Almost there! I dig my cleats in and put on one last burst of speed. I don’t know what’s going on behind me; I don’t know where the ball is. All I know is that I just rounded third base and I’m getting closer to home plate by the millisecond.
Sometimes, that’s all that runs come down to: a mere millisecond, the infinitesimal space between me diving for the base and the ball zooming through the air, nestling itself in my opponent’s glove, and being brought closer … closer …
“Safe!” the umpire bellows, and I pop up off the ground and give a huge whoop.
Behind me, Lauren, who plays catcher, gives me a high five with her non-glove hand. “Sweet running!” She waves her mitt in the air, still with a softball poking out of it. “I was this close to tagging you out!”
“Nice catch!” I respond, even though I was too focused on my own sprint to notice what Lauren was doing. But that’s part of being a good teammate: working to better yourself while also propping your teammate up. It’s like the pillow forts I used to make when I was a kid: Unless all the sides are stable, the entire fort is going to collapse.
A team is the same way. And our team is good. Fun, too. Rec league only practices twice a week, with games every other week. Rec league is chill enough that I’ve been able to do Chorus Club for the entire first part of the school year. Singing is the first thing I’ve really loved since I picked up a glove when I was a kid. (And Ms. Gudelot, our music teacher, says that I’m good.)
“A voice like a songbird,” she says.
(Ms. Gudelot was really sad when I told her last week that I was stopping. I was sad, too.)
Singing is way different than softball, but it’s also similar in some ways. It’s an individual effort, but you also have to meld with the larger group. Whenever I open my mouth, I have to be focused on the music—the notes, the tune, and my breath control. Just like when I’m on the field, where I have to keep my feet steady and my eyes on the ball.
Both singing and softball take my mind off the rest of my life.
I like that.
I head to the dugout and give my teammates high fives, then wave to Tabitha on second base, whose line drive sent me home. She gives me a thumbs-up, then crouches down, ready to run if Cara, up next, gets a hit.
I settle down on a bench to catch my breath. It’s the end of practice, which is when we usually split the team up to play a mini-scrimmage. Even though I love the drills we do during practice, scrimmages (and games, of course!) are my favorite part of softball. True, throwing a ball back and forth with a teammate and fielding ground balls over and over again does make me better. But there’s nothing like actually being in a game situation, feeling my muscles scream as I round the bases or concentrating on catching an incoming ball.
I started playing softball when I was seven, when Mom signed me up for the town spring league, bought me a miniature glove (not one of those pink girlie ones, either; I got a red one, my favorite color), and told me to have fun. By then, I knew that Mom had been a softball superstar. She kept all her trophies and ribbons in my parents’ home office, on the highest shelf so I wouldn’t take them down and decide to pretend they were castles and capes for my Barbies.
I knew Grandma Kathy had been great at softball, too. When I was nine, a year before she died, we went to a special ceremony that her college held honoring her and other student athletes. I remember looking up at the stage in awe, at the big plaque they’d given Grandma Kathy and all the people cheering for her. She looked so happy and so proud. It was the same way I felt when I played. So I kept playing. I started living the motto on my favorite t-shirt, the one that says EAT SLEEP SOFTBALL.
It turns out that t-shirt sayings don’t tell the whole story, though. Because, yeah, I still love softball. Obviously. But people know I love softball. They know I’m good at it.
That means it’s all they talk to me about (especially Mom, since it’s one of the things we do together).
It means I’m the “softball girl.”
It means I have to make every team I try out for. That I have to keep being good or everyone will be disappointed.
What would happen if I didn’t make the team? If I stopped being that girl, the one who loves softball and only softball?
I don’t know the answer to that. But at least for today, softball is still pure joy. Today, playing is distracting me.
Not in a bad way, though, like when I couldn’t concentrate on my math quiz today. Instead, it’s distracting me in an “I can’t think about Mom when my top priority is to field this incoming ball” kind of way.
In a “focus on my batting stance so I don’t strike out” kind of way.
In an “at least softball will be here for me when the rest of my life is falling apart” kind of way.
On first base, Claudia fields an easy ground ball and I cheer, even though she’s on the opposite “team” right now. “Nice work!”
Claudia glances over and smiles, then gives me a thumbs-up. Phew! It looks like our disagreement from earlier is over. I’ll talk to her after practice, tell her the truth, and we’ll be better than ever.
I bet she’ll even help me think of ways to make this whole rehab thing easier. Claudia’s good like that. She may be loud and boisterous, but she’s the most thoughtful person in the entire school. Last year when I was sick on my birthday, she came over my house, and even though she had to wear a mask and sit across the room, we still watched an entire season of Friends on Netflix. We still had fun.
(Even though that afternoon made me realize that it’s really hard to laugh when your whole face is congested with snot.)
