Page 40 of Curveball
Me: Something like that
The photo he sent of his butt was a selfie in the bathroom mirror. Sans pants.
Max shouting to me disrupts my mental butterfly chasing and I look over at him.
“Here.” From bent at the waist, he squats to his heels and waves the book for me to come get it from him. His grin is diabolical. My face engulfs in heat.
There’s a pen clipped to the spiral binding, and I open the book in my lap. I don’t even ask what he wants me to keep track of. I’ve been a pitcher’s mom since Dylan was eight. By now, it’s in my blood.
Max strides back to the mound, where a bucket of balls sits on the ground beside Dylan. He tips it over and they spill out and roll away. Using the inside of his foot, he captures and slides them back into one grouping.
“All right, son. Let me see what we’re working with.”
Dylan picks up a ball and steps to the rubber. Winds up and throws a slow, arcing pitch. Natalie catches it easily.
“Ooh, that was ugly,” Max comments.
“Told you!” Natalie yells from behind the plate.
Dylan shouts back at her, “You’re not helpful!”
Natalie hoots with laughter, but Max steps up beside him and speaks so low I only hear the hum of conversation, but not their actual words. Max picks up a ball from near his foot and rotates it in his hand, demonstrating to Dylan how to situate his fingers. Then, he slaps the ball into Dylan’s open palm.
“Okay now, core grip. Thumb goes where?”
Dylan obediently maneuvers the ball, intent on his thumb placement.
“Good,” Max comments. Then, “Now, where do your fingers go in relation to the seam?”
Dylan furrows his brow, a mask of concentration as he sets one finger and then another, then releases his grip with a growl of frustration and starts the process over. Max watches patiently from beside him, reaching over once to make a slight adjustment. “Right. You want to focus on your thumb and your middle finger.”
Last Thursday, Max’s last day in St. Louis, he messaged me early. He’d already warned me he’d be tied up for the day—they had an early game, and then then they’d be traveling home for a game the next afternoon.
The text was a selfie of him with another man, a guy about ten years older than him.
Bad Boy: Meet Eddie Ramirez, best pitching coach in the game.
I think Eddie helped improve more than his pitching.
Dylan grins with something like relief, and hope lights up his expression. His hand is clamped to the ball. “Can I throw this, Coach?”
Max chuckles. “Holding the ball is only part of the pitch. What about the delivery?”
“I’ve been practicing that.” He demonstrates his wind-up and stretch, along with his throw, each movement in slow motion.
“We’re looking for accuracy and control. You want to see how that one flies?”
Dylan nods, still in deep concentration, and steps to the rubber.
“You ready, Nat?” he yells out to her. She’s already crouched behind the plate, mask down, mitt up.
“Born ready,” she sasses back. “Stop talking and bring it!”
Dylan spits off to the left, taps the bill of his cap, winds up, and pitches the ball. In no time, the ball snaps into Natalie’s glove.
“Woot woot!” she hollers before rolling the ball back to the mound. “That one felt good!”
Max high fives him. “Looked good, too. Just remember . . . not as hard as your fastball, but with all the intensity. This is a mental game. You can’t let up.”
