Page 48 of Left on Base

“Remember what I told you when you were thirteen?” Coach asks.

“Don’t eat sunflower seeds with the shells still on?” I deadpan, because sometimes humor is the only shield against a lecture.

He snorts. “About focus.”

Oh yeah, that speech. Baseball is like dating. You can’t be thinking about other pitches when you’re trying to hit the one in front of you. Pretty sure he stole that from a Hallmark movie, but whatever. If you can’t tell, I don’t want to have this conversation.

I watch Jameson set up for his next pitch. His cleats dig into the mound, he touches his nose with his glove. He’s calling off whatever the catcher asked for, curve’s coming. The freshman stares at the dugout. He doesn’t know Jameson like I do and he’s set up inside, not expecting what’s headed his way.

“You’re too good to be riding pine,” Coach says. “But talent ain’t worth shit without focus.”

Thank you, Wisdom Willie. Had no idea.

The word focus echoes in my head like a foul tip off my mask. Focus. Like I haven’t been trying to focus every time I’m behind the plate or in the box. Like I haven’t spent hours in the cage, in the gym, watching film until my eyes burn. Like I haven’t been trying to be everything this team needs while also being everything Camdyn deserves.

But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you can’t be everything to everyone. Maybe that’s why they call it a sacrifice fly and not a have-it-all fly.

A burst of “Sweet Caroline” blasts through the speakers, and the crowd does that weird sing-along thing that happens at every baseball game since the dawn of time. BAH BAH BAH! Even some of our guys join in, because apparently nothing brings people together like Neil Diamond and the seventh-inning stretch.

“You’re thinking about her right now, aren’t you?” Coach’s voice slices through the chorus.

I am. Still thinking about her on me, if you want the honest truth.

But what I say is, “Nah, thinking about my swing.”

Coach snorts. He knows I’m lying. I know I’m lying. Hell, even the bat boy probably knows. But sometimes you stick to your story, even when it’s as believable as claiming you meant to bunt on that wild swing for the fences.

The truth is, baseball’s been my life since before I knew what having a life meant. But Camdyn? She makes me want more than box scores and batting averages. She makes me want lazy Sunday mornings and coffee shop debates and all those normal college things that seem impossible when you’re playing Division 1 ball—because they are impossible. Who has time for coffee shops?

And maybe that’s what scares me most. Not striking out with the bases loaded or missing a throw to second. What scares me is that for the first time, baseball might not be enough.

But try explaining that to Coach Allen, who probably thinks Romeo and Juliet could’ve worked if they’d just focused more on their respective teams.

A roar from the crowd pulls my attention back to the field. We’ve got the bases loaded with one out. Jameson’s pacing, which usually means he’s about to strike out the side or walk in three runs. With Jameson, there’s no in-between.

I find myself edging forward on the bench, muscle memory kicking in. My fingers twitch, itching to call pitches. Because even though I’m benched, even though my mind’s lost somewhere between home plate and Camdyn, I still know Jameson better than anyone. I know he’s thinking slider, but his slider’s been hanging outside for these hitters today.

The freshman behind the plate calls for exactly that. A slider. I wince before the pitch even leaves Jameson’s hand.

CRACK!

The sound echoes like a gunshot. The ball rockets to left field, and for a second, I think it’s gone. But our left fielder makes a diving catch worthy of SportsCenter, and suddenly the dugout’s on its feet. Everyone except me. I’m still sitting here. I don’t have the energy to get up.

“That’s what focus looks like,” Coach says, because of course he does. Everything’s a teaching moment with him.

Go fuck yourself.

I want to tell him I am focused. I’m focused on the fact that when I had to tell someone about the baby Camdyn lost, it was Coach I turned to, not my dad.

The memory hits. Last season, after Camdyn had the miscarriage, I hated myself for being relieved I didn’t have to worry about being a dad at nineteen. I hated baseball, and life.

Coach Allen found me in the cages at 2 a.m., destroying baseballs like they’d personally insulted me. He didn’t say much, just fed the pitching machine while I swung until my hands bled.

Finally, he said, “Sometimes life throws you a pitch you can’t hit.”

Probably the most honest thing he’s ever said to me. No lectures about focus or keeping my head in the game. Just truth.

But then he followed it up with advice about ending things with Camdyn, about how relationships during college ball were like trying to catch with a broken mitt. You might get by for a while, but eventually, everything falls apart.

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