spent fifteen years rooting for Jarret. I knew how much pitching well meant to him. He made a lousy husband and a sometimes irritating ex, but his skill on the mound demanded respect.
Although the sun had set, the temperature registered seventy-four on the scoreboard as we sang two choruses of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” for the seventh-inning stretch. As we sat down, the first Dodger batter walked to the plate. Jarret followed him out of the dugout with his bat, and took a few practice swings in the warm-up circle.
The lead batter got to first base on a walk. Jarret came to the plate, took another practice swing, then set his stance. He swung at the first pitch and missed. He let the second pitch pass him for a called strike. One more strike and he would be out.
Mom, Dave, Robin, and I stood. A heart-pounding rush of nervous energy coursed through me.
The next pitch crossed the plate dead center. Jarret swung, and the ball and his bat connected with a sweet crack. The ball flew high just inside the first-base foul line and over the head of the first baseman. And as the outfielder leaped to the wall to make the catch, the ball cleared the fence and bounced into the second row of the right-field bleachers for a two-run home run.
The stadium erupted into a massive, earsplitting cheer. Jarret circled the bases toward home. Two women stormed down our aisle, screaming and waving their arms, and as he crossed home plate, they hugged each other. Mom, Dave, Robin and I exchanged high fives, and fans throughout the stadium circled rally towels, baseball caps, and fists in the air.