Dad and Nick slumped in silence, arms crossed.
Jarret took off his batting helmet and disappeared into the dugout while the crowd continued to roar. Home runs by pitchers were a rarity. This was the second one I had seen Jarret hit in fifteen years.
The two women who rushed the aisle pumped their fists and jumped up and down, yelling with the rest of the stadium for Jarret to come out for a bow. As they turned, chanting Jarret’s name at the Dodger dugout, I recognized both women from the gym. Gretchen, the brunette from this morning, and a nameless, streaked blonde I saw yesterday. Screaming for Jarret at high pitch, Gretchen wasn’t kidding about being a baseball fan.
Relentless cheers brought Jarret out of the dugout before play resumed. He touched his cap in acknowledgement, then pointed up into the stands and blew a kiss in our general direction. I bent my head, chuckling. He remembered.
Mom leaned over to Robin and me. “Isn’t it sweet how the fans love him?”
“Very sweet,” Robin said.
The inning ended with the Dodgers leading by two runs. The Cubs’ defense cleared the field and the Dodger defense came out of the dugout and took their places. Jarret, the last player out of the dugout, jogged toward the mound.
As he skipped over the chalk between third base and home plate, a white pigeon swooped off the home plate backstop fencing and dive-bombed straight at Jarret’s head. Jarret flinched backward onto the chalk line.
Mom and I gasped together.
“Oh, no,” Mom said.
“Damn,” I said.
“What?” Nick said.
“Maybe he didn’t notice,” Mom said. “I hope he didn’t notice.”
“He noticed,” I said. “See how he’s stomping his foot? He’s trying to shake off the chalk.”
“What happened?” Robin hunched forward, staring down at the field. “Why is Jarret doing a rain dance on the mound?”
“He’s superstitious about stepping on the baseline,” I said. “He believes a myth about the chalk between third base and home plate carrying runs. If he wears chalk to the mound on his shoe, the chalk will make him pitch runs to the opposing team.”
Nick leaned over to Dad. “Then this should be very interesting. Let’s see how the phenom pitches with chalk dust clouding his focus.”
I rubbed my knees, watching the field. When Jarret performed on the mound, he had a canny ability to shut out distractions around him. Jeering crowds couldn’t shake him. All-star batters didn’t intimidate him. Being behind on the count, hung-over, shivering from the cold, or sweltering in the heat didn’t faze him. But the run-laden chalk on his shoe would shimmy up his leg and into his head.
And it did. Jarret walked the first two batters and hit the third on the shoulder with a wild pitch, loading the bases. The next batter, the Cubs’ left-handed leader in runs batted in, came to the plate.
“They have to take him out of the game,” Dave said.
“They won’t. The Dodgers only have righties warming up in the bullpen. Jarret is their leftie specialist. They have a better chance leaving him in,” Dad said, nudging Nick.
The Dodger catcher and first baseman went to the mound to calm Jarret down. He bobbed his head as he listened to them. The catcher handed him the ball with an encouraging tap on the shoulder. I knew their assurances wouldn’t work. Jarret was freaked, and the worse he pitched, the more freaked he became.
On Jarret’s second pitch, the Cubs batter cleared the bases with a grand slam home run. The manager took Jarret out of the game and he left the mound to lukewarm applause and a few jeers from the crowd.
The Cubs won the game five to three. Dad and Nick exchanged fist bumps and smug smiles.
“Season’s not over. We’ll get you next time,” Dave said.
“I’m happy for you, Walter,” Mom said, kissing Dad’s cheek before they filed into the aisle. “You got your birthday wish—your team won.”
Dave, Nick, and Robin followed them out. As I tagged behind, Gretchen and her blonde friend climbed the steps toward me in dejected silence.
“Gretchen,” I said. She glanced up. “I saw you at the gym this morning. I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself, I’m Liz Cooper.”
“Cooper?” Gretchen tilted her head.
“Are you related to Jarret?” the blonde said.
“I used to be. He’s my ex-husband. Tough loss tonight.” I stepped into the aisle and climbed the stairs with them. “Jarret pitched a great seventh inning. Bad break on the eighth.”
“I hope he remembers his home run and forgets about the rest of the game,” Gretchen said.
“He looked pretty happy rounding the bases, didn’t he?” I said.
The blonde stopped and turned. “Pretty happy? Didn’t you read the note on the scoreboard? He’s the only Dodger pitcher to hit a home run this season. The fans adore him.”