It’s the middle of the eighth inning, and Jake’s eleven-year-old daughter, Sandy, lies on her stomach two feet from the television screen. Her light brown ponytail sticks out the back of a baseball cap—their team’s cap. Propping up her chin with her left hand, she clenches her right hand into a fist.
The enemy is up to bat.
“A swing and a miss!” Sandy shouts, as her fist hits the carpet. She looks back at her dad, who is watching the game from his recliner.
“That was right in the lower left corner!” he shouts back.
“Pitchers gotta live on the corners!” Sandy exclaims. The batter asks for time, steps out of the box, adjusts his gloves for several seconds, and then steps back in. He takes his stance, there is a tension-filled pause, and then Sandy is on her feet and throwing punches in the air.
“Did you see that? Pemberly served that pitch with mustard on it!”
“And chilis!” Jake replies, grinning like he did the year before, when the two of them watched Pemberly pitch a no-hitter. If their team wins the game tonight, they’ll climb to first place in their division. And Sandy will describe the significant plays over and over all evening and maybe into tomorrow. Music to her father’s ears.
***
Sandy turned twelve a month into spring training. It’s now the beginning of the regular season, and she sits at the end of the sofa near her father’s recliner and draws in a notebook while the stadium crowd cheers on their team.
“Line drive straight up the middle!” Jake shouts.
“Good hit,” Sandy says, glancing up for a second and then looking back down at her notebook.
“He’ll get a double out of that,” Jake says, confident that the rabbit on the bases can stretch what for anyone else would be a single. The runner slides into second and then right past the bag, managing to just hold on with his fingertips.
“Safe!” Jake shouts from his recliner. He looks over at Sandy, expectant. She is biting her lower lip in concentration as she smudges her pencil drawing with her index finger. He leans over to see what is absorbing her attention. It’s a childlike portrait of Greg Stevenson, second string first baseman, who is on the bench tonight. In the picture, Stevenson’s hair curls up from the bottom of his cap and his dark eyes gaze out.
By the seventh inning stretch, Sandy is asleep in the corner of the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around her notebook. After the game, Jake gently nudges her awake and guides her down the hallway and onto her bed. He tucks her in and kisses her on the forehead.
***
Three weeks before the postseason, Sandy starts seventh grade. Their team’s magic number is three and tonight they’re behind in a one-run game in the ninth. Jake munches on Fritos and winces every time the umpire calls a strike. From his recliner, he glances repeatedly at the empty sofa. When the opposing manager walks out to the pitcher’s mound, Jake picks up his remote and lowers the volume on the TV. He hears Sandy in the kitchen and concludes that she is on the phone, but when is she not on the phone these days? She goes by “Sandra” now, and he hasn’t quite gotten used to calling her that, but maybe, he thinks, just maybe, if he pleases her, she’ll watch tomorrow’s game with him.
The new pitcher throws a fastball that misses badly. Ball one. The pitcher winds up again and Sandra walks into the living room, phone pressed to her ear. The batter hits a blooper that lands between the shortstop and left fielder and, within moments, the runner from second crosses home plate. Jake throws his bag of Fritos in the air.
“We’re tied! We’re tied!” Fritos fall all over him like rain.
“Hold on a second,” Sandra says into the phone and pauses in front of the TV. She looks at the screen and then turns to her father. “That’s great, Dad.” Jake rocks forward to get up out of his recliner so they can celebrate with a hug. But by the time he has stood up, she has already resumed her telephone conversation and is walking out of the room.
Catherine Kelley writes from Southern California. She has had stories published in Everyday Fiction, 805, The Frogmore Papers, The Blood Pudding, East of the Web, and The Bookends Review. She practices Zen meditation, hoping it will someday help her forgive the people who dump garbage on her street.
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