When Daisy steps out, her eyes widen. I know she’s probably thinking that I bought this for her, and while that would definitely be a grand gesture, she’s far too young to be driving around in a van.
“What’s this?” Daisy asks, walking toward me.
Spreading my arms out wide, I say, “This is our mode of transportation today. However, there is a surprise in the back for your grandpa.”
Her eyes narrow in skepticism as she leans in to look. The windows are darkened, limiting her line of sight. “What? I don’t see anything.” she says, stepping back and crossing her arms.
Pressing the button on my fob, the door slides open, revealing a custom black and red (of course) motor scooter. As much as I want to admire the craftsmanship of the decals, her expression is far more heart-warming. Her mouth drops open and there’s a slight cry of surprise before she covers her mouth with her hand.
“We can’t accept this,” she says. I knew she was going to say that. Everyone always says that when you try and give them an expensive gift.
“Why not?” I want to hear her excuses and if they’re valid, I’ll donate the scooter.
“Because it’s too much.”
That’s definitely not a valid enough reason. I step forward and pull her into my arms, kissing her gently on her cheeks and finally her lips.
“Over the past month, I’ve seen a man come to life because he’s doing what he loves – attending Renegades baseball games. I know I’ve made that happen, but I also think that your grandfather would probably like to get out by himself every now and again, maybe go to the store and get some things for himself. This thing is motorized and takes little effort. It’s a gift Daisy, one that you’ll both benefit from. He’ll be able to move around the house more freely and not depend so much on you or the nurses.”
She nods, knowing I’m right.
“The van will still pick him up for games, so you won’t have to worry about the T or anything like that, but all he has to do is get in the elevator and now he’ll be able to do that by himself.”
“Only if the elevator works,” she says, wiping her tears away. I kiss her again and again, not caring who is watching from the street.
“The elevator will be working today. I made some calls and was assured that by the time we get back, the elevator will be fully functioning.”
She gasps and steps back. “You did what?”
I shrug. It wasn’t a big deal, at least not to me, however her stance tells me I may have crossed the line. “What?”
“You can’t go around making phone calls like that, Ethan. There are rules and… well you just can’t do it.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to cool my temper. “You live in a housing unit that the state funds; you need working equipment. I made a call and it’ll be working by the time we get back, otherwise they’re in violation and you’re not required to pay rent.”
Daisy crosses her arms and looks down the street. I do what seems natural and pull her to me, enveloping her in my arms. “I’m only trying to help. I thought it’d be nice to have an elevator that actually works so when you’re carrying groceries up, you’re not killing yourself.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” she mumbles into my shirt. “I’m not used to anyone doing such nice things for us. I don’t know how to take it.”
I pull back, cupping her cheeks with my hands. “Get used to it, Daisy.”
She stretches up on her toes, giving me a chaste kiss. “Where are we going today?”
“We are going to New York City to watch the Mets play.”
Her mouth drops open and her eyes light up. “Seriously?”
“Would I lie?”
“No, but oh my… my grandpa is going to be so freaking happy.” She leaves me standing by the van as she heads to her door. “Wait, why not the Yankees?” she asks with a smile, before disappearing inside. I shake my fist at her before going to work on getting the scooter out of the van. That damn elevator better work today because there’s no way I can carry this up the stairs.
As far as road trips go, this is one of the best. The drive is just under four hours from Boston to NYC and John has made sure to pass the time easily for me. Stories of Daisy when she was a little girl have had me laughing the entire time. Each time I hear, “Oh, Papa, no,” I know it’s going to be a doozy of a story.
“When Daisy was about ten, she had this crush on the neighbor boy. I think he was about three years older…”
I reach for Daisy’s hand and give it a squeeze. She’s been a trooper, letting her grandfather go on and on about her life growing up.
