It wouldn’t have bothered him so much, he didn’t think, if he felt like he was missing out on time with her for something that felt fulfilling. But that just wasn’t the case. Sure, there were moments when the game still gave him the same high that it did in high school and college, like when he released a ball that felt just right as it rolled off his fingertips. Or when his coach gave him a pat on the back after a well-pitched inning. Or when he got a whiff of the grass as he was jogging out to the mound. But most of the time, Jack felt like he was just going through the motions out there, passively making it from one game to the next.
He’d mentioned some of these feelings to his mom when he talked to her on the phone, but he hadn’t said anything to Charli yet. Mostly because he figured that his feelings for baseball would kick back in again. They had to, right? How could they just turn off completely?
Feeling antsy, he stood up and slipped some shoes on. Luckily, Bobby was a sound sleeper, like most of the guys were. Practices, games, and the on-the-go schedule managed to keep most of them sleep-deprived, so when they had the opportunity to rest, they made the most of it. For Jack, those quiet moments gave him time to think, and when he let himself, like tonight, get carried away, he knew better than to toss and turn in hopes of getting some shut-eye. It was best to admit defeat and try to clear his head. Grabbing his room key from his wallet on the bedside table, he quietly walked over to the door and opened it, stepping outside into the hallway.
Although it was late, he felt the need to go outside. He took the stairs down to the empty, quiet lobby, nodded at the sleepy front desk receptionist who was reading A Farewell to Arms, a romance he remembered Charli finishing in tears, and left the motel, turning right toward the Rawhide’s stadium, which was only a couple of blocks away.
As he walked, he found himself thinking back to that day Charli helped him break in his first glove after his dad said he didn’t have time to.
“You’re really good,” she’d told him after his first few tosses. Jack’s ego had appreciated the stroking, especially from Charli, whose opinion always meant more to him than anyone else’s.
He smiled at the memory and then thought of another—his first Little League game. Charli had gone with him beforehand down to the 7-Eleven near the field to buy a pack of sunflower seeds. He’d poured them each a handful, and they worked to crack the shells open in their mouths as they walked. While he’d quickly gotten the knack for splitting open the salty shells in his mouth, Charli had had a harder time.
“I can’t do it,” she had said, spitting out a mouthful of shells and seeds onto the sidewalk. She took another handful from Jack and proceeded to open them with her fingernails, claiming that method was easier and stating that was how she was going to eat them from then on.
He chuckled to himself because she still did eat them that way, and then he let his thoughts drift to all those times Charli had gone to the batting cages with him in high school. She always sat on a crate outside the cage, doing schoolwork while he hit ball after ball. When he turned the pitching speed up close to ninety miles per hour, she always stood and walked over to the wire fence, curling her fingers around it and watching in amazement as Jack hit the tough pitches.
“Aren’t you afraid of getting hurt?” she asked him one time.
“That’s part of the thrill,” he’d said, swinging the bat and cracking one hard into the net.
Now that Jack thought about it, Charli was in every baseball memory he could recall. She had been in the stands for every single game of his until he got drafted as well. He had always been able to count on seeing her in the crowd, whistling, cheering, and holding up encouraging signs.
All of that meant so much to him, and he suddenly couldn’t help but wonder . . . had he ever really truly loved baseball in its pure form? Or was it Charli he had always loved purely? And baseball had just been fun because of her?
He gave that some serious consideration as he arrived at the field. Pulling open the gate, he jogged out to the mound through the wet grass, which must have been watered earlier that evening. In the darkness he stood on the mound, put his hands in his pockets, and closed his eyes, listening to the wind like he usually listened to applause.
The pitcher’s mound was his focus spot. To survive up there, he had learned to tune everything out—the screaming fans, the play-by-play announcer, the jeering dugout—and just concentrate on his catcher’s signals and the strike zone. Tonight, there wasn’t much to screen out except the voice that kept telling him he “should” keep chasing the dream, even though nothing about it felt right anymore. Instead, he focused on the signals that he “should not”—Charli’s elation, by comparison his emptiness, and the strong gut feeling that he wasn’t happy.
Opening his eyes, he looked around at the dark field and up at the empty bleachers. Never, in a million years, could he have predicted that he would be standing out on the mound, at the end of his first professional baseball season thinking that maybe he’d picked the wrong dream to follow.
sixteen
NOW
IT WAS SIX forty-five, and there was still no sign of Charli or Jack.
Gianna was checking the door fairly often for them and for Peter. Although the idea of getting engaged was sitting better with her now, like a calorie-packed, sick-to-her-stomach slice of cake that was finally starting to digest, she still couldn’t believe Peter was planning to ask her to marry him tonight with everything that was already going on—Charli and Jack’s potential reunion, the funeral party’s crisis, the wine glass that all of a sudden smashed onto the floor behind her . . .
Gianna turned on the heel of her shoe toward the crash.
Her servers didn’t drop glasses or plates often, but occasionally someone would stack too many plates at once, or a customer would push out her chair at the same moment that one of her servers was walking by, and an accident would happen. It was part of the business.
