That day in March, when the scout was coming, you asked me to watch your game. You said it would help if I was there, cheering you on. I wasn’t one of those girlfriends who automatically showed up for every game. I’d only gone to one game before then, and I nearly died of boredom. Most of the time, the players were just standing around. You didn’t even play half the time, since you’re a pitcher. I felt like I was just watching people I didn’t know.
But I said, “Sure, I’ll scream my face off.”
“I’m counting on it,” you said.
It was a clear day and the field was dry, perfect for baseball. I sat in the clangy metal bleachers next to the moms and dads.
I knew from the beginning of the game you were going to be chosen. You were mesmerizing, like a ballerina, all grace and flow. The whole game, I cheered and whooped and waved my arms in the air; maybe I went a little overboard to show how supportive I was, even though I was actually hoping you’d screw up. But you smiled at me and pitched like that ball was on fire.
At the end of the game, I threw my arms around you and you said my bazongas were distracting when I was jumping up and down in the stands, and I said, bazongas? And you laughed and said thanks for cheering. You said the scout told your coach he was impressed and he’d be in touch, and I said, “I’m so proud of you.” And then we kissed.
But inside, my heart was already shriveling up like a prune.
You were too good for me. Nearly straight As. Superstar athlete. Everyone loved you. And now you were going to be famous. What kind of place would I have in this new world? No kind of place, that’s what. So I pulled away. I guess that’s what I’m good at.
Loving isn’t so easy for all of us.
That night, I stood in the shower for a really long time, and I cried. But I never told you how upset I was. I just packaged my heart in bubble wrap. And pretended that everything was just the same.