by Karole Cozzo
The structure of practice is pretty similar to what I’m used to, especially with Coach Parsons from South still on the field. Jamie and the senior cocaptains lead us through stretches and warm-ups in the outfield. Then we break into groups and rotate through fielding drills, hitting practice, and base running. Scott and I are in different groups, and I don’t say a word to any of my teammates during the drills, not even my teammates from South, even though others are chatting during rotations. I stay laser focused, hang on every word from our coaches, and bust my ass every time my name is called to step forward. Despite the slight tremble in my hands, I do okay. I hold my own.
Then, in the final half hour before wind sprints, Coach Jackson calls the pitchers and catchers together. “Let’s run through this rotation twice. We’ll start off slowly. Fifteen fastballs from windup, rotating to the inside and outside each pitch,” he says. He twists toward the outfield, pointing to my old shortstop from South. “Jamison, right?” Chris Jamison nods. “Grab a helmet and come stand in at the plate.”
As he takes position, grabbing a bat and adjusting his helmet, my heart starts pounding. This is getting real. Then I notice the other assistant coach setting up the video camera on the tripod, ready to record our throws so we can review and discuss mechanics later. My heart threatens to escape my chest altogether, and it’s downright painful, thanks to the damn Ace bandage.
Coach Jackson looks back at us. “Line up, gang.”
I end up third in line of the four pitchers who made the team—two of us from South, two from East. Jamie ends up behind me, and even though he definitely keeps his distance, I swear I can feel the tension and anger radiating off his body.
I’m surprised at his positioning. From the way he seems to like to steal the show, I would have assumed he’d be first in line.
To the left of the plate, I see Scott move so that he’s third in line of the catchers. I catch his eye and smile, and he gives me a thumbs-up in return.
The rest of our teammates keep busy in the outfield as the first two pitchers take their turns on the mound. I can’t help but be impressed by Matt Sanders’s speed, but he definitely pays the price in accuracy. Pat Bechtel, my former reliever from South, goes next. He’s solid, but his range is somewhat limited.
Thirty pitches from the two of them, and I’m up. Scott must notice the way I close my eyes for a minute, blowing deep breaths through my pursed lips, because he takes a moment to lift his mask. He doesn’t say anything out loud, but I’m practiced at reading his lips. I’ve been seeing Scott behind the plate for almost a decade. You got this. He raises his index and middle finger, pointing at my eyes, then turns his fingers around, pointing into his own eyes. Eyes on me. Right here only. You got this.
But despite his command to focus, I glance behind me in the final moment. I realize there are about twenty pairs of eyes on me. My teammates have abandoned their drills, and no one is redirecting them. Coach Karlson is standing in the outfield, bat across his shoulders, watching me, too. The occasional breeze across the infield is the only sound for miles. I look down and realize the ball is quaking in my trembling hand.
Pissed and frustrated, I force my fingers into a vise around the ball. I mean, how the hell am I going to face our opponents if I can’t even face my own team?
I stare into Scott’s steady green eyes and repeat his words to myself. You got this. Eyes on me. You got this.
I take a final deep breath and let the rest of it go blurry. Chris at the plate, holding his bat in position. The coach with the video camera in my peripheral vision. Jamie, glowering from the third baseline.
I close my eyes so I can’t see any of them, and then right before I wind up, I open them. I refuse to let my focus shift even minutely from Scott’s glove, at the ready. Muscle memory kicks in before my mind even tells my body what to do, and I fire. Mere seconds later, I hear the familiar, satisfying thwack of leather pummeling leather. Scott’s glove hasn’t moved at all.
He nods once, all business, and rises slightly to return the ball to me. Fourteen more times I fire, fourteen more times I nail it.
Only then do I breathe, shoulders going lax, a wide, gleeful smile lifting my cheeks. I point at Scott and raise my arms in triumph. He pumps his fist in the air three times.
That’s when I hear it, behind me, surprising the hell out of me. Applause. I whirl around, finding that most of my teammates—my teammates from both South and East—are clapping. Even Coach is clapping.
