Page 89 of Comeback
Holland Brothers
Me
Good luck tonight, little brother.
Flynn
Thanks.
Hendrick
Can’t wait to see you, Flynn the Flame Holland!
Knox
I’m not sold on that nickname.
Brogan
Workshop nicknames later? Also, our seats are crap. Don’t they know what a big deal you are?
Flynn
You’re lucky I could get any seats during the playoffs.
Brogan
I’m not sure I’ll even be able to see the field from these seats.
Flynn
You don’t have to come.
Knox
We’ll all be there. Keep bringing the heat.
The four of us travel to Chicago to watch Flynn. We file into the row to our seats before the game starts.
“There’s Flynn,” Knox says, pointing down by the dugout. He’s starting tonight. His first major league start.
I try to think back to my first game with the Mavericks. I was injured at the start of the season, so I stood on the sidelines for a while before I ever got to step onto the field during regulation.
But this is huge for Flynn. He’s the youngest starting pitcher in Twins history, and to be brought up during such a crucial time is any young player’s dream.
The weight of it has us all nervous as we sit down. Brogan is eating his feelings with two hot dogs, nachos, a pretzel, and a giant beer. Knox has a scowl on his face as he stares down at the field like he can control everything if he just stares hard enough. Hendrick is all smiles. I think it’s the distance from his own professional football career that lets him look back with rose-colored glasses. I don’t think he’s forgotten the nerves and pressure, but he’s far enough removed now that he remembers all the good things more.
We stand for the national anthem. The Twins are in Chicago tonight, so they don’t get the same applause as the White Sox, but at the bottom of the first inning, the four of us yell loud enough to make up for it when Flynn takes the mound.
“Oh fuck, I’m going to throw up,” Brogan says, holding his stomach.
“Yeah, no kidding.” Knox snorts, looking more like his usual self before the worried mask returns. He claps his hands together twice and says so quietly I barely hear it, “Let’s go, little brother.”
I sit forward in my seat and hold my breath as he winds up and throws the first pitch. The umpire calls the strike, and we are on our feet like he just hit a grand slam home run. We get more than a few looks of amusement, a couple of glares, but we ignore everything except Flynn down on the mound.
He throws two more strikes and the first batter heads back to the bench. We are on our feet again.
“Flynn the Flaaaaaame!” Brogan yells, then he turns to Knox. “You might be right. Flynn the Rocket?” He shakes his head without waiting for anyone else to chime in. “It’ll come to me.”
