Third Base (The Boys of Summer #1)

by Heidi McLaughlin

  “Sports media. It’s for a research paper,” she says and I want to believe her, but surely her professors would require a reputable site and not some random blog that isn’t reporting the facts.

  “What’s wrong with ESPN or CBS Sports?”

  In a rare occurrence in the City of Boston, I come upon a parking spot that doesn’t require me to parallel-park and I take it. Putting my SUV in park, I turn in my seat to face her. I can’t read her expression because I’m not very good with this girl shit.

  “I don’t understand why you don’t like the BoRe Blog. It’s funny and informative.”

  Is she serious right now? “It’s anything but, Daisy. He posts rumors, falsifies information and publicly outed you. Nothing about that blog is okay.”

  “Are you just angry because you think the blogger picks on you?”

  “No, Daisy, I’m not,” I say sharply. “I’m pissed because I asked you not to look at that shit and when I come to surprise you, you act like I caught you doing something wrong. It’s not a lot to request.”

  I don’t know what’s happening here, but now I’m fucking pissed. Daisy turns and looks out the window, ignoring me. I know it’s stupid to fight over a blog, but the shit that particular blog publishes is a sore subject with me and she knew that. I thought it was a fairly simple request that she not read it but apparently I was wrong.

  When she takes out her cell phone and starts doing whatever the fuck she’s doing, I know the conversation is over. I put my car back into drive, heading back onto the road, and instead of going to my house I take her home.

  “I can’t believe you’re pissed off,” she says as we turn onto her street. Truth is, neither can I, but I am.

  “If that blog didn’t post about my friend’s failing marriage, or how many times I adjusted my cup, I might take it serious... but shit, Daisy, it’s not fucking news.”

  “Yeah, well, my friends and I like it. So what if they post how many times you pick your nose or the fact that Bainbridge is cheating on his wife? It’s newsworthy to the fans. It makes us feel like we know you.”

  “Are you shitting me right now?” I stop abruptly in front of her apartment, failing to put my car in park. “Whatever is going on in Steve’s life isn’t news and if they’re getting a divorce they certainly don’t need some half-assed blogger posting inaccurate shit that’s none of anyone’s business. God, why can’t you see it’s wrong?”

  “Because journalists support freedom of speech.” She’s out of my car, slamming the door before I can even say anything. My only comeback is the squealing tires of my car which I hope she hears as I pull away from the curb.

  The only place I can go to try and get my mind off what just happened is the stadium. Once I’m there, I hit the gym. I want to lift weights and punch the shit out of the bag that hangs in the corner, but I’m too pissed and that’s a bad idea. I can’t afford to tear a muscle right now. My game is the most important part of me. That and my integrity, which is something Daisy doesn’t seem to understand.

  The whole “journalists support freedom of speech” thing is bullshit. I’d support it too if it were the truth and not some made up gossip to stir the pot. And where does the BoRe Blogger get his information? There must be someone on the inside that leaks it because we didn’t even know about Bainbridge, his wife and a potential mistress, until we read about it in the damn blog. Guys talk in the clubhouse – there’s a code that it doesn’t leave – and nothing has been said. But again, if I were cheating on my wife, I probably wouldn’t tell anyone. No one can keep a fucking secret anyway.

  I step onto the treadmill, put my ear buds in and push the speed button until I’m in a steady run. My heavy metal playlist blasts into my ears, blocking out my thoughts of Daisy and the fucked up conversation we just had. Our weight room looks out over the field, reminding us why we’re busting our asses in here – so we can bust our asses out there for the fans, the town and our team.

  The grounds crew is out, mowing and fixing minute holes in the dirt infield. When I was in college, I followed the grounds crew around to see how they did everything. It fascinated me and I thought if I couldn’t make it in baseball I get a degree doing that instead. This way I’d still be with a team, in a stadium and part of the atmosphere. My advisor thought I was stupid for thinking about it and talked me out of it. I ended up with the standard communications degree, guaranteeing me a telecasting job when I retire or become washed up.

