Pitched by Ella Goode

Chapter Fifteen

Colt

“Looking good, Colt.”Cal, the ticket taker, holds out his fist. I give him a dap.

“You, too, Cal.”

“Who you got with you today?” He peers around my shoulder at GG, who has been sort of hiding behind me since we climbed out of my car.

I tug her forward. “Cal, this is GG. GG, this is Cal, most knowledgeable baseball historian there is. If there’s a stat that exists in baseball, Cal knows it.”

“Not every stat, boy.” Cal grins and winks. He loves the compliment. “This your first day at the ballpark, girl?”

“Um, how did you know?” GG fidgets with the strap of her clear purse.

“You’ve got that big-eyed, never been here before gloss in your eyes. Treat her good, my boy. We want her to come back, right?”

“Right.”

I start down the concourse when Cal grabs my arm. He barks in my ear. “First girl I’ve seen you bring here. Big deal, right?”

I pat his hand. “Big deal.”

“Don’t let her distract you,” he warns.

“I won’t.”

He gives me a pat and a shove. GG pretends like she hasn’t heard every word Cal’s overloud voice shouted into the crowd. I take her by the elbow and direct her to the concession stand. “Hot dog or hamburger?”

“They serve hamburgers here?”

“They serve sushi here.” At her surprised look, I give her a little history. “It used to be regular stadium food like hotdogs, chips, popcorn, beer, but all the stadiums have been upgraded, and you can get fancy stuff, too, like sushi and shit like that. I’m a hotdog person and I only have money for the basics.” There’s no point in me trying to pretend to be deep in the pocket. GG will learn right away that I’m not that kind of guy.

“I’ve never had sushi either. I must be a basics person.” She says this like she doesn’t know.

“Sushi sounds wet and slimy. I don’t think I’d like it. Although Masahiro Tanaka and Gerrit Cole would go on sushi dates. Tanaka had a great slider. Sushi’s good for protein. Low fat, I think. Maybe if you’re rich you like it.” GG’s eyes are glazing over. She does not care about my ruminations. God, I’m bad at this. I shove my hands into my pockets. “Two hot dogs then.”

“Yes. That sounds perfect.”

She isn’t running for the exit...yet. I order our food and lead her down to two seats just a couple rows up from third base. “The bullpen, where the pitchers warm up, used to be over there.” I point to a row of seats. “But they’ve moved it inside so they can sell more tickets.”

“That’s sad.”

“Right? The older stadiums still have them, but they’re being eliminated.” I press my lips together. The game is changing a lot. “They’re even talking about robot umpires who call strikes and balls based on a computer reading.” I hand GG her hot dog. She only got ketchup on hers while mine is loaded with mustard, relish, onion—the whole works.

“You don’t seem excited about it.”

“Who am I going to curse out if I don’t like the call? Kicking dust on the feet of a robot doesn’t seem like it would have the same cathartic effect.” I shove half the dog into my mouth while GG takes a small bite. She seems to like it and takes another one. Is this the first time she’s had a hot dog too? Nah, that can’t be.

“The robot would just wheel itself away.”

“Exactly. Total downer.”

“You really love the game.”

It isn’t a question but more of an observation, but I still nod. “More than anything.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes, but I can’t read what it is. “What do you think?”

“The baseball field is pretty. And green. I don’t know anything about the game though. You have pitchers and batters and the square things over there.” She points to the bases.

Square things? It’s as if she’s been locked up all her life, shut away from any contact with the outside world. “Those are bases. The batter has to hit the ball and then touch each base to score a run. The team with the most runs wins.”

“How many tries do you get to hit the ball? Ten? Fifteen?”

“Depends on if you make contact. There’s a thing called foul balls. See the white lines?”

She follows my arm and nods. “Any ball hit inside the white line is fair and outside the line is foul. If you hit the ball and it’s foul, it’s a strike, but you aren’t out, so technically, you could hit the ball fifteen times and still be at-bat.”

“Has that ever happened?” She finishes her hot dog, and I hand her the soda to wash it down.

“As far as I know, Brandon Belt set the record for sixteen foul balls in 1988. Cal would know for sure. The pitcher was Bartolo Colon, a right-hander, from the Dominican Republic. They called him the Big Sexy. He pitched to Belt 20 times and on the 21st, Belt sent a line drive into right field.” I shake my head. “Poor Colon. He lost that duel.”

“You know a lot of stats, too.” She sets the cup down between us and places her hands on her knee. She leans forward, eyes glued to the field. As the game wears on, she peppers me with questions that I answer as best I can. Somewhere in the bottom of the fifth, she excitedly grabs my hand and then forgets that she’s holding it. A warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the sun. With the sound of the ball striking the leather, the crack of the bat, the cheers of the crowd, and her fingers threaded through mine, my dreams start re-organizing. Maybe I can have it all. Maybe if I work really hard, I can have my pro career, take care of my family, and come home to GG. Maybe.