It Was Me (4 page)

I looked at her.

“I'm not going anywhere,” she said. “I swear. Nowhere. I don't care if you have to go play on the moon. I would find a way to get to you.”

I laughed softly, folded my fingers into hers. “It's impossible to play baseball on the moon.”

She smiled at me, raised up on her toes and kissed me. “But not in Arizona. You can play baseball in Arizona. Today.”

It was amazing how quickly a kiss from her could set me at ease. I'd never experienced that before, not with anyone else. It was like there was magic dust on her lips that instantly calmed me down.

“I've never thought about my future before,” I said. “I've never given it a thought. But now? When I think about what I'll be doing in a year or in five years? It always involves you. And I don't want to screw that up. With anything.”

She smiled. “Don't worry about things you don't have to worry about yet. We'll figure it out. I promise.”

I nodded, let out a deep breath. “Alright. We should head back inside.”

“Why?”

“So I can see what kind of crappy gear I'm gonna have to use today.”

EIGHT

The glove fit my hand decently and the bat was exactly the size and weight I used. Turned out that her dad gave her some info on what to look for before she and her mom left the casita. He'd guessed pretty well. The cleats were fine for a tryout and the pants fit the way they should've. As I dressed, though, it felt like I was getting dressed for my first game. It was a strange feeling that I couldn't exactly describe, other than that I felt awkward, like one of those actors who play a baseball player in a movie but you can immediately tell that they've never held a bat or thrown a ball in their life.

Abby's dad drove and she rode up front with him. I was stretched out in the back of the SUV. Her mom elected to stay behind, wishing me good luck, still wearing an expression that seemed to say she was worried that her father and daughter were pushing me into doing something I wasn't sure that I wanted to do. I may not have been sure that I wanted to do it, but they hadn't talked me into it. If I really hadn't wanted to go, I would've put up a bigger fight. Abby, like always, seemed to know me better than I knew myself. She knew I'd go before I knew I'd go.

I stared out the window as we approached the city. The entire city of Tucson had the feel of a much smaller college town. Every store and every business seemed adorned with the University of Arizona colors and logos. Bike racks were everywhere. And every road seemed to lead toward the sprawling university campus. The massive football stadium was visible from nearly everywhere and grew larger as we got closer to the school.

The tryout was at Hi-Corbett field, the old minor league stadium that the university had recently taken over and renovated for their baseball program. The Padres minor league affiliate played at a smaller, older stadium on the other side of town that apparently wasn't even sufficient enough to hold a tryout at. Mr. Sellers followed the signs toward the stadium and the butterflies in my gut suddenly turned into small pigeons.

He pulled the SUV into an already crowded parking lot adjacent to the field and cut the engine. He twisted around in his seat. “You alright?”

“I'm alright, yeah.”

Abby turned around, too. “You want us to watch? Or come back and pick you up?”

“No. Stay.”

Her father looked relieved.

We got out of the car. Steel spikes clicked against the asphalt as other guys walked past in the lot, headed toward the field, bags slung over their shoulders, caps pulled tight on their heads, serious expressions on their faces. I saw a range of ages, but most looked in their early to mid-twenties, guys who wanted one more shot.

Or maybe, guys who'd never gotten one. Like me.

I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked between Abby and her dad  as we headed toward the stadium. Abby didn't try to hold my hand. I think she sensed my anxiety and was trying to give me space.

We found the sign-in table and I filled out the three page release. It asked for personal information, plus my baseball experience. I had to explain why I was under scholarship to Stanford, then released from the scholarship. It didn't help settle my nerves in any way.

I turned in the clipboard to the two guys at the table and they gave me a number to pin to the back of my T-shirt. They pointed me toward the entrance to the field and said I had about fifteen minutes until we got started.

Abby took the number from me and spun me around. “Do you hate me right now?”

“Never.”

“I hope not.”

“Abs, I told you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be here.”

“I guess.” She tugged on my shirt, then turned me back around. “But I know I can be pretty persuasive.”

“You can,” I told her. “But this is my thing.”