  Still, watching these guys out there, lying on the ground making sure each blade of grass is the same length, making sure the Renegades pattern is perfect and brushing the dirt in the proper direction amazes me. Everyone who works for a baseball club takes their job seriously, from concession stands, to souvenirs, to laundry. It’s a high-end operation here and if there’s ever any trouble, we never hear about it.

  The treadmill next to me starts up. I glance over to find Bainbridge starting a slow jog. I push the button to slow down and pull out my ear buds, but leave the music playing. As far as I’m concerned, he’s my mentor and I feel like a shit for bothering him with the bullshit weighing on my mind, but I need help.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “So you know how I have an issue with that blog?” he nods, so I keep going. “Well, I’ve been seeing this girl and I’ve asked her not to look at it.”

  “Why?” he asks, without breaking stride.

  “Our second date, or meeting, she brought up something about rumors she’d heard and I told her that not everything she reads online is legit and that if she had questions, she should ask. Then, somehow, the blog came up in a conversation and I asked her not to look at that shit. Today, when I surprised her at school, she was looking at the website and when I asked her about it, she flipped out on me.”

  Bainbridge sighs and I have a feeling I hit a sore subject. “I don’t blame you, but that shit is addictive to them. Lisa has emailed that blogger before about crap in our marriage even though I’ve asked her not to. Whatever happens in our house needs to stay there; she knows that, but she loves the attention.”

  “Daisy says all journalists support freedom of speech.”

  “The first part of the blog is great. I enjoy his critique of the game. He’s a real fan. The gossip part though – that shit has no place in baseball and takes away from the point of the blog, at least that’s how I feel.”

  We continue to jog for a few minutes without talking. A few of the other guys come in and out of the gym, but lift weights or hit the massage room, leaving us alone.

  “I think that whatever was going on with Daisy is effectively over.” Saying that out loud actually hurts. I really like her, but need to have her respect in regard to something as simple as not indulging in a blog she knows pisses me off. It all seems so petty now that I think about it, but I can’t help how I feel.

  “You’re too young to be tied down, Davenport.”

  Bainbridge steps off the treadmill and presses stop. He looks at me, pain masking his features. I stop running so I can give him my undivided attention.

  “Lisa was a fan. I hit her with a foul ball in college. I felt bad and took her out to dinner and we hit it off. But she’s insecure and freaks out if I don’t answer when she calls or I don’t call her right back. Anything longer than five minutes and I’m screwing the secretary, the cashier or the waitress. God forbid I get up in the middle of dinner and take a shit because she accuses me of texting my girlfriend or looking at porn. If I try to make love to her, she’s accusing me of trying to appease her because I’m having an affair. Frankly, I can’t handle my wife, let alone a girlfriend.

  “She wants to move home, back to Indiana – I don’t blame her. She’s alienated herself from the other wives and girlfriends, but I’m not ready to give up on my time here in Boston. I love it here. I love the team. I hear the rumors about Cooper Bailey and they scare the shit out of me. He’s young, has fresh legs and a killer arm. But I’m
not ready to quit.”

  He wraps his towel around his neck and shuts off his machine. “If I were you, I’d forget the girl. You’re young and chicks are eager to get to know you. If I could do it all over again, I wouldn’t have had a girlfriend when I started playing in the majors. The only things I don’t regret are my kids – the rest I could honestly live without.”

  Bainbridge walks off, leaving me stunned. He doesn’t open up much, but when he does he pours it all out. I’ve always asked him for advice, but to hear him say that he wished he never married his wife is a bit of a shock. Now I know why he’s never introduced us, and why he either shows up to events solo or cancels.

  I feel like my pleas have fallen on deaf ears!

  After dropping three to the Yankees, the Renegades could only pull out one win with the Devil Rays. One would think that playing in Boston, the Renegades would have the advantage over a team who plays in the tropics. Apparently, one shouldn’t assume.