Any trace of this morning’s gloom is obliterated. The mound still feels like home, and my team is making me feel welcome there.
Before they can see my smile, I wipe it off my face and adjust my bandanna as I trot off the infield and get back in line. The look on Jamie’s face as I approach him tells me, in no uncertain terms, that he has not been clapping along with the rest of them. He storms past me, eyes narrow slits, our shoulders bumping as I leave the mound and he claims it for himself.
Chapter 4
March 3
Jamie
Cutting my headlights, I turn into the school’s back parking lot. I don’t think there’s any monitoring or recording going on, but the stealth aspect’s cool.
I’m the first to arrive. So maybe I’m overeager—I dragged myself off Kaitlyn’s couch, out from under Kaitlyn, about twenty minutes sooner than I probably needed to. Kaitlyn, owner of the tight cream cords. My hand grazes my neck; I can still feel her teeth. Yeah, I don’t think I’ll forget her name again.
I head down to the track, glancing over my shoulder after every few steps to make sure no one’s trailing me. They’re not, so I hop over the chain-link fence, unlocking it from the inside so my teammates have no trouble getting in. We made sure they all got the text. Pirate newbies. Practice track. Ten o’clock. Be there, or don’t bother showing up for practice on Monday.
The night is completely still as I make my way to the middle of the track, right around the fifty yard line, and wait. Nathan and Brendan, my cocaptains, show up next, arriving together. They’re both dressed in black, and Brendan has a knit beanie pulled low on his forehead.
“What are you fuckers doing? This isn’t Mission: Impossible.”
Nathan grins as we slap hands. “You’re right. It’s better.”
“You ready for this?” Brendan asks.
I grind my heel into the gravel of the track. “Absolutely.”
“It’s a lot more fun as an upperclassman, right?”
Laughing, I nod. I’ve paid my dues already. And now, even as a junior, I’ve been elected as captain. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the authority.
As the others arrive, I stand with my arms crossed, following their path to the bleachers with stern eyes. We don’t greet them, and they don’t talk to each other. Without being told what to do, they figure it out. The other juniors and seniors from East, who are exempt, join us on the track. The sophomores and the kids who transferred from South take to the first row of the bleachers, arranging themselves in a solemn line.
She arrives with her buddy, the catcher, at the last minute. I guess they thought there was strength in numbers. I’m almost gleeful, thinking about how wrong they are. There’s no way to take cover tonight. My eyes stay on her as I envision her discomfort. Serves her right. She asked for this.
The resentment flares like a lit match, leaving me scowling down at my feet.
I think about the way everyone went back to the outfield when she had done her rotation on the mound. I’d gone last, expecting to steal the show, redirect their attention back where it belonged. When her turn was over, no one even looked up.
I swallow hard, thinking of how Coach had hugged her, freakin’ hugged her, at the end of our first practice. The memory feels like a steel boot to my lungs, kicking the air out of them, and I refocus my attention on the bleachers, gritting my teeth, glaring at her.
Let’s do this.
Nathan spits into the gravel beside me, cups his hands in front of his mouth, and cal
ls up into the bleachers. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He doesn’t adjust his language for her, and I notice her rolling her eyes.
It’s a subtle response, but for whatever reason, it increases the pressure inside my chest. It’s a baseball team. Get over yourself.
“Let me explain why we’re here tonight, for you sophomores or transfers who might not know.” He pauses for effect. “Tonight is about the spirit of tradition alive and well within the Farmington East baseball team.” He nods at Brendan, who pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
Brendan raises his hand. “But before we go any further,” he tells the group, “I need to read something to you guys.” He squints at the paper in the darkness. “‘Farmington School District Administrative Guideline 5213, Student Anti-Hazing.’”
Eve swallows hard and a second later, her hand goes to her throat, trying to hide her reaction a beat too late. There’s a sudden trace of fear in her eyes. As I survey the guys beside her, it’s evident she’s not the only one starting to worry.
