Third Base

by Author Stella

  His attention went back to the field and to whatever Mr. Kyler said to the group. When I resumed my seat, my dad started pointing out different people in the crowd around us. I tried to count the men with clipboards and speed guns, but I kept losing track when they’d get up or when people would surround them without sitting.

  “Every one of those is a scout.” I could hear the awe in my dad’s normally dull tone. “You think they’re all here to see Coby?”

  I didn’t have a clue, but the thought made my chest swell with pride. Even if no one else thought he was gifted, he blew me away. Daydreams of Coby’s future filled my head as the game got under way. With my breath held, I watched every pitch he threw, every ball that left his hands. Somehow, I’d gotten so lost in the game that I hadn’t realized how quickly the innings went by. Every time I glanced at the screen on one of the guns a row or two below me, I’d see impressive numbers. Ninety-eight, ninety-two, ninety-nine.

  Coby was pitching the game of his life.

  He might not have cared how this went or what the outcome was, but just like everything else he approached, he gave it his all. If he wasn’t chasing Major League, he was definitely after the championship title. To no avail, I strained to hear what the scouts said to each other. Several of them were obviously familiar with each other, but I had no clue which teams they represented or how Coby fared in their discussions.

  The noise around us was deafening. Chills ran the length of my arms. In the top of the ninth, DeArmanville led by two runs. Coby had managed to keep their opponents from a single hit in the bottom of the eighth inning. But as he left the mound after striking out the first three guys, my stomach sank—Coby would be the first hitter in the continued lineup.

  For the first time in all the games I’d ever been to, I wished Coach Kyler took the liberty to bench his pitcher like so many other schools chose to do. But he wouldn’t do it—designated hitter wasn’t in his vocabulary. Yes, he hoped to put a championship title under the school’s belt, but first and foremost, he wanted the guys to have fun. We’d never made it this far, much less had anyone scout our players, and in the coach’s mind, they played as a team—good and bad. Which also meant Coby had to step up and face the mound from the top of the diamond, too.

  My knees bounced in nervous anticipation, not because I feared the team losing with my friend at bat. I worried that his inability to hit a ball would deter a scout from taking note of his pitching performance. I chewed my bottom lip while my parents sat quietly on either side of me. I’d sloughed off any attempt they’d made at communication, and they’d finally given up trying to calm my anxiety.

  Standing away from home plate, Coby stretched his arms in wide circles, taking several practice swings. His shoulder probably needed icing, and I’d noticed him doing all he could in the dugout to keep it mobile until the game ended. But stressing over it wouldn’t change it, so I simply counted the steps he took until he reached home plate. Coby hadn’t so much as glanced up into the stands, but I was desperate to make eye contact with him before the first pitch.

  He dug his left foot into the red dirt, twisting it to secure his footing, then his right kicked at the ground inches from his other cleat. Every player had their rituals, and this was Coby’s—at bat and on the mound. He wouldn’t throw a pitch or take a swing until his feet were rooted exactly where he needed them to be. Although, I had to admit, it worked wonders for his pitching but it did nothing for his hitting. Before he took his first practice swing, just after he set his stance, he turned his head.

  Coby found me in the stand instantly, lifted his left hand, and crooked his pointer finger in my direction. I returned the gesture, but it was over as quickly as it started. He adjusted his helmet, gripped the bat to swing it in the air, indicating he was ready, and rocked back to wait for the ball. I was afraid to watch but I couldn’t close my eyes.

  Strike one.

  It seemed the catcher caught the ball before the pitcher ever released it.

  All eyes were on Coby.

  Strike two.

  I took a deep breath when he stepped away from the plate. Coach Kyler appeared instantly at his side. The exchange only took a few seconds, but while they talked, I prayed. I never asked God for anything, but I begged for this.

  One hit.

  Coby didn’t glance back into the stands again. His feet dug their proper holes. The bat sliced through the air. The pitcher wound up, and the ball flew.

  The crack echoed loudly through the park. And I watched that tiny, white ball as Coby took off toward first base. As the path arched into the sky, I stood with it. And so did everyone else in the crowd.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut sometimes.” My dad wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, just out loud.

  The outfielder hit the wall as he jumped to try to catch the ball, but Coby had hit that one out of the park. The one time it mattered, he’d hit gold. When he came racing over home plate, even he looked out to the field to see who had it, clearly in disbelief. When he turned around, he lifted his head to acknowledge me with a wide grin, and then proceeded back to the dugout.

  I jumped up and down in the tiny space my seat afforded me. There was no doubt in my mind, Coby had just landed himself in the draft…

  Whether he was ready for it or not.

  DeArmanville High had won their first state championship game. Fans and students flooded the field when the game ended, lifting Coby above their heads in celebration. My parents told me to take my time and waited in the car. The mass mob wasn’t my scene, but there was no way I was leaving without hearing his voice and seeing the happiness on his face.

  I think he knew I wouldn’t leave. Yet even as I tracked him around the field, he kept glancing up, I assumed to make sure I still waited on him. Coach Kyler wouldn’t be in a hurry to get the guys on the bus, but he wouldn’t let them linger, either. Though the longer I sat, the more people approached him and his dad. One by one, it seemed twenty people must have stopped him, and I wondered if this was the official introduction. Not understanding how any of this actually worked frustrated me beyond belief. I kicked myself for not doing any research in the days leading up to this.

