Page 9 of Moonshot

The server walks away with a little less bravado as if he’s won, catching us at a moment of weakness.

“I’ll be right back,” Eve advises as she shimmies off of her bench seat. She saunters over to the hostess stand and leans in to have a conversation with the young lady at the podium. The girl returns moments later with who I assume is the manager. I watch as Eve takes money from her purse and hands it to him, curious as to what she’s up to. As she slides back into the seat, I await details as to what has just transpired, but nothing.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What was that?”

“I just told the manager that I was so impressed with the food and the establishment that I wanted to present my tip in person.”

My mouth drops open at this.

“I told him that everything had been perfect from the hostess to the food and the lovely setting.”

I continue to look at her, mouth agape. Had some alien invaded her body?

“What? It’s the truth. My food was great. I like the place. I enjoyed everything but the waiter who’d gone out of his way to antagonize us. I wasn’t going to let the fact that Edward was on his period ruin my evening. I told him to make sure everyone but Edward received part of the tip and gave him a hundred dollar bill.” She lifts her chin proudly. “I was going to use it to pay for our drinks later but decided it was more important to make a point.” She takes one last nibble off of a french fry before wiping her hands on her napkin. “Guess I’m going to have to flash my boobs at a few unsuspecting guys at the bar now.”

“Oh, god.” I shake my head.

“I can be the better person. The rest of the folks shouldn’t be penalized because Edward clearly didn’t want to do his job well today. Now, come on, girly. Let’s go get that margarita that has your name on it!”

Mick

Standing at the pitcher’s mound, I try to get the attention of the fifteen kids running about the infield. It’s like herding mice.

“Okay, guys. Let’s get it together. The sun will go down before we even get practice started at this rate.”

“What’s the point, Coach Mick? It wouldn’t matter if we practiced twice a day. We’ll never win a game,” a ten-year-old sporting a very worn baseball cap states emphatically.

“Yeah. We suck!” another faceless player shouts behind him.

“Awe, come on, guys. Look at the bright side. We’ve got nowhere to go but up!” I grab a couple of players, encouraging them to pair up in the outfield to throw balls to one another until I can make my way to them, then corral a few more to suit up for batting practice.

I’m the only coach who’s committed to being here for this team on a regular basis. There are a few assistant coaches. Parents who were already planning to be here for some practices and games but not fully committed to the team as a whole as much as killing time while their son’s here.

“Barton, suit up in the catcher’s uniform,” I yell across to the kid pouring red clay from the field into his sister’s solo cup while her back is turned.Jeez. What a mess.Luckily, the season has barely started, but this team is at a significant disadvantage. Most have never played baseball before. Some have never participated in any organized sports. It’s hard to discern if any of these kids possess any natural talent, as it’s hard to get them to take practice serious enough to assess their skill.

What’s more, no funds are coming in to help with uniforms or equipment. Most of the fundraisers have benefitted the older boys whose parents are more invested. Many of the kids on this team couldn’t afford to pay the full-price league fee to participate. I’ve tried to work ‘scholarships’ into the process to underwrite some of the boys whose families couldn’t otherwise afford to be here. It’s a shame local little league sports have to be this expensive. I get the travel leagues fees. But every kid should have the opportunity to play if they want to. The downside, however, is that this team looks like the Bad News Bears.

I’m sure I could probably get one of the offices I call on to support the team by making a meager donation. It wouldn’t take a lot to help get these boys in matching jerseys. But I don’t want to do anything that would compromise my job. So, for now, we work with what we have. If I have to, I’ll go by some T-shirts at the craft store and make some damn uniforms myself.

“Ben, toss Marcus the ball. This is baseball practice, not lawncare 101.” Ben just looks at me with a blank expression holding a handful of clover he’s picked from the outfield.

“Tell me again why you put yourself through this,” a gruff voice rumbles behind me.

I turn to see my best friend, Zach, and his dog, Otis. Zach is a domineering presence, standing almost two inches taller than my six foot three height. And he’s a wall of muscle. His long hair is pulled back today, with a few stray strands dropping to his shoulders. A trail of colorful ink extends from his left sleeve. Zach spends his workdays with the fire department and his free time divided between the gym and the fishing hole.

“Come on, man. They’re not that bad.”

I watch him crook one eyebrow as he looks over my shoulder. Cringing, I slowly turn and follow his gaze to two boys who are in the outfield, pants down, each trying to pee farther than his opponent.Fuck’s sake. They’re ten, not two.

“Bryan, Sean, put your peckers away and get back to work. We’re playing the Devil Dogs at the next game, and I can bet they aren’t goofing off right now. This is serious business to them.” The majority of the boys on that team are travel ballplayers in addition to playing little league. They’re every bit as dedicated to the game as I was growing up. It’s in their blood. I’m not really sure what’s in these kids’ DNA. As this thought crosses my mind, I hesitate to turn back around, knowing what’s coming.

“Are you a glutton for punishment, or what?”

“Oh, shut up. They’ll come around.” I walk over to Otis to give him a scratch behind the ears, and the mutt rolls over to present his belly before I can start. Otis is one lucky bastard. A stray hound dog Zach took in years ago. Now, unless Zach’s at work, they’re practically inseparable. “This is one spoiled dog.”

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