The Change Up by Elley Arden

a sandlot. This condition”—Sam squatted to pick up and toss away a clump of clay that had somehow found its way to the outfield—“will not cut it in professional baseball.” Even at a level lower than Single-A.
    Ian met him at the pitcher’s mound, which was scary looking.
    “Okay, so this is dangerous,” Ian said.
    Sam knelt again and scraped a handful of earth off the hill. It came away much too easily. “Wrong kind of clay.” He stood up and studied the area. “Wrong angle, too.”
    “I don’t know. There’s something else.” Ian trotted backward toward home plate. “Let me get a good look.” He squatted behind the plate, elbows to knees, and pumped a fist into his palm as if he were wearing mitt. “That’s better.”
    Catchers. They were pieces of work. “And what does the expertise gained during four years of small college ball tell you?”
    Ian popped back up in one fluid motion. “It tells me the distance is too damn short.”
    Sam stood atop the mound to make his own assessment. “I don’t think so.”
    “You’re not a pitcher, man. That’s not your view. Take a look at it from here.”
    “What’s that going to prove? I’m not a catcher, either.”
    “You’re a batter. A damn good one, if I remember right.”
    He
was
a batter. Sam swallowed a wave of discomfort and walked slowly toward home plate.
    “I’m telling you, it’s short,” Ian said.
    Before Sam stepped on home and turned around to face the hill, he took a deep breath, hoping to clear his head. When he looked, he couldn’t tell if it was short or not. He was too busy tryout to fight off the ghosts of pitchers he’d faced.
    “What do you think?” Ian asked.
    That, ex-girlfriend or not, Luke should be heading up this project. He was the oldest. The oldest son should get the shiny new contract. The youngest son had walked away from baseball and should be allowed to maintain his distance. But Luke wasn’t here. Sam was. For better or for worse, and after that weirdly charged conversation with Rachel, he figured things could go either way. So, he exhaled and focused on the worn grass between home and the hill. His eyes narrowed. His hands twitched. Even his feet responded as if they were on autopilot, widening his stance and shifting his weight. Sam Sutter was standing at home again.
    Home.
    “Do you think it’s too short?” Ian asked.
    “Maybe.” Sam’s voice sounded rough in his ears, so he cleared his throat, stood a little straighter, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “But we shouldn’t be worrying about it now. Let’s make a list of the materials we need first. We can take official measurements later.”
    Over the next hour, they developed a decent plan of attack and fairly accurate figures for rehabbing the field. The longer they lingered, the more comfortable Sam felt in his skin. Being here. Fielding the memories. It was all good, because now came the part where he would save those trees.
    “I’m going to take a quick walk around the outside of the stadium and look at what can be salvaged.” Rachel had given him the perfect jumping-off point when she’d asked him to keep whatever he could. Why not keep those trees? That would save the Reeds a bundle.
    Ian, who’d gone back to worrying about the distance between home plate and the pitcher’s mound, nodded. “Text if you need me. I’m going to measure this once and for all.”
    Outside the stadium, Sam strolled the sidewalk with his eyes on the thick patch of trees that shielded his backyard from the ball field. There had to be a good three acres between where he was standing and the tree line, with about an acre already covered in cement and lined for parking. How many people could they cram into this stadium? 4K? 5? How many cars did that mean? Off the top of his head, he had no clue. He needed a piece of paper, a pen, and some time to work it out. Some days his biggest regret was not having a college degree, but then he remembered all he