Third Base (The Boys of Summer 1)

“I see you looking at her, grabbing your meat diddler in between batters.”

“There are thousands of people in the stands, I could be looking at anyone. Besides, every time I look back you’re touching your schlong dangler, so don’t even think about giving me any shit.”

He shrugs. “I see her looking at you, too.”

“Really?” I ask, pausing mid-stride.

“Nope, but you just affirmed my suspicions that you’re into her.”

I shake my head and push him away. He stumbles a few steps before righting himself. “Ask her out,” he says in his infinite wisdom.

“Nah, it’ll just be more fuel for the BoRe blogger and Stone is already annoyed with me. He doesn’t need a reason to trade me.”

Kidd bellows out a laugh, bending over and holding his stomach. I’m not sure why it’s so funny – the thought of me being traded – but you don’t see me laughing.

“Dude, even if you started dating the fan, Stone isn’t going to trade you.” He puts his arm around me and turns me toward the stands. “More than half the people in the stands are wearing your jersey. You’re his young rising star, and aside from screwing up last year, which really wasn’t your fault, you’re the golden ticket.”

Growing up, I knew I wanted to play baseball. I didn’t care who drafted me, but I knew that once I had a team, it’s where I wanted to stay. I worked my ass off in high school, earning a Division One scholarship to Oregon State. My junior year, we won the national championship and from then on, I knew nothing was out of my reach.

“I want to be the next Derek Jeter.” I imagine legions of fans standing and cheering for me as I tip my hat to them in thanks.

“No, you don’t. You want to be Ethan Davenport. Be you, no one else.”

He slaps me on the shoulder with his glove, leaving me to look out over the stadium. People file in as the smell of hotdogs and popcorn moves through the air. Their laughter mixes with the music, creating a happy ambience. Without even thinking, my eyes travel over to where I’ll spend half the night. I’m out too far to see, but everything tells me that the first seat in row C, section sixty-five is occupied.

It’s game night at Lowery Field and the Boston Renegades are about to take on the Baltimore Orioles.

After the National Anthem, we take the field. Kids are standing up and dancing, trying to get on the Jumbo Tron. I remember trying to do the same thing when I was a kid and my dad would take me to the Seattle Mariners games. I always tried to get on, or get a high-five from the Mariners’ Moose. Small moments like that can make a kid’s night at the ballpark. Catching a home run or a foul ball is the icing on the cake.

As I’m jogging to third, I let my eyes wander to the fans. She’s there with her ball cap on; the seat next to her is still empty. The slight movement of her head has me thinking that she’s watching me. I purposely walk over to the Orioles’ dugout and talk to one of my buddies from college, Justin Shaw. He’s a relief pitcher and I’ll likely be facing him tonight.

“Shaw,” I say as I quickly glance over the top of the dugout and our eyes meet. I smile and she turns away but not before I see a slight grin. Justin comes out of the dugout and we bro hug – something I probably should’ve done before the game, but she wasn’t sitting there then.

“Don’t strike me out later, okay?”

“No promises, Davenport.”

Shaw walks with me to third before he trots off to catch up with the other pitchers heading to the bullpen. Before I take my first grounder, I look back just once to catch her staring. Maybe I should ask an usher to bring her to the lounge after the game, or ask the front office who owns those seats. However, asking the front office either means waiting another day or waiting until I get the nerve up to go in there. I make a mental note to grab an usher during the seventh inning stretch. There’s a good chance she’ll blow me off, but I won’t know until I try.

The first to bat for the Orioles is a lefty. I’m poised and read

y for anything that comes my way. He swings, undercutting the ball, which flies up high in foul territory. I take three steps forward and four to the side, waving my hands to let everyone know I’ve got this. The ball lands in the pocket and my right hand comes over automatically, closing my glove. I take the ball out of my glove and instead of throwing it to Jasper Jacobsen, our catcher who is waiting for it I toss it into the stands at the girl who has caught my attention. She yelps in surprise, but snatches it like a pro. I wink and motion to Kidd that we have one out, even though I know he’s aware of that fact.

I’m trying not to pay attention to what’s going on around me, but as soon as I catch a glimpse of a replay of me throwing the ball to the girl on the Jumbo Tron, I stop and watch. When the camera focuses on her face, I find myself trying to memorize her features so that when I see her later tonight, hopefully, I won’t get caught staring. From what I can see, even with her hat pulled down, she’s beautiful, and seeing her getting shy on screen just tells me that I need to know her.

When the inning is over, Kidd runs by me, slapping me on the ass. “You better hope she’s a penis lover,” he says, laughing all the way into the dugout. I don’t have time to mess around with him or listen to the other guys giving me shit about what I did. Besides, it’s not like they’ve never thrown a ball into the stands. So what if I purposely aimed it at a female, who also happens to be cute? In my defense, I didn’t know she was pretty until after I gave her the ball. I did it because she was staring at me and I wanted the reaction. Now, I’ve got it.

Our first and third base coaches head out to the field just as the Orioles pitcher finishes his warm-up. Up first is Kayden Cross, six year starter and first baseman. He’s recently come out of a broken engagement that has hit him fairly hard. He’s a good example of someone who can’t separate his personal life from work. They had met in the front office and after they got serious, she quit. I guess she didn’t like being taken care of because she took a job in California before breaking it off with him. This happened during spring training while we were in Florida. When he came home, she was gone.

Cross goes down swinging, putting me on deck. Up next is Preston Meyers, right fielder and seasoned veteran. His picture flashes on the Jumbo Tron much to the delight of the fans. He’s been a fan favorite for as long as I can remember. He’s been in the league just over ten years and shows no signs of slowing down. I step out onto the track and into the on-deck circle. I adjust and readjust my batting gloves and my helmet before taking my practice swings. Each one is timed with the pitcher.

Meyers hits a blooper over the short stop’s head, putting him on first. Those hits are bitches and hard to catch. Infielders can’t back pedal fast enough and the outfielders can’t get there in time. I hate them. My name is called as my walkout song plays, Down and Out by Tantric. My picture, along with my stats, is plastered all over the Jumbo Tron and cheers ring out across the stadium. After one year, I feel like this is home…like Boston is home. The fans of Boston treat you as if you’re part of their family. I love walking the streets downtown and running into fans, especially the little ones.

I’m trying not to look, but my eyes seek her out anyway. She’s looking in my direction, leaning her arms on the dugout in front of her. With one last glance, I step into the batter’s box with one foot, keeping my left out until I’m ready to take the pitch. I adjust my batter’s gloves, step in fully and then adjust the sleeve on my shirt before settling the bat at my shoulder, ready to swing. The first pitch is a ball. I step out, clear the dirt in front of me and readjust my batting gloves. I’m consciously trying not to adjust my cup right now even though it’s sitting slightly awkward. As it is, I’ll be all over the BoRe’s page tomorrow since I gave the third base cutie the ball. I don’t want to read how many times I touched myself too.

I know I’m swinging as soon as I see the ball. My lower half starts to swing as I keep my eye on the center of the ball. The fast ball is spinning its way to the plate and as soon as I feel my bat connect with the white leather, I’m pushing my swing out. I drop the bat and watch the ball fly deep over left field. Meyers is holding at first, waiting for our first base coach, Shawn Smith, to give him the okay. I’m half way to first when I hear Smith yell, “Home-run!” and the fireworks go off. It doesn’t matter how many times I hear them, I still jump when the first boom happens.

Smith gives me a high-five as I touch first. My pace is a slow jog as I round each base, getting another high-five when I get to third. I want to look over, but I don’t. Not this time.