Page 8 of Love and Pumpkins
Ihurry home to change and grab some provisions for the game—three refillable bottles of water, a protein bar, a banana, and an apple. Dinner of champions? No. Dinner of a thirty-one-year-old who’s about to play softball for the first time in twelve years? Yes.
Arriving at the park, I make my way to the ball diamond, saying hello to people I know along the way.
My cousins Whitney and Jackson are on the Lightning team, so I’m excited to play with them.
I find my parents sitting with my aunt and uncle along the first baseline. Yikes. They’ll have their eyes on me when I’m standing in right field, praying no balls are hit towards me.
“Hi, everyone!” I yell as I approach. You have to yell in this family if you want to be heard. My sister Chloe is sitting between cousins Whitney and Glenn.
There’s a resounding chorus of “Hi, Pheebs!” and “Hi, Phoebe!" and even, “Hi, Bebe!”—that comes from mycousin Annie; she’s called me Bebe since we were toddlers.
I should mention that my aunt and uncle are huge fans of eighties music. They named their kids after famous singers—Whitney Houston, Annie Lennox, Glenn Frey, and Jackson Browne.
Our parents preferred rhyming names, hence Phoebe and Chloe. Too cute for my taste.
Mr. Curtis approaches, and I hope he’s come to tell me I don’t have to play tonight, but he puts a Lightning T-shirt in my hand and tells me to get dressed pronto.
Walking into the public restroom is like walking into a sauna. I change quickly and get out of the sweatbox.
Rushing out of the restroom, I run smack dab into Hunter. I don’t know where he came from; I didn’t see him until I hit him. Unfortunately, he’s carrying a cup of water from the concession stand, and it drenches my T-shirt and my pants.
“Oh, my goodness,” he says, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“Obviously.” I shake my head. “It’s okay, I didn’t see you either.”
Thinking on the positive side, maybe this will get me out of playing softball. I could tell Mr. Curtis I can’t play with this much water in my left tennis shoe.
I hear an extremely loud whistle blow and look towards the bench. Mr. Curtis is motioning for me to hurry.
“Ugh, gotta go,” I say to Hunter.
“Break a leg,” he replies.
“You only say that to actors!” I cry. “This is softball. Icouldbreak a leg!”
He laughs, a deep chuckle that I feel in my knees even though he’s two feet away from me.
I’m batting ninth. I’m secretly hoping that means I won’t bat until the third inning. No such luck. Our team has this pitcher’s number and hits singles and doubles in quick succession. Mr. Curtis looks at me when it’s my turn to bat.
“Ready, kid?”
“No. Are you sure someone else can’t play?” I plead.
“You’ll be fine. Get out there!”
I grab a bat and practice swinging it before approaching the batter’s box. I hear my family cheering loudly, “Go, Bebe, go!”
Now they’re all calling me Bebe? Great. The whole town will probably pick it up. I’ll have to change my name tag at work.
I kick the dirt in the batter’s box. Hope that makes me look like I know what I’m doing. (I don’t.)
Hoping muscle memory kicks in, since I played this sport in grade-school and high-school PE, I bend my knees and place my hands up, ready to swing.
I squint at the pitcher. He looks familiar. Just as it occurs to me that I dated the guy once during our junior year, the ball rushes towards my head, and I jump back.
“Strike one!” the umpire yells.
“What?” I ask, turning to the ump.