“‘The purpose of this guideline is to maintain a safe learning environment for all students and staff members at Farmington schools. Hazing in any form is neither tolerated nor consistent with any educational goals of Farmington schools.’”
Brendan goes on to read from a list of examples of activities referred to in the policy. I catch phrases like “degrades or risks emotional and/or physical harm,” “physically abusive, hazardous, or sexually violating.” Eve’s shoulders jump, and I wonder what she’s imagining. We’re not that depraved, for Christ’s sake.
“‘… any activity that subjects a student to extreme mental stress, embarrassment, shame, or humiliation that adversely affects the mental health or dignity of the student or discourages the student from remaining in school.’”
He looks back up into the bleachers. “Y’all got that?” he asks.
The newbies nod.
Then Brendan nods, too. “Good.” He turns in my direction, hands the policy to me.
I keep my eyes on the bleachers as I rip it into tiny pieces that fall and litter the ground.
“Get down here,” Nathan orders them.
Heads down, the group drags their feet as they make their way to the track and huddle together before us. Even though they’re only a year younger than me, the sophomores look like kids, nervous and small. The juniors and seniors from South still look more annoyed than anything else.
“This long-standing tradition,” Nathan explains, “is known as the half-naked mile.” He smirks. “Or to some—the brave, those confident in their manhood—it’s known as the naked half mile.”
“You have seven minutes to finish the run,” Brendan chimes in. “If you don’t finish the run in seven minutes, you’re on equipment duty the whole season. There’s no rotation, no trading off. If your ass isn’t across the line in seven minutes, it’s you and anyone else who’s dragging.”
“A seven-minute mile?” one brave, stupid sophomore asks. “Come on, man, that’s nuts.”
“You have a choice.” Nathan shrugs. “I said half-naked mile … or naked half mile.”
We wait for their understanding to set in, but none of them really seem too swift.
Impatient, I step forward to explain. “You do the run in your boxers, you have to run a mile in seven. You go commando, you only owe us two laps around the track. Half mile. Which is plenty easy in seven minutes.”
A senior from South crosses his arms and cocks his head at me. “You’re serious? I’m a senior. I outrank you. This is a joke.”
I flash him a tight-lipped smile. “No, it’s not a joke. It’s an East tradition. You want to play ball at East, you’re a part of the tradition.”
“Whatever. Let’s just get this done so we can go home. I have better shit to do.” Chris Jamison pulls his shirt overhead and tugs off his sweats. He’s undecided about his boxers, I guess waiting to see what everyone else will do, and stops there.
Slowly, following his lead, the rest of the guys do the same. Moving unnaturally slowly, they pull shirts overhead, hop on one foot as they remove pants. Then stand self-consciously before us in their underwear.
They’re in a circle and end up taking a few steps back, turning inward and staring at the last two people in the group, who are still fully clothed.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I wonder if she’s going to cry. Most girls cry so easily. “I’m sorry—is there a problem?”
My words don’t register on her face, which is carved from stone. All but her eyes, which blaze with disdain.
“Come on, Jamie,” Scott says, his voice small. “You can’t possibly ask her to do this, too.”
Scott seems like he’d be an okay guy—friendly and easygoing and shit—if he didn’t live so far up her ass. But he’s making a mistake right now.
“Why can’t I? She wants to play with the boys”—I turn and meet her gaze—“then she needs to be willing to play with the boys.” I shrug. “It’s not like we made this up on her behalf. The naked half mile’s been around a lot longer than she has.”
“This is different,” he protests. He extends his neck, but it does nothing to intimidate me. “It’s not cool and you know it.”
Those eyes of hers are still on fire, but you’d never know it from the chill of her voice when she finally speaks up. “It’s cool, Scott.”
“No, it’s n—”
“Scott, I said it’s cool,” she repeats, cutting him off. And before I know what’s happening, her shirt is off. My eyes widen in shock, but before they even process what they’re seeing, her pants are off, too.