  The Renegades are starting a ten-day road trip that begins in Toronto and ends in Seattle (home of Ethan Davenport) with a stop in Oakland on the way.

  Seattle is historically bad, although new management is trying to rebuild the team. Let’s hope Robinson Cano isn’t bringing his A-game while we’re in town, even though we love him from ditching out on the Yankees in favor of the Mariners.

  The Renegades are 15 / 16 going into the road trip. If they plan to make it to the post season, they need to start winning. Yes, it’s only May, however the clock is ticking.

  Our run count is now – 160 / 149. For those keeping count – we scored six runs in the last three games, giving up ten. That’s backwards, Boys!

  GOSSIP WIRE:

  It seems the romance is over for Davenport and his super fan! Sources say he’s been leaving the stadium by himself these past few games instead of having his number one on his arm. It makes me wonder why it’s over so fast? Maybe she has a thing for Cooper Bailey...

  The Renegades put on quite a show for the Children’s Cancer Ward at Beth Israel. Sources close to the team said the guys had their make-up done, fingernails painted, and many selfies were taken.

  Hadley Carter, the wife of General Manager Ryan Stone, recently accepted an MTV Music award for best video. Congratulations, Ms. Carter, even if you are a Yankee fan. Ick!

  The BoRe Blogger

  I love baseball. I love women. What I don’t love is women and baseball together. Since Daisy and I argued, my game has sucked. My batting average has dropped, my on-base percentage is almost non-existent and when I am hitting the ball, they’re foul or I’m dropping my shoulder and they’re pop-ups. Six out of our ten away games are done with a record of three and three. In those games I didn’t drive in one single run. Not even a sacrifice. At least my defensive game is still intact. I can’t imagine how I’d be feeling if I were committing errors and letting my team down by not being present on the field.

  My head is all jacked up with thoughts of Daisy. I’ve been trained to block this type of shit out, but apparently it’s not working. The game should be the only thing on my mind. Even now, as I walk along the hot tarmac to our plane at the Oakland International Airport, I wonder what the hell she’s doing. And as I board the plane and see the same flight attendants I have known since I joined the team, my thoughts should be about tomorrow’s game but they’re not. I’m stupidly wondering why Daisy hasn’t called or texted and I need to stop. This was too fast, too soon for me.

  Never again will I allow a female to consume my thoughts while I’m working. My focus from here on out will solely be on baseball and the pitchers I’m about to face; about the teams we need to beat to at least be a wild card team this fall. I’m going to close my eyes and visualize myself at the plate, swinging my bat to kill the ball. From here on out there will be no worrying about how someone feels, or whether someone is looking at me… and no more going the extra mile. I don’t need to.

  And this pent up frustration, well that’s what Sarah’s for. She has hers, I have mine, and that is why our arrangement works. I should’ve known better than to fuck with a good thing.

  The flight from Oakland to Seattle is under two hours and it’s barely enough time to get any shuteye. Instead, Kidd and I take advantage of the free booze and we keep the flight attendants busy. We’re not the only ones drinking, just two of the youngest, but legal is legal.

  When we land I’ll be heading to my parents. It’s a luxury that we’re entitled to when we visit our hometowns. My parents live close enough to Safeco Field that it’s only a ten-minute drive. Sarah’s apartment is fifteen and if I have my way, I’ll be spending as much time with her as possible. She’s exactly what I need to get over this sour taste in my mouth.

  “Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay at the hotel?”

  “Nah, my bed at home is waiting for me.”

  When you’re single and on the road you can have a lot of fun. The cleat chaser’s know what hotels we stay at and most know our arrival schedules. We’ll be in town long before the bar closes and they’ll be looking for action.

  “Shit, don’t you mean Sarah’s bed?” Kidd shakes his head as he downs his drink. If I hadn’t been so hung up on that certain baseball fan back in Boston, I would’ve had Sarah pick me up tonight, but when my mom called it was an automatic request. If I really wanted to, I could go to Sarah’s after visiting, or she could come over to my parents’ house. My mom may not understand, but she wouldn’t question Sarah’s presence at our house.