But this time, it wasn’t the fault of any of her staff. It appeared that a customer in Gianna’s section had shattered her own wine glass—a customer who was now crying hysterically.
When Gianna had waited on this woman earlier, she had nicknamed her and her date St. Georgen after her German chocolate cake because they’d appeared to complement each other perfectly, just like the coconut-pecan filling and the chocolate buttermilk cake did in this sugary-sweet concoction. Physically, Gianna had thought they went well together—they both had brown hair and were rocking the Portland hipster look—a fashion trend Gianna appreciated but couldn’t personally pull off.
The woman was wearing a fedora, with a graphic tee and striped pants, and her date had on a collared shirt with fitted jeans and a bowtie. They also seemed to have an intense emotional connection. Although they had been seated across the table from each other, the woman had picked up her chair right after she sat down and moved it next to her date’s, so she could hold his hand.
But now they reminded Gianna of her Lemon Tart because their date had gone as sour as the filling in this pucker-inducing lemon treat. The woman, who was still crying, got out of her chair and picked up her purse. She reached into it for some cash, threw it on the table, and then rushed out the door in the back of the restaurant. The man remained seated throughout the whole ordeal and turned as ghostly white as his shirt.
It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. The man had obviously messed up somehow. He’d either told his date he’d cheated on her, or confessed that he was in love with someone else.
“Why are men such pigs?” Gianna heard Tina from the funeral party say. “How are Kendall and I ever going to find good ones?”
Again, Gianna felt a rush of gratitude for Peter. Tina was right—it was hard to find a good guy. And Gianna had a great one. If she said no to Peter, she’d have to go back out into the horrible dating world, where there were guys like Kendall’s ex and this man in front of her.
“Jackass,” she heard Kendall mutter.
She took the words r
ight out of Gianna’s mouth. Gianna wanted to sock the guy in the head, not go pick up the glass at the foot of his table.
Valerie appeared on the scene then, bearing one plate of cake in hand. “What in the world is going on with your section tonight?” she asked under her breath.
“It’s a madhouse, right?”
They both looked down at the mess.
“I’ve got to clean this up before somebody steps on the glass,” Gianna said.
“Why don’t you let me do that?” Valerie said. “You, Miss, have a visitor waiting in the kitchen.”
Gianna turned toward Valerie, her heartbeat picking up. “You mean . . . ?”
“Yep!” Valerie squealed, grabbing Gianna’s arm with her free hand and squeezing it tight. “Peter just showed up. And I think he has an important question to ask you!”
Gianna gulped. Ohmygod. This was it. She needed an answer for him. Right now.
seventeen
THEN
“CAN I WALK you home, Charli?” Christopher asked.
It was midnight, and Charli, Christopher, and Rebecca had just finished up a study session at the library and were standing outside on the concrete steps under the bright security light.
“I’ll walk her home,” Rebecca said, coming to Charli’s rescue.
Charli mouthed a silent, “Thank you,” as she adjusted her heavy backpack.
Irritated, Christopher cracked his knuckles. “Well, if you walk her home, then who will walk you home?” he asked.
“We’ll both walk her home then,” Rebecca answered, rolling her eyes. Rebecca had told Christopher a number of times that Charli was hung up on someone from home and wasn’t interested in a relationship, but he still tried to get one-on-one time with her whenever he could.
There were times Charli did hang out with him alone. Because she liked to. She liked Christopher. When it was just the two of them, they had the most intense conversations about the kind of stuff that kept her awake at night. Last Friday, for instance, when they went to Big John’s Tavern, a dive bar downtown, for a couple of beers, they’d talked about how amazing it was to think that all human beings formed themselves from a single cell and how miraculous it was that they all could breathe, circulate their blood, and digest their food without even thinking about it. Wow!
She would have been fine kissing Christopher a couple of times. Or going out on a date with him. But she wasn’t ready to get seriously involved with anyone. In order for her arrangement with Jack to work, she’d decided she really needed to listen to her heart. Moving on at this point didn’t feel right.
“Well, maybe on Friday we can grab another drink,” Christopher said, clearly trying to play it cool as they started walking.
“Maybe,” Charli said, staring down at her feet. She’d decide later if she would actually go.
Rebecca fell into step beside her and whispered in her ear. “Do I need to say we have dinner plans?”
Charli smiled. “I’ll let you know.”
“What are you two talking about?” Christopher asked.
“Nothing,” they both said in unison and kept walking.
—
November 11, 2012
Dear Charli,
I know this may come as a surprise to you, but I’ve been wavering on my feelings about baseball ever since I got to San Jose. I know . . . crazy, right? I just started up winter league in Arizona and am hoping that a change of scenery and a new group of guys might change how I’ve been feeling. But . . . if it doesn’t, how would you feel about me retiring from baseball and moving out to Charleston to be with you? It’s something I’ve been considering a lot lately, so please, write me back to let me know your thoughts. Hope school’s still going well for you. I don’t doubt it is. Miss you.
