Page 47 of Mom Ball

I nod.

“Trust me, I checked,” she adds in a whisper.

Every kid goes through a round with Ethan on the tee, then Morgan pitching. Except for Angel and Precious, who show up as we’re finishing.

Tami looks confused. “I thought this game started at ten.”

“Remember we posted to come thirty minutes early to warm up?” I remind her.

“I thought that was optional,” she answers.

I shake my head.

“My bad. I was up, but making new content.”

Easton’s eyes widen at the word “content.” I’m certain he’s remembering the time she came in with a sprained ankle from shooting one of her TikToks. For some reason, she hung herself over a mailbox and her heel caught on the curve when she tried to get down. She fell in the ditch and couldn’t walk. Someone handing out church tracts door to door found her an hour later and gave her a ride to the emergency room.

Ethan exits the net with the balls, and Morgan follows. “All right, to the field!” She points like a pirate discovering an island.

I fall in line behind Herrington’s family and notice that the golf bag is monogrammed with the number sixteen. Georgia is wearing #16 earrings too.

They really must love that number.

“Hey, Morgan, I flipped earlier, and y’all got the visitors’ side,” Jeffrey quips.

“You flipped without me?” She narrows her eyes at him.

“I would say we could flip again . . .” He nods toward the home dugout, which is about eighty times nicer than the visitors’. “But all my boys have already settled in.”

“Have they now?” Morgan pulls a scorebook from her bag. “Easton and Aniston, I trust the two of you are smart enough to figure this out.”

“I can do you one better.” Easton lifts his phone to his chest. “I downloaded GameChanger.”

Morgan snorts. “Good luck with that in this dead-zone service area.”

He taps his phone and frowns when the app spins. Aniston takes the book and pencil from Morgan and gives her a closed-lip smile.

“Brooke, I need you on first base. We can’t steal bases or anything cool like that at this age, so your only job is to make sure they run through the bag.”

“Got it.” But do I? The only baseball I ever paid attention to was Nate’s games starting in late middle school. I literally remember nothing from my brothers playing other than candy from the concession stand.

“Maribelle, you can keep the batting order.” Morgan pats her pockets and comes up short. After glancing around the ground, she reaches in her shirt and pulls out a slip of paper. “My bad. Forgot I stuck it in Grandma’s secret pouch.” She winks.

Maribelle pinches the edge of the paper with her index finger and thumb like she’s holding a snotty tissue. She winces and takes it to the dugout.

“Let’s get our bats, boys,” Morgan says.

I give Aniston a silent plea for help. She rubs my back. “You got this. Remember, they run through the bag.”

I nod, then head to my post on first base. Jeffrey’s entourage of coaches stares at me from their ivory tower. It has a concrete floor and little shiny hooks to hold their bags. We get dirt and a wooden bench that’s seen its better days.

Morgan adjusts a cap on her head and pulls her hair through the back. She gets in some kind of squatty stance and smiles at Jack. I don’t even try and understand her process with the batting order, since Jack is a loose cannon.

Somehow the stars align and God smiles on us, because Jack hits the first ball she throws. I watch him like a hawk as he barrels toward my base.

Unfortunately, Jeffrey’s team scoops the ball and gets it to the first baseman way before Jack. He’s out.

Carter is up next and watches every ball. He mopes off the field, dragging his bat.

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