“Look, I—” She took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I think, with the game you had tonight, you know your talent isn’t about me walking the bases or you wearing something on your glove. You know you have everything you need. And I have everything I need. But man, I really love you.”
“I can’t believe I played at all. All I could think about was you. You. Not how you affected me, but you. How I treated you. I didn’t know where you were. And it was you, but I was greedy. If you weren’t with me, I’d miss you in the morning. I’d miss you drinking coffee on the couch. I’d miss a life with you. I may never play ball again, and I care about that. I care a lot, but I’ll get over it. You? I’ll never get over you.” I took her hand in my good one, lacing the fingers.
“I can’t believe you’re reassuring me right now. I should be reassuring you.”
Everything did seem flipped around. I was more concerned with her than with my arm. I worried about her career more than my own. Her unsurety made me unsure. Was this what it meant to love someone?
“I am reassuring me,” I said. “I’m telling myself it’s okay to doubt the purpose of my life. It’s okay that I’m going to lose everything I depended on. I thought I’d built something stable, but I didn’t. It was shit because what we have is forever. It can’t be shut down. I can doubt everything, but I don’t doubt that I love you.”
She leaned her head back against the wall. “‘Love is an ever-fixed mark.’”
“Be my ever-fixed mark. Be my north star.”
I didn’t wait for her to answer. I just kissed her long and hard. I kissed her with everything I had because I’d run out of words. Even Shakespeare had nothing to say I couldn’t say better with that kiss.
I’d said I knew I couldn’t control my luck and I was okay with that.
That I might not play again and it was all right.
I was a small man in a big world I didn’t understand. A fool and a fraud. A gambler whose luck had run out. I was a meaningless ball of thoughts and fears with no control over the way my life unfurled.
But with her, I wasn’t afraid.
epilogue
Vivian
I missed games sometimes. I still had my job, and it wasn’t glamorous or lucrative, but it was important. I had a father who needed me, and sometimes I had something else I had to do.
So I walked the bases when I could and made the first pitch whenever possible, but sometimes I missed games. I watched from the TV in my little apartment or at the bar with my friends. I heard them on the radio in my car on the way to Echo Park to catch the fourth inning.
But I’d never miss a second of the World Series. Especially not the seventh game of a nail-biter. And of course, my man’s talent was all his, and walking the bases with him while he had our sex somewhere on his body was no help to him at all.
But for the World Series? We figured it couldn’t hurt.
It was close from the first game to the seventh inning of the seventh game. The Boston Red Sox bullpen had never been better, and Los Angeles had to bring their best for every game.
I hadn’t spoken a word to my father, Francine, Larry, or Dash’s parents in two innings even though they surrounded me in the seats behind the dugout. There was nothing to say. We were all too wound up.
They’d been tied at one since the third inning, and both teams had come close to scoring. Right now, the Sox had three men on base with two outs. No one was breathing. Rodriguez had been traded to the Sox in September to get them through the playoffs, and now he was up. The same guy Dash had caught when he landed on his wrist. The hairline fracture had healed by the All-Star break, but I’d never forget how worried he’d been, how lucky he was, and how close he had come to ending his career.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Dash, legs spread between second and third as though he could go either way. I watched him every second of every game, the way he moved and when. He chose a direction before the ball even left the pitcher’s hand, and he was right about where the ball was headed every single time.
In the seventh inning of the seventh game of the series, Dash stepped right then took half a step back before the bat connected with the ball and went flying three feet to his right. He took another step and caught it, making it look easy, and retired the side.
We breathed.
I’d seen a hundred games that year. Nine hundred innings. When the fielder caught the final out of the side, he tossed the ball on the ground or to the ball boy and trotted over to the dugout. Dash looked at me and tipped his hat every single time. Every single time, I waved.
He didn’t this time. He just stayed on the field. His teammates started back, but he stood there, tossing the ball, catching it, tossing, catching.
The PA system shuddered with the announcement of the seventh-inning stretch. Usually they played “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and did some scoreboard games.
“What’s he doing?” Dad asked. “Is he losing it?”
“I don’t know.”
The scoreboard went black, and the announcer’s voice blasted out of the PA system.
“Number nineteen, Dash Wallace, has a request.”
“Uh-oh,” Francine muttered.