“Her grandma and I told her that he was too old for her and that he’d break her heart, but she wouldn’t listen. Each day she’d wait for him to get home from practice or whatever he did after school, sitting on the front porch step watching each kid go by. When he’d go by on his bike, she’d run out there to say hi and he’d talk to her until his mom started hollering for him.
“One day, he brought a girl home and little miss Daisy became so enraged she socked the girl right in her shoulder before she came running into the house, telling us that boys are stupid.”
“Do you still think boys are stupid, Daisy?” I ask her, hoping my voice is low enough that her grandfather can’t hear us in the backseat.
“No, she doesn’t. She likes you, doesn’t she?”
“Papa,” she scolds as she turns around. “Ethan is a fine young gentleman and doesn’t bring other girls home on his bike.” We’re both laughing by the time she ends her sentence.
“I can assure you, John, I won’t be bringing any girls home on my bike.”
Daisy is shaking her head and trying to control her laughter. I’m trying to stay focused on the road while I navigate to Citi Field. When the front office called to get me tickets, they offered me a luxury suite. They also suggested I invite the rest of the team, but that defeated the purpose of having some quality time with John and Daisy. Instead, we’re behind the plate with all we can eat food - another important part of sitting where we are. This is more for John, though, and our combined love for the game.
“John, do you think you’ll want a shirt?” I ask, after showing the parking attendant my pass. He waves me on, leaving me to find my own spot. With the new scooter John has, we can park wherever we want and walk while he drives along beside us.
“And be a Mets fan for the day? Nah, I don’t want to waste my money.”
I don’t blame him, but I’d rather be a Mets fan than a Yankees fan.
The moment we’re parked and out of the van, John is getting himself out. Already, he’s found some quick independence and I’m sure to point that out to Daisy, who rolls her eyes. We have yet to tell him that the scooter is his to keep because she’s not sure how he’ll react. I suggested we not tell him until he asks, or until I drop them off tonight and he’s taking it up and I’m leaving without it. Either way, I’m not bringing that sucker home.
Daisy and I walk hand-in-hand, following John to the gates. He’s like a little kid going to his first game and I love that I’m a part of this. Daisy stops us mid-step and pulls me down, placing a sweet kiss on my lips. So many thoughts about heading back to the van run through my mind, except now wouldn’t be the right time for a quickie.
“What’s that for?” As if she needs a reason to kiss me. I’ll stop and kiss her anytime, anywhere.
“The only way I can thank you for doing this for my grandfather.”
“You being here with me is thanks enough, Daisy.” Looking into her eyes, I see a girl who has lost so much, but is trying to hold on to what is important to her. I hope that when she looks at me, she sees a guy who is going to try and make sure she doesn’t lose anymore.
“Come on,” I say, pulling her forward. “Your grandfather is going to sell our tickets if we don’t hurry up.”
“What took you so long?” John asks when we reach him and his decked out scooter. People are looking at him funny and a few have stopped
to take pictures of it. A couple of kids come up to me, asking for my autograph when they see me standing with John, but security is quick to provide us an escort into the park. Once we’re inside, only the fans behind the plate will have access to me. We’re talking under about a hundred people, and I have a feeling they’ll leave us alone.
I make John stop at the t-shirt stand. I know he’s not a fan of the Mets, but he is a fan of baseball and sometimes you need something to commemorate your visit. The great Jackie Robinson played for the Brooklyn Dodgers who the Mets replaced back in the sixties. While Robinson never played here, the park is dedicated to him.
The store is somewhat cramped, but people make way for the scooter. I’m praying he’s not hitting anyone in the back of the heels with that thing, at least I haven’t seen anyone try and beat him up yet. I follow him around while Daisy is off looking at the girly things and pick up whatever he puts down. I know he’s not going to buy anything and that’s why I’m here, to make sure today is the best day he’s had in a long time.
“Well, I don’t see anything I like,” he says with his back facing me. I’m sensing that he’s not exactly telling the truth because everything that he’s picked up and put back down again is all retro league wear – the throw designs – from the earlier years. I’m not a Mets fan, but I do love the old stuff.