“Okay,” she said.

“I need to go get loose,” I said. “Wish me luck.”

She squeezed my elbow, then stretched up and kissed me. “You don't need luck. You'll be great. But however you are, I'll love you when you're done.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Love you, too.”

I watched her head into the stands, then found the gate to the field and stepped out onto the grass. I set my bag next to the fence, pulled the glove out of the bag and found another guy without a partner who wanted to throw a little bit. We set ourselves parallel to the first baseline in the outfield and tossed the ball back and forth. My shoulder was already loose from the morning run and the heat and the throwing was easy. My partner seemed a bit unsure with his glove and had a goofy hitch in his throwing motion.

At least I knew I was better than one other guy there.

After a few minutes, he begged off, saying he wanted to do some jogging. I tossed the glove against my bag and sat down, stretching my legs out, making sure nothing was tight in my legs or back. I spotted Abby and her dad up in the stands. They were having a conversation and not looking my way. I turned my eyes back to the field. Guys were tossing the ball back and forth, sprinting the foul lines, taking imaginary cuts with their bats. It was impossible to tell who was legit and who was not.

A guy strode out to home plate and hollered for us to bring it in. A couple of eager beavers sprinted toward him, probably hoping their hustle and enthusiasm would help them stand out. It did, but only in a way that made other guys roll their eyes. The guy at home was dressed in khakis and a golf shirt, his hair was buzzed short and he looked like a baseball player that had aged gracefully. He didn't smile much and he was blunt.

“There's a good chance all of you will go home today and never hear from any of us again,” he said, his eyes scanning all of us. “That's just the reality. If any team is interested, they'll contact you. I'd suggest not contacting them unless you want to make sure you never hear from any team ever again.”

Snickers snaked through the crowd.

“We're going to rotate you through stations,” he said. “Pretty routine stuff. We'll get you divided into groups in just a moment and then we'll get started. I'd say it'll take us two to three hours to get through everyone. Any questions?”

There weren't and he waved over several coaches or scouts or whoever they were and started dividing us up into groups. The group I was placed in was set up to run the bases first. They would time us twice, once going up the line to first, then again going all the way around the bases. I was glad this was my first station. I was fast, I was warmed up, and it was pretty hard to screw up running the bases.

Unless, like the first guy in our group, you trip over first base and go ass over hat into the grass. The guys ahead of me in line laughed as the guy trotted back to the line, his chest covered in dirt and his upper lip dotted with blood.

“Shit,” he muttered as he took his place back in line behind me, as I would be last to go.

“Don't worry,” I said to him over my shoulder. “If your time was good, it won't matter.”

“It wasn't good,” he said, shaking his head and touching his lip. “I'm slower than shit.”

“Go wide from here then,” I said. “On your way to first. Cut down the angle to second and just hit that inside corner and push off. It'll help.”

“Thanks,” he said, nodding. “Thanks.”

The guy ahead of me took off and I took a deep breath, shook out my shoulders and arms and stood at home. I got ready and when the guy gave me the signal, I took off. My body felt light going up the line and I was pretty sure I was fastest in my group when my foot thumped first and I turned outward into foul territory. I heard the stop watches click and watched as the scouts scribbled on their clipboards as I jogged back to the line. I had no clue what they were writing.

I watched as the guy behind me did as I told him, running wide to first and taking a good angle to second and the rest of the bases. He was right. He wasn't fast. But at least he looked like he knew how to run the bases rather than just fall down in a cloud of dirt.

He came up behind me in line, huffing and puffing. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, man. Really. I'm still slow but at least I didn't eat shit that time.”

“That's a good motto for life, dude.”

He laughed. “Yeah. Guess so.”

My turn came and I ran the bases with ease. It didn't feel like baseball. It just felt like running in a square. Again, I was pretty sure I got around the quickest. Not because the scouts were looking my way, but because the other guys in my group were now watching me. I had a target on my chest.

And I was fine with that.