And there stands Eve, in the middle of a group of twenty or so guys, in her underwear. Not surprisingly, it’s not any kind of pink lacy shit. She’s just wearing a black sports bra and red boy shorts. But holy shit. The length of her legs and the muscular curve of her ass and her … Where the hell did those come from? They definitely had not been there during practice.
She looks at me, seething with anger. “What? Haven’t you ever seen a girl in her underwear before?” Her hands go to her hips. “Who knew? Maybe your reputation is as overinflated as your ego.”
A few of the guys behind her start laughing.
My temper flares to life, jaw twitching as I try to keep my rage from showing itself on my face. This is not how this was supposed to go! This was supposed to break her. This was supposed to put her in her place. But she’s standing there, all haughty and shit, even in her underwear, like she’s trying to put me in mine.
She is, far and away, the most aggravating, loathsome female I’ve ever encountered.
“Line up,” I growl. “Scott, get your clothes off.”
He seems just as stunned by Eve’s little striptease as I am and nods robotically as he loses his clothes. He lines up beside her, in shamrock boxers. I shake my head at what a mismatched pair they are. I steal another quick glance at Eve, eyes roaming her body. I bet he’d give anything …
I whirl away from them, agitated. Why the hell am I thinking about this?
Brendan is setting the stopwatch on his phone, so I step back and out of the way. Some of the guys—mostly seniors from South and sophomores from East—have the nerve to lose their boxers at the last second. I don’t really want to see that shit, and my eyes are drawn to the red of Eve’s underwear. I try to tell myself I really don’t want to see that, either. It’s not so easy.
She and Scott jostle for position near the front of the pack. A new look of concentration and concern takes over her features. Unless in addition to being a baseball wunderkind she’s also the next Lolo Jones, she’s going to be hard-pressed to run the full mile in under seven.
“Go!” Brendan bellows, and the pack takes off.
As they run their first lap of the quarter-mile track, all I see is flashes of flesh against white socks, flying appendages—I tell myself I’m only seeing arms and legs—and a spot of angry red in the middle of the pack. They make the turn and sweep by us, creating a
cold breeze in the dark night.
The sprinters lose some momentum on the second lap, especially those who are naked and know they’re almost done, easing across the finish line and making beelines for their pile of clothes before collapsing and panting against the fence. I glance over Brendan’s shoulder at his phone. Three-eighteen down when the first naked runner crosses the line.
A pack of eight remains on the track for the final two laps. Each of them seems to be doing everything in their power to stay near the front, lest they fall behind and out of luck. Eve’s holding her own—she’s not out front, but she’s not bringing up the rear, either. Her buddy Scott is.
Taking another look at Brendan’s watch as they finish their third lap, I decide they’re in decent position to finish under seven, all of them, which is fairly impressive. Eve’s gait doesn’t seem strained; she sort of runs like a deer. She’s just behind the leader going into the fourth lap.
But she breaks her own stride as she passes us, glancing back over her shoulder, looking for Scott. It’s obvious he’s struggling, that he went out too fast, and that his stubby legs are churning and churning but not getting him very far. I look down at the phone again. He’s not gonna finish in time.
One teammate passes Eve. Then another. Then a third. She is not breathing heavily and her face isn’t red—she hasn’t even broken a sweat. Falling back is by choice, purposeful, for Scott’s sake.
I can hear her clear across the track, encouraging him. “Homestretch, MacIntyre. Homestretch now.”
He tries to respond to the motivation, but he’s got nothing left. The timer starts beeping on Brendan’s phone just seconds before they cross the finish line, together. Scott instantly bends forward, mouth open like a fish, gasping for air, while Eve is unaffected. Her hands are back on her hips and she stares into the distance.
Nathan approaches them and claps them on their backs. “Valiant effort. Congrats on equipment duty.”
Brendan flips open the top on the cooler he dragged down to the field with him, which is filled with cold bottles of water and cans of Natty Ice. “Welcome to the team, gentlemen. You’re officially Pirates now.”