  Coby and his dad were the last two standing on the field. The coach gave directions to someone in the dugout, then waved at me before smacking Coby on the butt. My best friend beamed. The smile radiated from his face. If it weren’t still daylight, he could have lit up the stadium. I tracked him as he jumped over the rail and then took the steps two at a time. Meeting him on the stairs, I leaped into his arms the moment he opened them.

  “Holy crap, Coby. That was the best I’ve ever seen you play. You were amazing.” I pushed back to see his face. There was a confidence there I’d never seen before—it was a good look for him. “So?” My impatience got the best of me.

  “There were a ton of scouts here. I lost count of how many came to talk to me and my dad.”

  God, what I wouldn’t give to have been on that field listening to what was said instead of hoping Coby gave me the details. Guys sucked at recounting conversations. I wasn’t interested in an overview—I needed every word of every encounter. But, true to form, Coby provided me with little insight and downplayed their interest.

  “My dad’s already talking about getting an agent, but I don’t see the point. No team is going to pick me up, Ellie.” The high had already started to wear off, and the doubt crept back in.

  “What does it hurt? It doesn’t cost anything, right? I mean an agent only gets paid if you get a contract, correct?”

  He nodded.

  “Then let it ride and see where it takes you, Coby. You’ll never know if you can fly unless you jump off the ledge and spread your wings.”

  Chapter 2

  Coby

  I stood in front of the mirror in the hotel room and adjusted my tie. I’d worn them every Sunday since I was a kid—graduating from a clip-on when I was twelve—but this wasn’t the same. No matter
how many times I tried to convince myself that I was at home, getting ready for church, it didn’t work. This was the biggest day of my life so far, and nothing could keep the nerves from strangling me.

  Nothing but Ellie.

  “Here, let me get that.” She came up behind me and fitted herself between my body and the full-length mirror attached to the wall. I didn’t need her help—although, it was nice to have it anyway. Having her here made everything better. “You look so handsome.”

  I wanted to laugh, roll my eyes, or tell her she was crazy, yet I couldn’t do anything other than stare into her vibrant, blue eyes. She had on makeup, which she rarely wore, but she’d claimed she felt the occasion called for it, and I hated how it covered the light spattering of freckles along her forehead, cheeks, and across the bridge of her nose. Dark liner traced the top lids, nothing on the bottom, and her black-painted lashes seemed much longer than normal. I appreciated the lengths at which she went to dress up for my event, except all it did was scream at me how unusual tonight was. It was a reminder this wasn’t Sunday morning, and I wasn’t headed off to church.

  It was the First Year Player Draft, and my agent anticipated an early pick. I refused to believe it, so I tried to ignore all the talk and hype surrounding the event. Even my dad had caught himself a few times speaking as if it were a done deal. The only person who acted like it wasn’t was Ellie, even though I was sure it was just a ruse to placate me.

  “Why do I have to be so dressed up for this? I feel like I’m going to my own funeral.” That thought made my stomach roll and tighten.

  “This is nothing like that, and you know it.” Ellie pressed her palm against my chest to flatten my tie. “Even if you don’t get picked, what do you lose by being here? This is a dream most players don’t get to fulfill, and here you are. So what if your name isn’t called, or called another night? We’ll go home, enjoy our summer, and then head off to college like we’ve been planning our entire lives. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

  “Other than attending our high school graduation,” I reminded her, to which she waved me off with huffed laughter.

  The draft fell on the night of our ceremony. I’d already decided I wouldn’t forgo our last high school festivity in order to be rejected by the pros, but that hadn’t been a decision I’d made on my own behalf. Ellie would’ve gone anywhere I did, which meant if I went to the draft, she’d be there, too. In all fairness, I couldn’t do any of this without her, but I refused to let her give up the chance to walk across the stage in a cap and gown. She’d worked too damn hard to miss it. But Ellie insisted she had no desire to spend one more day with the same people we’d gone to school with our entire lives—living in such a small, one-train-track town meant you grew up with everyone there.

  “We’ve already talked about this, Coby. If we were home right now, we’d be in your room watching a movie while stuffing ourselves with popcorn. We’d be left out of the parties and celebrations, just like we always are. So, aside from walking across a stage and accepting a diploma we’ve already earned, we’re not missing anything. And I can’t speak for you, but I’d so much rather be here, in New Jersey, than in Podunk.”

  I already knew I wasn’t missing out on anything, but I never wanted to hold Ellie back. Honestly, I wouldn’t have even been here—in the draft or Secaucus—if it weren’t for her. She truly was my best friend in the world.

  “Well,” I started while slipping on my sports coat, “you probably shouldn’t slam DeArmanville too much considering we’re headed back there in the morning.”

  “So you’ve made up your mind? If you aren’t called tonight, you’re not staying for the next round?” Her brilliant eyes lit up in surprise. We’d talked about this endlessly, yet I hadn’t made my final decision until just now.