“I’ll go grab Daisy and meet you by the entrance,” I tell him, thankful he never turned around to see what I was holding in my hand. Part of me thinks that he already knows, but I’m hoping the element of surprise is in my favor today.
“Are you ready?” I ask Daisy, who is posing with a Mets shirt in front of the mirror. Thankfully it’s generic and only has their logo and not the name of one of their players.
“What are you buying?” she asks, while looking at me through the mirror as her eyes go from mine to the pile in my arm.
“Stuff your grandfather took off the rack and probably wished he could buy. He left the store empty handed.”
“You knew he would,” she says with a smile as she turns around. “Can I get this?”
I hate that she feels that she has to ask and doesn’t feel comfortable enough to put it in the pile I’m already holding. I’ve told her repeatedly that she can have anything she wants, anytime she wants. I know the words are easier for me to say then they are for her to believe or follow through with, but she has to trust that I’m being genuine here.
“You know you can.”
“I thought I’d sleep in it,” she says, stepping closer. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and has a wicked glint in her.
“You’re evil.”
“You love it.”
“I do and I lo –” I quickly shut my mouth before those words sneak out. I have no doubt that I’m in love with her, but telling her in the middle of the Mets’ Team Store isn’t exactly how I see myself spilling the beans. I have no doubt it’s going to happen because every time I’m with her, especially when I know I won’t see her for a while, the words are right there threatening to come out.
We’re back to facing the Orioles and they’re kicking our ass. I’m so sick of losing. I know our team is better than what the standings show, but damn if we can’t prove them wrong. The number of fans in the stands is starting to dwindle. There are more important things going on right now than to come and watch your hometown team lose, although the faithful’s are here telling us exactly what they think of us.
The one fan I can count on is Daisy, even though she doesn’t stroke my ego or sugarcoat how poorly we’re doing. She does tell me what I need to work on. I take her criticism seriously because she’s usually saying the same shit my dad is. Her knowledge of baseball is a serious turn on. She’s like my own personal aphrodisiac.
It’s the bottom of the fifth and I’m on deck. The score is Renegades, zero – Orioles, four. We need five freaking runs in order to win. It’s harder than one might think, a come-back like this, but it can be done.
Bainbridge is currently on second, stuck in no man’s land unless one of us can single and move him to third. Kayden Cross went down swinging, giving us our first out of the inning. Preston Meyers is in a pitching duel right now, hitting foul ball after foul ball and barely staying alive. Baltimore is still using their starting pitcher who hasn’t slowed down and continues to throw heaters down the middle at ninety-eight miles per hour. One always hopes that by mid-game starting pitchers begin to wear out, allowing us to get the bat around quicker, but it seems as though Cross is just getting started.
Meyers hits a line drive toward the shortstop, freezing Bainbridge on second. The throw to first isn’t in time to get Meyers, making him safe. The fans cheer, but the Skipper for Baltimore comes out of the dugout, clearly not happy with the call. While the umpires get together to discuss it, I wander over to Meyers to chat for a minute.
“Nice hit.”
He shakes his head, taking off his batting gloves and handing them to our first base coach, Shawn Smith.
“He’s throwing heat, but its garbage. His slider sucks right now. Wait for the fast ball.” His words are quick and rushed, trying to keep our conversation to ourselves without their first baseman rushing off to tell his pitcher.
The instant replay airs on the Jumbo Tron, much to the delight of the fans. Meyers is safe by at least one full step and the umpires agree after they review the footage over by the dugout. The home ump calls the game back into play and my music comes on.
I can hear John heckling the pitcher. It makes me smile that since the first time I made sure he could get to a game, he hasn’t missed one yet and has even taken to talking about my stats when I come over for lunch. I know Daisy’s happy he’s getting this opportunity and thanks me every opportunity she gets.
