brother. As we drive down the long driveway, I strain my neck, looking
backward until we turn around a sharp curve and I can’t see anything except the
long, windy road behind me. Closing my eyes, I pray for a miracle. Behind my
closed lids, I see it all over again—my brother standing on the front steps of
the porch with his Power Ranger pajama top pulled up, and he lifts his arms as
high as he can reach and wraps them around my daddy’s neck. He has found us.
Tears fill my eyes unknowingly and spill down my cheeks.
Merry Christmas, Bubba . . . I love you.
Chapter Seven
Lucas
It’s the bottom of the fifth inning. The
score on the board across the field shows 5 to 1 in favor of the Angels, who
are playing here this week. It’s not looking good in our favor. Scott Shelton
opened as pitcher this afternoon, and after four innings our pitching coach,
Coach Traps, and Coach Matherson have both made a visit to the mound. Coach
Matherson pulls him from the game, sending in the relief pitcher, Jeremy Banks.
I just hope it wasn’t too late.
Glancing out the corner of the fence of
the bullpen, I can see Charlee and her new friend, Ashlin, in the family
section of the stands. Everly is on her bouncy chair with an umbrella shading
her from the hot Arizona heat beating down on the concrete. Every once in a
while, I see Charlee take a small battery-powered fan that mists water and let
it spray down on her sleeping baby girl.
They seem to be enjoying the game. Ashlin
is jumping up and down like a cheerleader at a football game every time one of
our teammates makes a run, causing quite a few head shakes from the wives
around them, not that either of them seems to care one bit.
Aaron steps up to the batter’s box and
takes a few test swings, getting used to the weight of the bat in his arms
again. Charlee scoots forward on her seat as the announcer overhead plays his
stats across the big screen, flashing his pretty mug for the world to see. The
ladies in the crowd go nuts, screaming and yelling, but she tunes them out
completely in focus on her brother. He glances into the stands and tips his
helmet to her before stepping to the plate.
I can almost feel the determination
pouring off him in waves right now, but I don’t watch him. I watch Charlee.
She’s braced on the very edge of the plastic red seat. I see her lips moving,
counting, but I don’t know why. Her sight is set on the pitcher and his pre-windup.
She’s watching him intently, the way Aaron watches me from behind the plate.
I don’t look back down the field. I don’t
have to. A hush has fallen over the crowd. Everyone is holding their breath,
waiting to see what will happen between these two. The tension in the air is
thick.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Swing.
I can read her lips now, even from this
distance. I hear Aaron tap the bat against the base and then kick his feet into
the dust, scuffing them against the dirt around home plate. Charlee stands and
leans against the railings, watching her brother who is watching the pitcher.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Swing.
The crack of the ball against the bat can
be heard for miles. It shatters the silence in the stadium moments before the
fans stand, screaming for Aaron to run. There is no need. He knocked the ball
clear out of the park, bringing in four total runs counting himself.
We are now tied.
I glance back up at Charlee, but she’s no
longer standing. No, now she’s back in her seat, holding Everly in her arms and
staring straight at me with a soft smile playing at her luscious mouth.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she
knew how to read the pitcher.
That, or she’s psychic, and since I don’t
believe in all that nonsense, I’m left with one conclusion, and conveniently,
one question.
I wonder if she can read me?
“Damn good hit, man. Knocked it out the
park,” Rorry, one of our outfielders, says, congratulating Aaron when he comes
back in the dugout.
“That was
backward until we turn around a sharp curve and I can’t see anything except the
long, windy road behind me. Closing my eyes, I pray for a miracle. Behind my
closed lids, I see it all over again—my brother standing on the front steps of
the porch with his Power Ranger pajama top pulled up, and he lifts his arms as
high as he can reach and wraps them around my daddy’s neck. He has found us.
Tears fill my eyes unknowingly and spill down my cheeks.
Merry Christmas, Bubba . . . I love you.
Chapter Seven
Lucas
It’s the bottom of the fifth inning. The
score on the board across the field shows 5 to 1 in favor of the Angels, who
are playing here this week. It’s not looking good in our favor. Scott Shelton
opened as pitcher this afternoon, and after four innings our pitching coach,
Coach Traps, and Coach Matherson have both made a visit to the mound. Coach
Matherson pulls him from the game, sending in the relief pitcher, Jeremy Banks.
I just hope it wasn’t too late.
Glancing out the corner of the fence of
the bullpen, I can see Charlee and her new friend, Ashlin, in the family
section of the stands. Everly is on her bouncy chair with an umbrella shading
her from the hot Arizona heat beating down on the concrete. Every once in a
while, I see Charlee take a small battery-powered fan that mists water and let
it spray down on her sleeping baby girl.
They seem to be enjoying the game. Ashlin
is jumping up and down like a cheerleader at a football game every time one of
our teammates makes a run, causing quite a few head shakes from the wives
around them, not that either of them seems to care one bit.
Aaron steps up to the batter’s box and
takes a few test swings, getting used to the weight of the bat in his arms
again. Charlee scoots forward on her seat as the announcer overhead plays his
stats across the big screen, flashing his pretty mug for the world to see. The
ladies in the crowd go nuts, screaming and yelling, but she tunes them out
completely in focus on her brother. He glances into the stands and tips his
helmet to her before stepping to the plate.
I can almost feel the determination
pouring off him in waves right now, but I don’t watch him. I watch Charlee.
She’s braced on the very edge of the plastic red seat. I see her lips moving,
counting, but I don’t know why. Her sight is set on the pitcher and his pre-windup.
She’s watching him intently, the way Aaron watches me from behind the plate.
I don’t look back down the field. I don’t
have to. A hush has fallen over the crowd. Everyone is holding their breath,
waiting to see what will happen between these two. The tension in the air is
thick.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Swing.
I can read her lips now, even from this
distance. I hear Aaron tap the bat against the base and then kick his feet into
the dust, scuffing them against the dirt around home plate. Charlee stands and
leans against the railings, watching her brother who is watching the pitcher.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Swing.
The crack of the ball against the bat can
be heard for miles. It shatters the silence in the stadium moments before the
fans stand, screaming for Aaron to run. There is no need. He knocked the ball
clear out of the park, bringing in four total runs counting himself.
We are now tied.
I glance back up at Charlee, but she’s no
longer standing. No, now she’s back in her seat, holding Everly in her arms and
staring straight at me with a soft smile playing at her luscious mouth.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she
knew how to read the pitcher.
That, or she’s psychic, and since I don’t
believe in all that nonsense, I’m left with one conclusion, and conveniently,
one question.
I wonder if she can read me?
“Damn good hit, man. Knocked it out the
park,” Rorry, one of our outfielders, says, congratulating Aaron when he comes
back in the dugout.
“That was
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