  “No. There’s no point.” I patted my pockets to make sure I had everything—for the millionth time. “If I don’t hear my name tonight, my decision is made.”

  Her lips curled, but it was obvious even to a stranger that it wasn’t genuine. Ellie had the kind of smile that could light up a room, and this one didn’t even flicker. She wanted me to make it big so I could prove all the haters wrong and have a reason to metaphorically laugh in their faces, but she didn’t seem to comprehend how little importance a pro career was to me. Sure, playing ball with the big boys would be anyone’s dream come true. I’d love to stand on that mound on any given night, the lights bright and cheers louder. The thought of my name on the back of a jersey excited me as much as the next guy. But I wasn’t about to hang my hat on that dream. Not having that wouldn’t be the end of my world.

  Although, I worried it would be the end of hers.

  I feared not making it big would change the way she saw me.

  That was absolutely absurd. I shook my head, relieving myself of the stupid thoughts that seemed to overtake me in times like these. Times when everything could change in a split second, and I had no control over any of it.

  Just then, a knock sounded on the door to our hotel room. Ellie answered it while I took one last look in the mirror, making sure my glasses weren’t lopsided, or my hair wasn’t sticking out all over the place. I had a bad habit of pulling on the pieces in the front when I grew anxious, most of the time having no idea I’d even done so.

  “You ready, son?” my dad called from behind me.

  When I turned around, we both stopped moving and just stood there, staring at one another. The pride that swirled inside him radiated through his eyes, the same light brown of my own, and his mouth curved into a smile that seemed too big for his face. This had been more of his dream than mine, but over the years, I couldn’t help taking part in his aspirations for my future. Simply knowing how proud he was of me, of getting here, of even having this opportunity, made it all worth it.

  Even if I didn’t hear my name tonight.

  I had to keep telling myself that—that I wouldn’t be picked in the first round. If not, then the crash of disappointment would be hard, and I’d feel down in the end. Whereas, if I told myself it wouldn’t happen, and that I was only here on vacation with my dad and best friend, then my trip home in the morning would be an easier pill to swallow.

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” I answered and walked to the door on unsteady feet.

  Ellie fell in line behind me while the three of us filed out of the room and down the hall to the elevator. We had a car waiting for us downstairs that would take us to the studio at the MLB Network where the draft would be held.

  The entire way there, my chest constricted and I couldn’t breathe. With my dad in the passenger seat, Ellie sat in the back next to me. Sensing my apprehension, she reached across the middle and took my hand, but when I turned to look at her, I found her staring out the window, not paying me any attention aside from her fingers laced with mine. It was enough to settle my nerves slightly.

  The car came to a stop outside the studio, and my dad got out. I, however, remained seated in the back, needing an extra moment to collect myself. The sheer number of broadcasters standing along the sidewalk leading up to the building stifled my ability to inhale properly, causing me to practically hyperventilate in the back of the Town Car.

  “You’ve got this, Coby.” Her soft, confident voice drifted across the seat and settled over me, blanketing me with the kind of comfort only Ellie could give. When I turned to face her, I noticed her pointing at me with one finger. My finger. Our finger. I touched it, mimicking her, and she said, “Either way, you’ll always be my MVP.”

  I couldn’t hold in the laughter. It bubbled out just as my dad opened my door and the driver opened Ellie’s. By the time we were both on the sidewalk, we were in a fit of hysterics, to which my dad gave us each a questioning stare.

  “You’re such a dork,” I whispered to her.

  “Takes one to know one.”

  During the walk into the building, through the hallways, and into Studio 42, everything became a blur. There were the flashes of light fro
m the cameras outside, the blast of cold air inside, and murmurs from other players and their families filling the room as if they had it on surround sound. It felt like a dream, like it wasn’t happening to me. It was akin to sitting on the sidelines and watching it all happen to someone else.

  But it wasn’t.

  We were here for me.

  It was all so surreal.

  Suddenly, the commentators—who were at their desks in front of the cameras along the side of the room—started the introductions for the viewers. My heart climbed up my chest and settled into my throat, choking me to the point my tie squeezed the life out of me. But like always, Ellie was at my side, seated next to me, with her palm against mine.

  The commissioner took the podium and announced the first pick coming from the Tuscaloosa Titans. They were notoriously the worst team last season, which solidified their spot at the head of the pecking order. As much as I wanted to play for a decent team—or at least one that didn’t have the highest loss-to-win ratio by a landslide—I had kind of held my breath for the Titans. It made the most sense with Ellie attending the University of Alabama at Tuscaloosa. That way, we would be stationed in the same place, even though being a Titan would put me on a National League team where I wouldn’t have a designated hitter. Then again, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  Realistically, even if I did get picked up, I’d more than likely spend a year or two on a farm team, which would take me out of the area to hone in and develop my skills. However, the Titans were one of the few with their Major League and Minor League teams stationed within driving distance of each other—yet another reason why I would’ve been okay with landing on the Titan’s roster.

  “With the first selection of the First Year Player Draft, the Tuscaloosa Titans select…” he said, reading from a piece of paper on the podium in front of him. Except that was all I heard. After that, the room broke out in whistles and jeers, alerting me that he’d called someone’s name.