Page 218 of Left on Base

I’m laughing so hard I’m crying, but Jaxon’s locked in. Fork Guy keeps up a running commentary, complete with fake play-by-play and a dramatic slow clap when Jaxon finally gets a clean diaper on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that’s a textbook double play! I see a Gold Glove in your future,” Fork Guy declares, bowing.

Jaxon sags with relief, wipes sweat from his brow, and scoops up Maverick, who is now making that milk-drunk, satisfied noise babies make when they’ve ruined your night and your dignity.

Fork Guy high fives Jaxon. “Well done, team. Next time, we go for speed.”

Jaxon collapses into the chair, Maverick on his chest, and Fork Guy sprawls at the foot of my bed, regaling us with stories about his own “first time” babysitting a baby goat in college. I don’t know why, but this is exactly how I imagined my first night as a mom. My guys, all together.

I close my eyes, laughter still bubbling in my chest, and think—this is what I pictured. Chaos, joy, and a little bit of shit, all wrapped up in love.

CHAPTER 47

DUGOUT

CAMDYN

The semi-protected areas down the first and third baselines where each team must remain when not playing.

If you want to know what chaos looks like, spend a Saturday morning at a t-ball game in Georgia. My six-year-old insists on eye black, my toddler’s eating dirt in the outfield, and my baby girl is trying to eat the scorebook.

Add Fork Guy, and it’s less “field of dreams” and more “field of questionable adult supervision.”

Jaxon’s in full Dad Mode—Braves hat backward, squatting behind Maverick, coaching him through his first at-bat. And Jaxon Ryan as a dad? So fucking hot. Why do you think we have three kids in six years? I can’t keep my legs closed around him.

Jaxon and I have three kids now. Crazy, huh? Maverick, Lane, and Berkley. Yep, our little crew spells out MLB. We’re cool like that.

“All right, Mav,” Jaxon says, steadying the tiny bat. “Choke up, keep your eye on the ball—no, your real eye, not your ‘Fork Guy’ eye patch.”

“Like this?” Maverick grins, showing off the homemade eye patch Fork Guy gave him. It’s covered in glitter and—of course—tiny plastic forks.

“Yeah, buddy. Like that.”

From the bleachers, Fork Guy leads a chant, shaking a cowbell and wearing a foam finger that says “#1 Uncle.” He’s somehow convinced the other kids to call him “Coach Fork” and my kids call him “Uncle Fork.” It’s weird, I know, but whatever. We go with it.

“Let’s gooooo, Little Braves!” he yells.

Lane, our three-year-old, is supposed to be at second base but is building a dirt mountain and introducing himself to a butterfly. Every few minutes he shouts, “GO MAV GO!” then tries to eat another handful of infield.

I’m on a picnic blanket with Berkley in my lap, her chubby hands grabbing for my sunglasses and the team snack bag. She’s eight months old, adores her older brothers, has Jaxon’s dimples and my eyes. She’s the cutest baby around. You can’t tell me any different.

Fork Guy jogs over during a timeout, breathless and beaming. “Bush Girl, you got any more orange slices? Lane tried to trade his glove for a Capri Sun.”

I find it weird sometimes when you calls me Bush Girl in public, but whatever. “Yeah.” I hand him a snack pack, and he immediately peels it open for Lane, who beams like he hit a grand slam.

Jaxon comes over, sweat-soaked and happy, and drops onto the blanket beside me. “Coaching’s exhausting.”

Maverick’s running the bases—well, meandering and waving at his siblings, tripping over his shoelaces. The crowd, our family, goes wild anyway.

“He’s got your hustle,” I tease.

Jaxon grins, reaching for Berkley. “And your stubborn streak. Lane might get arrested one day, and this one—” he kisses Berkley’s soft hair—“she’s going to run the world.”

Fork Guy plops down, dusting off his hands. “I’m available for private coaching. I accept payment in pudding cups, crystals, or limited-edition forks.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is there a discount if we pay you not to coach?”

“Shocked. Betrayed.” He gasps, clutching his heart. “But yes, the rate is reasonable.”

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