  When the flight attendant comes back, she has new drinks for us, plus an assortment of snacks. I’m starving, but the short flight makes meal preparation a bit difficult. I’m hoping my mom has the refrigerator well stocked or she at least cooked a big meal today.

  “Does she have a sister?”

  “Who?” I ask, tearing my eyes away from the window. Even though it’s dark out, I know the vast mountains of the Cascades loom beneath us.

  “Your girlfriend?”

  I frown at the term girlfriend. For a brief moment I was stupid enough to think that I’d have a girlfriend, but that thought is long gone and a fuck buddy is better suited for me.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I say, shaking my head. I quickly finish my drink and hand my empty cup to the attendant as she passes by.

  “What do you call her?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know; my ex? Sarah doesn’t have a label.”

  “You know most guys label that ‘for a good time, call’ and put her name and number on the bathroom wall.” Kidd is laughing so hard at his joke that he wakes Bainbridge up, who is frowning at us. I grimace, letting him know that I’m sorry, but he looks pissed and will likely yell at us tomorrow in the clubhouse.

  “Sarah is completing her residency at the hospital. She doesn’t have time to meet guys, so this is convenient for her.”

  “So she uses you for your pecker jammer?” He cocks his eyebrow at me, trying to stifle a laugh, only he can’t and ends up snorting and blowing booze out of his nose. I keel over, laughing, as Kidd scrambles to clean up his mess while putting together a string of curse words that would rival the Urban Dictionary.

  We get stares from the other guys, but one look at Kidd and they know he’s done something stupid. It’s typical behavior, especially when we travel. He’s the life of the party. As soon as he’s done and the redness from his face has dissipated, I can finally answer his question.

  “No. It’s mutually beneficial. I get what I need without someone demanding a diamond ring, and she gets what she needs without wondering if her hook-up is going to call the next day. She knows I won’t call and I know she has no desire to get married.”

  I do fear the day that changes. I’ve often thought about why she hasn’t tried to meet someone new or even someone in her field. She’s always waiting for me to come to town, or flying out to see me when she gets a vacation. Even though she knows I’ve been with other women since her, it doesn’t seem to bother her at all. The first time she a
sked, I thought she would break down and start crying, but she didn’t. Now that I’m thinking about it, I actually kind of find it odd.

  The moment we land I’m scrambling to deplane. I’m anxious to see my parents, my sister and my niece, Shea. I don’t know who will be here to pick me up and it honestly doesn’t matter because knowing that I’m home is a big stress reliever.

  As soon as my feet hit the steps, I see my dad waving. It looks like he’s chatting with the bus drivers that will take the rest of my teammates and all our gear to the hotel the team is staying at. Every bag that was checked when we boarded will be taken to the hotel. I packed extra in a carry-on so I can stay with my parents.

  My dad’s arms wrap around my shoulders tightly as we embrace. “So happy you’re home,” he says, patting my back. He has no idea how much I need this hug. I don’t care how old you are, hugs from your parents are a necessity.

  “Me too,” I tell him, returning the sentiment. This is the only time they’ll see me play unless they come to Boston or pick up an away game along the way. If I had been drafted by a West Coast team, they’d see me more. I know they miss watching me play, and college spoiled that for them. Being close meant they were at most of my games.

  “Is mom still up?’ I ask, knowing it’s late, and she takes care of Shea during the day so my sister can work and not have to worry about daycare.

  “She sure is. You know she’d stay up waiting for her baby boy to come home.” My dad ruffles my hair and smiles. It doesn’t matter how old I am, or what my profession is, I’ll always be my mom’s baby boy.

  The guys all come over and say hi to my dad, shaking his hand or giving him a hug. Last year, my parents came to Boston and my dad hung out on the field with me. The guys treated him so well.