The bench creaks next to me and I look over to see Mr. Robertson settling down, his ever-present thermos of coffee in hand.
“Hey, Veronica.” His voice is as deep as the bass guitar Dad used to play and still sometimes brings out at family get-togethers.
“Um. Hey.” This is weird. Mr. Robertson is usually out on the field the entire practice, moving around and instructing us on what to do. He may not be Mom, but he turned out to be a good coach.
He tilts his head toward the bleachers, where a tall lady with bug-eyed sunglasses is sitting in the top row. “She was cheering when you reached home plate.”
“Okaaaaay.” I’m confused. I mean, I guess it’s cool that someone’s mom thought I did well, but was that worth coming over here for?
Mr. Robertson smiles. “You know who that is, don’t you?”
I peer closer, then clap my hand to my mouth. “Is that Coach Ortiz?” My heart starts racing faster than it did when I ran down the baseline. With those big glasses on and her hair down, I didn’t recognize the coach of the All-Star team. “She was cheering for me?”
“Absolutely.” Mr. Robertson pats me on the shoulder. “She looked impressed from where I was standing.”
“Wow. I mean, um … cool.” The words stumble out of my mouth like a toddler just learning to walk. “Thanks for, um, pointing her out.” My mind flashes back to the rest of practice, to how I dropped two fly balls in a row and slipped in a patch of fresh mud during our warm-up run. All of a sudden, I feel like I’m going to barf. “Has she been here the whole time?”
Mr. Robertson shakes his head. “Nope. She arrived at the beginning of the scrimmage.” He grins, as if he were reading my thoughts. “Don’t worry, kid. You made a great impression.”
Did I, though? I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now. Should I wave? Wink? Flash a big toothy smile? Or should I pretend Coach Ortiz isn’t even here, watching me and rating me and—I peer closer—is that a notebook? Is she writing notes about me?
I take a deep breath. It’s no big deal if she’s writing about me. No big deal if she decides to write a whole novel about my strengths and weaknesses and …
I shudder and force myself to look away from Coach Ortiz. Maybe it is a big deal. Whatever. I don’t have to think about it, though. I just need to have fun.
But what if fun isn’t what Coach Ortiz is looking for? What I have to do more than “have fun” to be a player she wants on her All-Star team?
My mind feels like it’s going to explode. Why is everything so complicated lately?
“I look forward to hearing about how you do in tryouts.”
I blink. For a second, I forgot that Mr. Robertson was there. When I meet his eyes, I freeze at the look on his face. It’s the same look Ms. Ito gave me at Pine Knolls, the same one I imagine on the face of everyone I see now. It’s pity and caring mixed up into one.
Does he know what’s going on at home?
I look at Mr. Robertson closer, then jump up as his mouth begins to open.
“You should get back to the team!” I exclaim way too loudly. “We have more practice to do!”
Mr. Robertson looks down at his watch, then shakes his head, as if he’s clearing out the cobwebs. “Actually, it’s just about time to wrap up.” He winds his way around the fence surrounding the dugout and yells to the rest of the team. “Good job today, girls! See you tomorrow!”
I breathe a sigh of relief as he walks away from me. Then a bigger sigh when I notice that Coach Ortiz is gone. A second later, Claudia bounds toward me, her pants, like mine, decorated with streaks of dirt. (“A softball player’s best accessory,” Mom always calls it.)
“Lauren and Tabitha want to go out for ice cream!” she exclaims. “Join us?” Her voice is more tentative than usual, like I did scare her off during math class earlier.
My first instinct is to say no. Now that I’m not focused on practice anymore, I keep thinking about Mom. What if Mom has been doing so well at Pine Knolls that they discharged her this morning, while I was at school?
What if Mom meant it when she said she was going to change, and she worked so hard all weekend that she’s waiting at home? She’s sitting next to Dad on the couch, him complaining about some rude person on the other end of a sales call and her talking about how she never ever wants another drink.
Ever.
She could be there, like she’s supposed to be.
Deep down, I know that’s not true. I know that there’s no happy fairy tale waiting for me at home. That fairy tales are filled with monsters and missing mothers anyway.
That’s why my second instinct is to say yes. Because if I don’t go home yet, that fake “happily ever after” can still exist in my mind. Until I see otherwise, Mom could be there, frolicking in a field with talking animals.
“Totally! I’d love to come.” I sling an arm around Claudia and give her my best apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about earlier, too. Like I said, I was tired. But ice cream will definitely wake me up.” I make an exaggeratedly hyper face. “Sugar rush time!”
Then I run ahead of my best friend, toward the dirt path through the woods leading to the ice cream stand.
This afternoon is exactly what I needed. First practice, then my favorite dessert, followed by walking home with Claudia so I can tell her the truth.
Perfect.