Bainbridge walks away, shaking his head. A hard pat on my shoulder has me looking to see who’s next to me.
“He’s been around a long time,” Davenport says. “He came into the league at eighteen and had a rough few years. From what I’ve heard, he was hazed and treated like shit, so he tries to make sure that doesn’t happen to anyone else.”
“I’m not being hazed.”
“No, I guess you’re not, but maybe he feels like you’re hazing him.”
“What do you mean?” I ask Davenport, unsure why he would say something like that.
“We’ve all been there—trying to fit in and make a name for yourself—but there are ways to go about it, and from what I see, you’re trying to keep Bainbridge at arm’s length.”
“He was supposed to retire,” I remind him. “Last year, that is what I was told, and when I got the call, I thought the retirement announcement was coming. And here I am, vying for a position against one of the best outfielders in the league. The pressure is building.”
“Dude, it’s our second game. Go out and have some fun. Give yourself until the middle of the month to start freaking out. We’re rusty. Most of us sat on the beach all winter.”
“Speak for yourself,” I mutter to myself as Davenport walks away. I replay his words over in my head, wondering what sort of attitude I’m projecting when I’m out there. Thing is, until someone points it out, I don’t know what to fix. Telling me that I’m being an ass isn’t exactly showing me that I am one.
Bainbridge gets the start, and as I stand in the dugout, I look at the grandstands and easily spot my father. Thankfully, I can’t see the scowl I know is on his face from where I am. I know he’s part of my problem. He’s so hell-bent on me being perfect that it’s what I expect of myself. There’s never any room for error and definitely never a learning curve.
The Twins take the field, and the warm-up pitches are sent across home plate. Kayden Cross, our first baseman, steps up to the plate and takes the first pitch, a ball that looked high and outside. The second is delivered, and he sends it soaring down the third base line for a fair ball.
“Yeah, that’s the way to get us started, Cross,” Kidd yells as we clap. The fans behind us boo. “They’re a bunch of tit wipes,” he says, causing me to choke on my water.
“You come up with the best one-liners.”
“It’s his way of coping with his epic douchiness,” Easton Bennett, our shortstop, says in reply to my statement.
“You’re such a nut beater, Bennett,” Kidd says in retaliation, causing the rest of us to laugh.
“Now batting for the Renegades, right fielder Preston Meyers.”
“Let’s go, Meyers,” I yell out.
“Remember, you’ll get farther being a teammate,” Davenport says before he climbs the steps and heads to the on deck circle.
I try to ignore him, but he’s right. Since I’ve been here, I’ve been worried about me. And my individual accolades. Baseball is a team effort: not a single person can do everything.
Meyers walks, putting two on for Davenport. The crowd cheers loudly for him when he gets up to bat. He takes the first two pitches before blasting a shot to deep left. We’re all on our feet, yelling for him, Meyers, and Cross to run.
When all is said and done, Davenport is sliding into third for a triple with Cross and Meyers safely crossing home plate, giving us a two-run lead to start the game.
Branch Singleton is pumped and jumping around as he steps into the batter’s box. He swings at the first pitch, missing. Same with the second. Our third base coach, Patrick Phelan, calls a time out to settle Branch down. He steps back into the batter’s box and takes the next pitch, a ball. The fourth hurl has him swinging and missing.
“Fuck,” he yells as he marches toward the dugout. No one really says anything because it’s all stuff we’ve heard before, like “you’ll get it next time.” There’s always a next time.
The skipper makes changes in the third, sending me to center field with the score tied at two apiece. I run out and start my warm-up with Kidd. We toss the ball back and forth while our pitcher warms up with five pitches to get the bottom half of the inning started.
Brian Dozier, the second baseman for the Twins, steps in and takes the first pitch before smacking the shit out of the ball and sending it between Kidd and me. Kidd is yelling that he has it, so I move into position to back him up in the event he drops it or it goes over his head.
“I go, I go,” I yell once I have a better angle, but Kidd doesn’t budge. I say it again, this time more forcefully, but Kidd continues to backpedal. I’m left with no choice but to move out of his way and let him catch the pop fly even though it should’ve been my catch.
He jumps at the last minute, snagging the ball before it goes over his head. There’s a collective boo from the crowd and a large audible sigh from me.
“That was close,” he says, laughing.
I’m not sure what’s funny, so I head back toward my space and wait for the next batter.
We escaped the inning with no runs, still leaving the score tied. Heeding both the words of Bainbridge and Davenport, I try not to let the earlier situation with Kidd bother me. The ball was caught, giving us an out, and that is what’s important.