—Dave Barry
Pace’s mind was still on Holly as he pulled his duffel bag from the back of his car. Okay, so she’d turned out to be far more pretty than annoying; he still didn’t have time for her. Gritting his teeth at the movement of his shoulder, he strode toward the field under the late afternoon sun, meeting the guys on the pitcher’s mound.
They were a ragtag team of middle school kids who played here every single day. They didn’t belong to any school team; no one would have them. There was a rec center league, but it was too far from here, closer to the center of town, and these kids didn’t have the means to get there, much less pay the fees to join that league. They needed something here, on the edge of the county, to keep them busy and out of trouble, and he’d made that something baseball.
He’d discovered them one day after a particularly tough game of his own, where he’d pitched like shit, hurt like hell, and had come here just to stand on a field where talent didn’t matter, only heart did.
“You’re late,” Chipper said, tossing Pace their ball. Chipper was their catcher, a term used quite loosely since mostly the only things he ever caught were Ding Dongs. Literally. He could catch Ding Dongs in his mouth. He was the park champ.
“Don’t worry, Pace,” River piped in, slurping from a soda, making Pace’s mouth water. “We won’t make ya take a lap.” River was their pitcher. Another loose term, as River had a helluva time getting the ball anywhere near home plate, much less over it.
They were working on that. “I brought you guys something.” Pace’s fingers actually twitched to yank that soda away from the kid and down it. Christ, he missed Dr Pepper like he’d miss a limb.
“Chocodiles?” This from a hopeful Chipper.
“Better.” Pace let the bag drop and crouched down to unzip it, revealing a pile of brand new leather gloves, all infinitely higher quality than what they’d been using.
The guys hit their knees to get a closer look. “Dude . . .”
“Sweet . . .”
“Tight . . .”
Pace watched them all grab a glove and marvel over them with more joy that he’d gotten out of his last three wins. He rubbed his shoulder absently, wondering what was wrong with him that he was brooding about . . . hell, he didn’t even know. “When you get home, put a ball inside each glove and wrap it with a rubber band or string to break them in.” He rifled through the bag. “And Chipper, I brought you a new bat.”
“I have that aluminum one.”
Pace shook his head. “Wood. Wood is better.”
“But I have a huge sweet spot on the aluminum—”
“Yours doesn’t ring when you hit anymore.”
“It’s because he doesn’t hit anything,” River quipped, and Chipper might have launched at him but Pace straightened and gripped him by the back of the shirt just in time.
“He’s right,” he told the kid. “You need batting practice. When your bat doesn’t ring anymore, it means it’s dead. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not all the way dead, not yet—”
“Wood,” Pace repeated stubbornly, and handed it over, which produced more oohs and aahs. “This baby’s sweet spot is all hickory. You’re going to love her.” Wood was more expensive, but it was required in the pros, and Pace wanted them to get used to the feel of it. He rose to his feet. “I can’t stay.”
This was met with a bunch of groans and protests, but Pace just shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve got a—”
“A chick,” Chipper said.
“Doctor’s appointment—”
“Don’t look now,” Chipper whispered loud enough for the living dead to hear. “But you have a chick getting out of your car. She’s walking along the creek, coming this way.”
The “chick” smiled at the guys as she came close. Holly’s hair was carefully tucked up again, and she’d buttoned her jacket, but her eyes sparkled with life as she crossed the patchy weeds masquerading as grass and came to a stop right in their midst. “New equipment,” she said with a smile.
“Pace brought it all,” Chipper said. “He’s the best.”
The others all nodded emphatically.
“He’s always bringing us stuff,” River added. “He’s like our skipper.”
“That’s what a team manager is called by the guys,” Chipper informed her.
“I know.” Holly was looking at Pace with a speculative curiosity in her sharp light brown eyes. “I think that’s lovely.”
“When he gave up Dr Pepper, he brought us the cases he’d had stashed at his place so he wouldn’t fall off the wagon,” Chipper told her. “Oh and he takes us for pizza, too.”
“Well that must be fun. And he coaches you.”
“Yeah. He’s the best pitcher in the majors right now.”
“Chipper.” Pace shook his head. They were trying to sell him like a used car.
Chipper ignored him. “Did you know he packs high heat? It means he’s got an unusually fast fastball. So technically he could be a closer, but he’s an ace starter.”
Great. His own personal cheering squad. “She doesn’t need to hear—”
“Are you Pace’s girlfriend?” Chipper asked her.
She laughed, a sweet musical sound that had Pace taking a second look at her.