Jack
—
November 30, 2012
Dear Jack,
Who are you and what have you done with my best friend? You’ve fallen out of love with baseball? You might give it up? This sounds like crazy talk. You want my honest opinion? You have too much of a history with the game to not see it through another full season with the Giants. You owe it to yourself and to baseball to keep at it. If you don’t give it more time and you do quit and move out here, one day you will come to resent me. I can’t live with that. For yourself and for our relationship, please see this through a little longer . . .
All’s well here in Charleston. Finals are approaching, so I’m busy studying but loving every minute of it. I know that makes me a total nerd, but at least you now know I haven’t changed much.
Keep me posted on everything. Miss you too.
Charli
—
December 15, 2012
Dear Charli,
I figured that was how you’d respond. Maybe you’re right. I’ll try to hang in here. I guess it has to get better, right? That’s what I keep thinking . . .
Winter league is well underway. My team is 8-3, so we’re winning quite a few games, and I’m pitching great. Just threw a personal record fastball—ninety-two miles per hour. I’ll admit that felt like quite the accomplishment, although it did leave me with a sore arm for the next week.
I miss seeing you in the stands when I play. It makes the game feel so . . . different. I don’t know how else to explain it.
Keep doing your thing out there. Thinking of you often.
Jack
eighteen
THEN
THERE WERE A lot of things Jack expected to see when he looked up in the stands during a game—cheering fans, foam fingers, men in uniformed jackets peddling cotton candy and Cracker Jacks, beer cups touching people’s lips, baseball caps, empty sections of hard metal seats.
What he never expected to see were two fans from opposite teams slapping hands, a herd of elephants, Santa Claus, or his dad. So, when he caught a glimpse of a guy in a pin-striped suit sitting in the seventh row during a home game at San Jose Municipal Stadium the following August, he had to do a couple of double takes before realizing it really was his old man.
What was he doing here?
Jack immediately feared that something was wrong. His dad had never been out to a game since Jack had been with the Giants. And the few college games he’d been to he’d only come because Jack’s mom had (obviously) dragged him. Every time Jack had looked up into the stands, he’d found his dad with his back turned to the game and his phone pressed up against his ear.
Was something wrong with his mom? Jack wondered. Had his dad’s dad, Jack’s only living grandparent, passed away? Had their house burned down?
Anxiously, Jack tapped his feet on the cement dugout floor during each of his team’s at-bats and glanced up at his dad in between pitches whenever he was on the mound throwing. When the game finally came to an end and his teammates went to the clubhouse gym to lift, Jack bounded up the bleachers.
“What’s wrong?” he asked his dad immediately. Although the night was warm, Jack was shivering from the fear of what his dad was going to hit him with.
“Something has to be wrong for me to see my boy play?” his dad said lightheartedly as he rose to his feet.
“Cut the crap, Dad.”
His dad opened his mouth like he was about to come back at Jack with a defensive comment but then closed it, confirming Jack’s suspicion that something was definitely wrong. His dad stared down at his loafers. What kind of a man showed up to a baseball game in a fancy outfit like that anyway?
“What is it, Dad?”
His dad folded his arms over his chest. Then he sighed deeply as he said, “Your mom asked me for a divorce.”
Jack wasn’t surprised by this. Over the past six years or so, his mom had voiced to Jack a number of times how much his dad’s absentee lifestyle bothered her. When Jack was growing up, she’d always acted like she didn’t mind it. She’d defended him to Jack, saying things like, “The way your dad supports us is by being at his job and making money to provide for this family. Work is his way of showing his love.” Ja
ck didn’t know if she ever really believed that, or if she just said those things to try and make Jack feel better. But once he got to high school, she quit coming to his dad’s defense. Sometimes she bashed him in front of Jack when they were at the dinner table, just the two of them, eating one of her home-cooked meals while his dad’s plate sat there getting cold. Other times, Jack heard her crying softly in her bedroom after his dad didn’t show up to take her to a movie like he said he would, or to a play downtown she’d been dying to see.
“She said she couldn’t do it anymore,” his dad continued, raking his fingers through his hair. “She told me she doesn’t want to grow old alone.”
Jack grabbed the brim of his baseball cap and pulled on it. What was his dad expecting? Pity? Jack couldn’t give that to him. He sat down on the bleachers, and his dad took a seat beside him.
They both looked out over the field at the sprinklers as they kicked on. Then, before giving an awkward silence time to set in, his dad changed the subject.
“So, I was sitting at my office last night going through a bunch of things, and I found a picture tucked away in a drawer of you in your green Mighty Warriors Little League uniform. I think I saw you play one time that season.”
“Yeah. You did,” Jack said, thinking back. “It was a Tuesday evening game, and it got rained out halfway through. You saw me hit a double, bringing one guy in, and pitch three innings where I struck out seven people.”
His dad looked at him incredulously.
“I remember every detail of every game you were at, Dad. But more than that, I remember the disappointment I felt every game where you didn’t show up.”
In his entire life Jack had never seen his dad cry. Not when his grandma passed away when Jack was seven. Or when their golden retriever, Rusty, got hit by a car. Or when he lost a big trial that he had spent years preparing for. But now, out here underneath the florescent stadium lights, he saw a single tear roll down his old man’s cheek.
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