“Really?” I ask, pausing mid-stride.
“Nope, but you just affirmed my suspicions that you’re into her.”
I shake my head and push him away. He stumbles a few steps before righting himself. “Ask her out,” he says in his infinite wisdom.
“Nah, it’ll just be more fuel for the BoRe blogger and Stone is already annoyed with me. He doesn’t need a reason to trade me.”
Kidd bellows out a laugh, bending over and holding his stomach. I’m not sure why it’s so funny – the thought of me being traded – but you don’t see me laughing.
“Dude, even if you started dating the fan, Stone isn’t going to trade you.” He puts his arm around me and turns me toward the stands. “More than half the people in the stands are wearing your jersey. You’re his young rising star, and aside from screwing up last year, which really wasn’t your fault, you’re the golden ticket.”
Growing up, I knew I wanted to play baseball. I didn’t care who drafted me, but I knew that once I had a team, it’s where I wanted to stay. I worked my ass off in high school, earning a Division One scholarship to Oregon State. My junior year, we won the national championship and from then on, I knew nothing was out of my reach.
“I want to be the next Derek Jeter.” I imagine legions of fans standing and cheering for me as I tip my hat to them in thanks.
“No, you don’t. You want to be Ethan Davenport. Be you, no one else.”
He slaps me on the shoulder with his glove, leaving me to look out over the stadium. People file in as the smell of hotdogs and popcorn moves through the air. Their laughter mixes with the music, creating a happy ambience. Without even thinking, my eyes travel over to where I’ll spend half the night. I’m out too far to see, but everything tells me that the first seat in row C, section sixty-five is occupied.
It’s game night at Lowery Field and the Boston Renegades are about to take on the Baltimore Orioles.
After the National Anthem, we take the field. Kids are standing up and dancing, trying to get on the Jumbo Tron. I remember trying to do the same thing when I was a kid and my dad would take me to the Seattle Mariners games. I always tried to get on, or get a high-five from the Mariners’ Moose. Small moments like that can make a kid’s night at the ballpark. Catching a home run or a foul ball is the icing on the cake.
As I’m jogging to third, I let my eyes wander to the fans. She’s there with her ball cap on; the seat next to her is still empty. The slight movement of her head has me thinking that she’s watching me. I purposely walk over to the Orioles’ dugout and talk to one of my buddies from college, Justin Shaw. He’s a relief pitcher and I’ll likely be facing him tonight.
“Shaw,” I say as I quickly glance over the top of the dugout and our eyes meet. I smile and she turns away but not before I see a slight grin. Justin comes out of the dugout and we bro hug – something I probably should’ve done before the game, but she wasn’t sitting there then.
“Don’t strike me out later, okay?”
“No promises, Davenport.”