Pace’s mind was still on Holly as he pulled his duffel bag from the back of his car. Okay, so she’d turned out to be far more pretty than annoying; he still didn’t have time for her. Gritting his teeth at the movement of his shoulder, he strode toward the field under the late afternoon sun, meeting the guys on the pitcher’s mound.
They were a ragtag team of middle school kids who played here every single day. They didn’t belong to any school team; no one would have them. There was a rec center league, but it was too far from here, closer to the center of town, and these kids didn’t have the means to get there, much less pay the fees to join that league. They needed something here, on the edge of the county, to keep them busy and out of trouble, and he’d made that something baseball.
He’d discovered them one day after a particularly tough game of his own, where he’d pitched like shit, hurt like hell, and had come here just to stand on a field where talent didn’t matter, only heart did.
“You’re late,” Chipper said, tossing Pace their ball. Chipper was their catcher, a term used quite loosely since mostly the only things he ever caught were Ding Dongs. Literally. He could catch Ding Dongs in his mouth. He was the park champ.
“Don’t worry, Pace,” River piped in, slurping from a soda, making Pace’s mouth water. “We won’t make ya take a lap.” River was their pitcher. Another loose term, as River had a helluva time getting the ball anywhere near home plate, much less over it.
They were working on that. “I brought you guys something.” Pace’s fingers actually twitched to yank that soda away from the kid and down it. Christ, he missed Dr Pepper like he’d miss a limb.
“Chocodiles?” This from a hopeful Chipper.
“Better.” Pace let the bag drop and crouched down to unzip it, revealing a pile of brand new leather gloves, all infinitely higher quality than what they’d been using.
The guys hit their knees to get a closer look. “Dude . . .”
“Sweet . . .”
“Tight . . .”
Pace watched them all grab a glove and marvel over them with more joy that he’d gotten out of his last three wins. He rubbed his shoulder absently, wondering what was wrong with him that he was brooding about . . . hell, he didn’t even know. “When you get home, put a ball inside each glove and wrap it with a rubber band or string to break them in.” He rifled through the bag. “And Chipper, I brought you a new bat.”
“I have that aluminum one.”
Pace shook his head. “Wood. Wood is better.”
“But I have a huge sweet spot on the aluminum—”
“Yours doesn’t ring when you hit anymore.”
“It’s because he doesn’t hit anything,” River quipped, and Chipper might have launched at him but Pace straightened and gripped him by the back of the shirt just in time.
“He’s right,” he told the kid. “You need batting practice. When your bat doesn’t ring anymore, it means it’s dead. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not all the way dead, not yet—”
“Wood,” Pace repeated stubbornly, and handed it over, which produced more oohs and aahs. “This baby’s sweet spot is all hickory. You’re going to love her.” Wood was more expensive, but it was required in the pros, and Pace wanted them to get used to the feel of it. He rose to his feet. “I can’t stay.”
This was met with a bunch of groans and protests, but Pace just shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve got a—”
“A chick,” Chipper said.
“Doctor’s appointment—”
“Don’t look now,” Chipper whispered loud enough for the living dead to hear. “But you have a chick getting out of your car. She’s walking along the creek, coming this way.”
The “chick” smiled at the guys as she came close. Holly’s hair was carefully tucked up again, and she’d buttoned her jacket, but her eyes sparkled with life as she crossed the patchy weeds masquerading as grass and came to a stop right in their midst. “New equipment,” she said with a smile.
“Pace brought it all,” Chipper said. “He’s the best.”
The others all nodded emphatically.
“He’s always bringing us stuff,” River added. “He’s like our skipper.”
“That’s what a team manager is called by the guys,” Chipper informed her.
“I know.” Holly was looking at Pace with a speculative curiosity in her sharp light brown eyes. “I think that’s lovely.”
“When he gave up Dr Pepper, he brought us the cases he’d had stashed at his place so he wouldn’t fall off the wagon,” Chipper told her. “Oh and he takes us for pizza, too.”
“Well that must be fun. And he coaches you.”
“Yeah. He’s the best pitcher in the majors right now.”
“Chipper.” Pace shook his head. They were trying to sell him like a used car.
Chipper ignored him. “Did you know he packs high heat? It means he’s got an unusually fast fastball. So technically he could be a closer, but he’s an ace starter.”
Great. His own personal cheering squad. “She doesn’t need to hear—”
“Are you Pace’s girlfriend?” Chipper asked her.
She laughed, a sweet musical sound that had Pace taking a second look at her.