They worked us through more stations. Throwing from the outfield. Taking infield. Calling out situations, letting us decide where the ball needed to go. Then they took a few minutes to set up the screen in front of the mound so they could throw to us and we could hit.

I stood next to my bag at the fence and sucked down one of the bottles of water I'd brought. My shirt clung to my chest with sweat and my hair beneath my cap was soaked. I'd played well so far. No mistakes and I didn't see anyone who threw as well as I did from the outfield. I felt more eyes on me, both the other guys trying out and the scouts that ringed the field and were sitting in the stands. I didn't think it was my imagination.

An older guy with a big belly and a big straw hat on his head ambled over to me. His bright yellow golf shirt was tucked into his khaki shorts but appeared to be trying to escape.

His eyes scanned the clipboard in his fat hands. “You're Montgomery, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded and looked up from the clipboard. He adjusted the hat on his head. “What's your story, son?”

“My story?”

“Why are you here and not eating shitty dinners in double A somewhere?”

I laughed and shrugged. “Not sure I know the answer to that, sir.”

His mouth screwed up in agitation. “Where'd you play? Because I saw that throw from center to home and no one throws like that unless they've played somewhere.”

I cleared my throat. “High school ball in San Diego. Had a partial ride to Stanford but it didn't happen. Took some time off.”

He glanced down at the clipboard again. “Anything I need to be afraid of, son?”

“Sir?”

He looked at me again. “Drugs, alcohol, stealing cars, sex change operation? What am I gonna find when I start looking?”

My stomach churned and I took a deep breath. “I was on probation. Got in a fight because I was stupid and mad about Stanford. Nothing big, just a dumb move on my part. Came off the probation clean and I just finished a year of junior college classes. I put it all on the registration form.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright. I've heard way worse. Mighta done worse myself.” He chuckled to himself, adjusted the hat again. “Now here's the big question. Can you hit like you throw?”

I took the last swallow of water in the bottle. “If I don't try to pull the ball, yeah, I'm decent. But if I start trying to pull it, I'm awful. I can hit anything up in the zone, doesn't matter how high. Low fastballs give me trouble, but I can lay back and go opposite with breaking stuff. Probably not patient enough. Sir.”

He chuckled again. “I like that. Man who isn't afraid to be honest. Alright, Mr. Montgomery. Thank you for the chat. I'll be watchin'. And trust me. I may have been the only one to walk my fat ass down here, but so's everyone else. Your arm got everyone's attention. So remember who walked down to talk to you when all those squirrels come chasing you after you take some swings.” He winked, turned around and waddled back toward the stands.

I looked up to where Abby was sitting with her dad. She was looking at me and held up her hand, waving. I waved back. A year ago, I probably would've been too self-conscious to wave back. Now?

I didn't give a shit who knew I was with her.

I pulled the bat from the duffel bag. The size and weight were right on, but it still felt foreign in my hands. I dug out the batting gloves and tugged those on. I swung the bat easily, trying to get a feel for the barrel, where the weight came through, how it moved when it was level. I watched the guy pitching on the hill. He was throwing fairly hard and pretty straight. The intent wasn't to fool anyone. It was to see who could do what with the ball. They'd find out if we could hit breaking stuff later on. They were looking for short, compact swings, swings that didn't have massive holes that would take forever to correct.

Some guys could hit, some couldn't. They lunged at pitches, they swung too hard or they just couldn't drive the ball. Unless you were a pitcher, hitting is what separated the good guys from the really good guys. A good bat could always find a home. I saw a couple of guys who I thought swung it pretty good, but most looked overmatched.

My turn came and I stepped into the box, getting my feet set, digging in just a little bit. I took a deep breath, adjusted the helmet on my head, then nodded at the pitcher. He held up the ball so I knew he was coming. I wrapped my fingers around the handle of the bat and nodded again, waiting as he wound up and threw.

I whiffed completely on the pitch, swinging over the top of it as it zipped by me.

I felt the color rise in my face. I stepped out of the box for a second, pretending to mess with my gloves. I took another deep breath and stepped back into the box. The pitcher held up the ball again and I nodded.