Mom’s call is short and sweet. Basically, she wants to know how Sam and I are getting along, and she is clearly relieved when I assure her things are fine. She laughs at my horse-riding stories and then gushes about Spain for a few minutes before hanging up with a promise to call again when she and Reed get to Paris.
In a matter of days, life with Sam slides into a comfortable routine. I spend mornings at Greener Pasture, working on my riding skills with Micah, while Sam does chores, gets groceries, or runs errands. At noon he picks me up and we return to the trailer for lunch — which we make together. We never end up taking turns cooking, even though that was the original plan. Preparing meals together is just more fun — talking and laughing and experimenting with recipes. The food even tastes better.
Afternoons just happen. Some days we head out in Lizzie, go for a walk, or double on Jasmine and explore Sam’s ten acres. If I’m running out of clean clothes, I do my laundry, and Sam putters in the shed or drags fence posts around the field. On the days we’re feeling lazy, we just loll in the sunshine, reading and then discussing what we’ve read. Books, like cooking, are something Sam and I both enjoy, which is a good thing since there are lots of books around. Even so, I make a point of choosing ones I know Sam has already read, so we can have our discussions. Sometimes we agree; sometimes we don’t. It doesn’t matter. It’s the exchange of ideas that counts, and I get totally stoked as my thoughts bubble up and overflow like a runaway chemistry experiment. The same thing happens to Sam. I can tell by the energy in his voice. Somewhere along the way, my ideas get mixed up with his until I’m not quite sure whose thoughts are whose anymore, but when we’re finally all talked out, I feel as if my whole body has been scrubbed with a brush — I’m tingly inside and out.
At some point during the afternoon or evening, we plant ourselves in front of Sam’s huge television and take in a baseball game — or two. I’m not really a fan, but Sam is nuts about baseball, so I keep him company. I mean, where else am I gonna go? Besides, Sam really gets into the games, and it’s kind of fun watching him get all excited — or pissed off — depending on how his team is doing. We both root for the Blue Jays — it’s the Canadian thing to do — but otherwise, I cheer for whatever team Sam wants to lose, just to make things interesting.
“Go, Rangers!” I holler at the television as Texas takes the field. “C’mon, boys. Get ’em out one, two, three. You can do it.” Then I grab a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the coffee table and shove them into my mouth.
Sam shoots me a sideways glance and his eyebrows dive together into a bushy knot. “Since when are you a Texas fan?”
I shrug and grin. “Since you’re a Baltimore fan and that’s who they’re playing.”
He shakes his head and clucks his tongue in disgust. “That’s not how you choose a team.”
“That’s how I choose,” I say as I help myself to more nuts.
He slides the bowl out of my reach. “If you keep eating those things, you aren’t going to have room for your supper.”
“If I’m not supposed to eat the peanuts, why did you put them out?”
Sam ignores my question and points to the television. “Watch the game.”
The first batter comes to the plate, crosses himself, looks skyward, and takes a few practice swings. Then he cocks the bat and waits for the pitcher to throw the ball. When it comes, he swings so hard he loses his balance and has to lean on the bat to keep from falling.
“Woo-hoo!” I cheer. “Strike one.”
Sam sits forward on the couch.
The pitcher throws the ball again and the batter swings. Another miss.
“Easy out,” I heckle.
“Relax, man. Take your time,” Sam tells the batter. “Wait for the right ball. Make the pitcher come to you.”
The way Sam’s talking, you’d think the batter can actually hear him. Who knows — maybe he can, because he lets the next pitch go. And the two after that too. Now the count is full: three balls and two strikes. The pressure is on. The pitcher has to throw a strike, and the batter has to hit it.
“Come on, pitcher,” I say. “You can do it. Easy out, easy out.”
The pitcher winds up and throws. The batter swings and —
Crack!
Even without Sam grinning and yee-hawing all over the living room, I recognize that sound. I slouch back on the couch and watch the ball sail over the centre field fence. I guess it wasn’t such an easy out after all.
Enjoying his moment in the sun, the batter trots leisurely around the bases. As he touches home plate, he pauses, points skyward again, and kisses the cross hanging from his neck. Then he carries on to the dugout where his teammates happily mob him.
“Why do guys do that?” I say.
“What?” Sam asks. “Congratulate their teammate? Why wouldn’t they? He just put a run on the scoreboard.”
I shake my head. “I don’t mean that. I’m talking about how players cross themselves when they come to bat, and then if they get a home run, they point to the sky like it’s heaven. I’ve seen lots of batters do it. It’s as if they’re telling God thanks, like He made the home run happen.”
Sam’s moustache trembles, a sure sign that he’s laughing on the inside but doesn’t want to go public with it. Obviously, he finds something I’ve said funny.
“I’m serious,” I say indignantly.
His moustache settles down. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I wasn’t really laughing at you.” And then before I can point out that he most certainly was, he says, “Are you religious?”
I don’t answer right away. I need to think first. “Not particularly,” I finally reply. “I don’t know. I don’t really think about it much. I was christened when I was a baby, and I believe there’s a God, but I don’t go to church — except for Mom’s weddings.”
He nods and smiles, but his eyes aren’t in it. I can tell he’s just being polite, and I decide I liked it better when he was laughing at me.
“Most folks are believers,” he says. “In fact, about eight out of every ten people follow one religion or another. That doesn’t just mean going to church either; it’s a daily spiritual relationship with whichever god they believe in.
“The baseball players you’re talking about are a prime example. They believe God guides them. They believe they have God to thank for their athletic ability and how they use it. So every time they step up to that plate, they believe God is right there with them. When they cross themselves before an at-bat, they are praying to God to help them do their best.
“So when they hit a home run — yeah, you’re absolutely right — they are acknowledging God’s part in it.”
“Okay,” I frown, “but players on all the teams do that. Every player thinks God’s on his side, but how can He be if He’s helping everybody? He doesn’t sound like a very good fan to me. Where’s the loyalty?”
Sam’s hearty guffaws fill the tiny living room. “You should talk! You cheer for anybody.”
“Not just anybody,” I protest. “Only the teams you’re against. And I certainly don’t change sides in the middle of a game like God does.”
Sam stops laughing. “God does help all the teams a little, but He definitely has a favourite.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff. “And who’s that?”
“The New York Yankees.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Good one, Sam.”
“No, really. It’s true.” I have to give him credit. He looks totally serious.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What makes you think God is a Yankees fan?”
“Think about it,” he says. “In the history of baseball, the Yankees have taken the American League championship forty times. That’s way more pennants than anybody else. Even more important, they’ve been World Series champs twenty-seven times. No other team even comes close to that. What more proof do you need? God might help other teams out from time to time, but He is definitely a Yankee.”
How can I argue with that kind of logic? It’s so crazy, it makes sense. So I just nod and smile and say, “Right. Okay, then. Thanks for clearing that up.”
Sam smiles back. “My pleasure.”
We go back to watching the game, but despite my enthusiastic cheering, Texas loses, and, of course, Sam can’t resist gloating. “Looks like God was rooting for the Orioles today. Better luck next time, Dani. Let’s go make supper.”
I follow him to the kitchen and start pulling out the makings of a salad. But my mind is still in the living room, thinking about our earlier conversation.
“Sam?”
“Mmm,” he murmurs, not bothering to look up from the potato he’s peeling.
“When we were watching the game, you asked me if I was religious,” I say. “What about you? Are you religious? Do you believe in God?”
He stops peeling the potato and looks off into space. “Do I believe in God?” He slowly shakes his head. “No. No, Dani, I can’t say that I do.” There’s a thoughtful pause before he adds, “But there are definitely times I wish I did. And that’s the truth.”