Hawk (The Boys of Summer 4)

“Thank you,” I whisper against her lips.

“I can’t believe you did this at the airport.”

“I know, but I told you I was going to do it when it felt right.”

“It does feel right, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” We kiss again before she goes to Matty and I go to Chase. Chase and I grab a trolley and he shows me the many bags they came with. The rest of their belongings will arrive in a few weeks from the moving company.

The women in my life catch up to us as Chase and I load the last bag. Matty is filling Bellamy in on everything that Boston has to offer, even though they speak on the phone daily. After we have the SUV loaded, I ask them what the first thing they want to do as a family is.

“Go home,” all three say in unison.

“Home it is.”

Epilogue

Hawk

The music is loud as I walk back to the mound. I glance at the scoreboard, even though I know we’re up three to zero, there are two outs and the bases are loaded. Three isn’t a cushion, not in baseball, not when I’m about to face one of the best players of this generation . . . and definitely not when one hit could be a game changer. I survey the outfield, looking at each one of my teammates. They’ve done their job and I’ve done mine until now. The first two outs were easy, a blooper right to Davenport and the second, a strike out, giving me nine for the day. Then everything went to shit. A base hit, a walk, followed by another. I thought after I walked the first guy and then the second, Wilson would pull me. He came out to the mound and asked me about my shoulder. “It feels good,” I tell him, which isn’t a lie. I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to my body and injuries. “Can you finish this game?” I thought about his words and nodded. There’s a lot on the line, mostly a spot in the history books for pitching a shut-out. I’ve done it before, but it won’t make this one any less special. In fact, this one would be a milestone, especially after surgery and rehab.

I continue to look at the field, eyeing each Angel standing on their respective bases in their gray travel uniforms, us in our whites. The guy coming out of the dugout, the one destined to change the outcome of this game, is none other than Mike Trout. He is likely the American League MVP, although there’s a few guys on my team who are giving him a run for his money. I turn in time to watch him saunter to the plate, wondering if he’s thinking the same thing I am — home run. I would if I were him. He has three guys waiting to come home, eager to step across that dusty diamond and have four runs added to the ancient scoreboard. All during my rehab, I lamented about the pressure I felt to return, to be with my team, but none of it compares to what I feel now. The weight on my shoulders is heavy . . . agonizing. One wrong pitch from me and this game is over. I need to keep my pitch high and fast, nothing down and inside. That’s his sweet spot.

As soon as Trout steps up to the plate, the music dies and the only noise is the crowd. The fans are on their feet, their rally caps on. Some chant my name, and others pick up on it. After I made my return, Matty asked me how I felt when people chanted my name and I told her I tuned them out and that sometimes I didn’t even hear the fans. She told me I should listen sometimes.

I’m listening now and the melody of their voice is soothing yet energizing at the same time. My skin buzzes with anticipation of what’s to come. They call me Hawk instead of Sinclair, and when thousands of people say my name all at once, it sounds like a bird is soaring overhead.

Before I place my foot on the rubber, I look to where my family sits. Bellamy, Chase and my daughter Matty, all behind the dugout, all staring at me intently. It’s Matty I seek out the most though. While we waited for Bellamy and Chase to arrive, she came to practice with me. She’s become my biggest cheerleader when I’ve vowed to become hers, and now I look to her for some sort of signal that I can do this. Her hands cup the s

ides of her mouth and I imagine she’s yelling, “You got this, Dad!” Maybe I do and maybe I don’t, but I’m sure as hell going to try.

I step onto the rubber and Trout steps up the plate while Michael Cashman crouches down. His head angles toward Trout’s feet and his hand goes between his thighs to give me the sign. High, outside, curve. I nod, put my hand and the ball inside my glove, shield it as best as I can from the base runners and adjust my fingers. My world goes quiet as I block everyone and everything out. It’s only Cashman and me, playing catch. I cock back and deliver the pitch, loving the way my arm feels as I follow through.

The umpire rises slightly from his crouched stance, raises his right hand, turning it into a fist as he punches the air and yells out, “Hike,” or some other guttural sound that’s meant to sound like strike. Back in high school, I took an umpire class so I could better understand the game and was taught to never say “strike” because it took too long to say.

Cashman tosses the ball back to me and everything is repeated. Trout steps in, points his bat toward me or the wall behind me, Cashman squats and the umpire crouches. I block everything out and play catch with my teammate. The call is for a slider. I go through the motions, sending the pitch hurling toward the plate. Trout takes a step and his bat projects forward. The crack is loud, and the ballpark is suddenly the quietest I’ve ever heard it. I don’t watch the ball; I keep my eyes on Trout. He’s hopping up and down, with a big smile on his face.

Perfect. Game over.

Out of my peripheral, I see the guy on third trot home, and I stand there, waiting for Cashman to throw me a new ball . . . except it doesn’t come. He does instead. He bulrushes toward the mound and I brace myself. The next thing I know, I’m up in the air and Cashman has his arms braced under my ass. Easton Bennett, Kayden Cross, Ethan Davenport and Bryce Mackenzie are jumping up and down, yelling congratulations and calling me a motherfucker. Through all the jostling, I spot Trout, heading to the dugout. He throws his helmet and stomps down the steps, and that’s when it hits me. It was an out, caught by whom, I don’t know.

“Who caught the fucking ball?” I scream.

“I did,” Travis Kidd says as he throws the white and red seamed rock at me. “You’re welcome!” he yells.

Cashman finally sets me down and I go over to Travis and hug him. It’s a long one, filled with emotion. “Thanks, man.”

“Just doing my job,” he replies. His job or not, he’s cemented my return with this victory.

After I’ve had my press conference and showered, I step out into the hallway to find my family standing there. Matty and Chase rush to me, each taking a side to hug, while Bellamy steps to my middle and gives me a kiss.

“You had us worried.”

“Nah,” I say, as if pitching a shut-out is something I do often.

She laughs. “Nice game, Hawk.”

“Just doing my job.”