In two weeks she’s meeting my parents. I know it’s early, but my mom is right when she says you just know when you’ve found your “one”. Since I’ve been with Daisy, my nervous twitch has lessened. So much so that even our General Manager has asked about it, wondering if I needed to take a piss test to see what kind of drugs I’m on.
When I look at Daisy, I don’t see a summer fling or someone I’m with just to pass the time. I see someone who I can come home to every night and wake up with each morning. I see the woman that I want to spend all my free time with and when we’re not together I count the hours until we are.
And now, when she’s yelling at me to keep my eye on the ball and to swing through, instead of being mad at her heckling, I want to kiss her and thank her for being the support that I need.
Standing in the box, I stare down the pitcher, showing him my bat. I dig my right foot into the dirt and move some away with my left before resting it on my shoulder. My first two pitches are high and outside, and well out of my strike zone. I step out of the box and readjust my batting gloves while the catcher jogs out to the mound. I can’t imagine they’re intentionally walking me with my batting average being less than stellar right now. I’m not a threat up here and they’re better off pitching to me. With my luck it could be in their favor and I’d hit into a double play.
As much as I want to look at Daisy right now, I don’t. My focus needs to be on the game, my bat and mostly the pitcher. Meyers’ words are on auto play through my head as I step back in, repeating my ritual.
The next pitch is high and inside, brushing me off the plate. The crowd surrounding me has a few choice words for the pitcher, who is stoic. It’s the way he should be, no emotion. Maybe he felt like I was crowding the plate and is sending me a subtle reminder that this is his territory right now. What he’s forgetting is that I own him with a count of three and zero. As far as I’m concerned, I’m about to take a walk to first base, loading the bases for Singleton.
The pitch is delivered, and the ball is the fucking meatball I’ve been waiting for all night. This is that moment when I can either stand here and take the strike, because that is what’s expected of me and I’ll still be ahead in the count, or I can swing for the fences.
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br /> If I swing, it has to be full on through the hips with a follow through so hard that the bat is smacking against my shoulder blades. I need to make him pay for giving me the fastball I love so much, the one right down the middle.
The motion of my bat is automatic, as if it knows it wants a piece of that white-leather-red-stitched ball flying toward us. My eyes follow the ball as it smacks hard against the grain of my Louisville. The deafening crack has the catcher saying, “Oh shit.” I let out a battle cry as the bat hits my shoulders before it slowly comes back around and hangs to my side as I watch the ball fly to dead center. The Oriole outfielders are running back, both left and center, wondering which one is going to catch it. Meyers and Bainbridge are tagged and ready to run on the catch; Bainbridge will score easily.
The crowd is hushed as we all watch the ball sail through the air, no doubt each of us wondering if it has enough height to clear the wall. The centerfielder crashes into the wall just as the ball clears the boundaries. Everyone erupts as I drop the bat and take my required run around the bases, slapping hands with our first and third base coaches when I run by them.
After a homerun, stepping on home plate is something different. Your team is there to meet you, to celebrate with you. When you turn to see the scoreboard, what was just a zero now reads three. We’re now only down one run and we need to hold them so we can come back and win this thing.
We’re pumped when we return to the dugout, cheering Singleton on. When he takes the first pitch and hits it out of the park into right field the announcer is yelling, “BACK-TO-BACK HOMERUNS!” and now we’re meeting him at home plate. That’s when I glance at Daisy and John who are both cheering, right along with everyone else in the stadium. She doesn’t see me staring, giving me a brief moment to just look at her.
There’s a soft glow about her, which could be the overhead lights, but I don’t think it is. I think she looks happy and I hope it’s because of me.
We lose.
Singleton’s homerun was as close as we got. We gave up two more runs, losing four to six. And now I’m sitting at a long table, dirty and sweaty, waiting for a press conference to start. Right now I’d like to go back to the time when I didn’t have press access so I could be in the shower or resting in the whirlpool instead of here.
Third Base (The Boys of Summer #1) Page 17