It Was Me

by Anna Cruise

  I grabbed the carton of orange juice and filled my glass. “Barely.”

  “Brave man, working out in the heat.”

  “It wasn't that bad,” I said. “I didn't go that hard.”

  “Why anyone would run unless they are being chased is beyond me,” Abby's mother said.

  I laughed and swallowed down the orange juice.

  Abby passed me the plate of bagels but she seemed different than before my shower. Quiet. Nervous. I smiled at her, trying to get a response, but she looked away.

  And then I realized all of them were quiet.

  I wasn't being paranoid.

  Mr. and Mrs. Sellers were looking at Abby, waiting on her.

  I just wasn't sure for what.

  So I waited, too. I coated my bagel with cream cheese and stayed quiet.

  Abby finally let out a long, loud sigh. “Alright. So don't get pissed at me.”

  I looked at her parents, then at her. “I'm assuming you're talking to me?”

  She frowned, then nodded. “Yes. I'm talking to you.”

  I shoved one half of the bagel in my mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Okay. Why shouldn't I be pissed at you?”

  “That isn't a promise.”

  “You're right. It's not. Why shouldn't I be pissed at you?”

  She looked at both of her parents. Her mother looked a little nervous but her father appeared more amused than anything.

  Abby started to say something, then she stood and left the room.

  I looked at her parents. “I don't get it.”

  Her dad held up a finger, indicating I should wait.

  Abby returned.

  With a baseball glove, a baseball bat and a duffel bag that appeared to be full.

  She set them on her chair. “These are for you.”

  I stared at them. “For me? I've got stuff.”

  “Not with you,” she said. “I think you should go to the tryout today. So when my mom and I went to the store, we also stopped at the sporting goods place.” She gestured at the bag. “There are cleats and socks and batting gloves in there. And a Padres hat. I figured you needed a hat, too.”

  “And pants,” her mother said. “She bought you those white baseball pants, too.”

  “Oh,” was all I could manage.

  “I think you should, too, West,” her dad chimed in. “There's no harm in it. But something good could come from it. You never know.”

  I nodded slowly, trying to steady my breathing.

  “I know you said you'd think about it,” Abby said, her hands gripping the back of the chair. “But you don't have time to think about it. It's today. And if you don't want to, that's fine. I can take all this back. But I just...if you wanted to do it, I wanted you to be able to.”

  It was like I could feel the fuse attached to my skull and it was doing a slow burn.

  “So you can't be mad at me,” she said. “Please don't be mad.”

  I set my napkin on the table and glanced at her parents. “Excuse me.”

  I pushed back from the table, stood and walked through the living room toward the front door. I pulled it closed behind me, barely noticing the heat, shaking my head. I was ten steps beyond it when I heard it open and then close again.

  “You can't be mad at me,” Abby said.

  “The fuck I can't.”

  “West. Stop.”

  But I didn't. I kept walking. I heard her sandals clacking against the pavement until she was next to me.

  “Fine. I'll take it all back.”

  “Hope you still have the receipt.”

  “I do. I knew you might get pissed.”

  I came to a stop. “Then why the fuck did you tell me not to be?”

  “Because I don't want you to be mad,” she said. “But I think this is an opportunity. For you. And for us.”

  “How the hell is it for us?”

  She held up her hand telling me to slow down. “One thing at a time. You're jumping ahead again.”

  “I'm jumping ahead again?” I said. “I am? I told you I'd think about it and the next thing I know, you're outfitting me like some Little Leaguer!”

  “Well, I knew you'd need stuff!”

  “That's not the point!”

  “So what's the point?” she yelled back at me. “That you're afraid? Because I think that's the only point there is right now!”

  I started to say something, then stopped. Then I started walking again.

  She chased after me. “I'm right, aren't I? You're afraid. You haven't played in over a year. And you got your dream yanked out from under you. You're afraid of failing and you're afraid of having it taken away from you again.”

  I didn't say anything again, just kept walking.

  “Well, newsflash, West,” she said, breathing heavy, trying to keep up with me. “Everyone is afraid of those things. Everyone. You aren't the only one. And if you need me to spit out a bunch of corny cliches about trying and failing and all that crap, I will. But you're smarter than that. So quit being a baby.”

  I slowed my pace, her words digging into me like tiny razor blades. I came to a stop.

  Abby stopped next to me. She stared at me, then shook her head, pushing her hair off her now sweaty forehead. “I mean, it's a tryout. You aren't signing your life away to anyone right now. You can always say no. But I don't get why you're being so stubborn about it.”

  I stubbed my flip-flop against the ground. “And what if no one wants to offer me the chance to sign my life away?”

  She sighed and reached for my hand. “It's alright to be a little afraid. It really is.”

  “I don't think afraid is the right word,” I said. “I'm not sure what the right word is.”

  “Whatever it is, I don't think it suits you,” she said, squeezing my fingers. “And no matter what you tell me, you won't be able to convince me that you don't still think about playing. I know that's why you got the job at the academy. I know that's why the TV is always tuned to a game. You can't fool me, West. I know it's still there.” She touched my chest lightly with her hand. “I know it's still in there.”

  I covered her hand with mine. She was right, of course. It was still there. And I wasn't sure what the word was, but I didn't think I could stand the idea of having it all taken away from me again. I wasn't afraid of it, but I wasn't sure I could deal with it again. And that didn't even begin to address what it would be like if I did go play somewhere other than San Diego.

  Somewhere without Abby.

  “If you don't want me to come, I won't,” she said. “My dad can take you.” She laughed. “I'm not sure we could keep him away, anyway. But if my being there is a problem, I won't go.” She pressed her hand harder against my chest. “But I want you to do this. For you. And if it doesn't go well, then oh well. At least you tried. I'll take the blame.”

  I shook my head. “I wouldn't blame you.”

  “You can.”

  “I wouldn't. That's not it at all.”

  “So go do it,” she said, her eyes wide, her smile full of something I couldn't put my finger on. Maybe sympathy? I wasn't sure. “Let's see what happens. We'll deal with whatever happens afterward. When it's time to deal with it. But West?”

  I looked at her.

  “I'm not going anywhere,” she said. “I swear. Nowhere. I don't care if you have to go play on the moon. I would find a way to get to you.”

  I laughed softly, folded my fingers into hers. “It's impossible to play baseball on the moon.”

  She smiled at me, raised up on her toes and kissed me. “But not in Arizona. You can play baseball in Arizona. Today.”

  It was amazing how quickly a kiss from her could set me at ease. I'd never experienced that before, not with anyone else. It was like there was magic dust on her lips that instantly calmed me down.

  “I've never thought about my future before,” I said. “I've never given it a thought. But now? When I think about what I'll be doing in a year or in five years? It always involves you. And I don't wan
t to screw that up. With anything.”

  She smiled. “Don't worry about things you don't have to worry about yet. We'll figure it out. I promise.”

  I nodded, let out a deep breath. “Alright. We should head back inside.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can see what kind of crappy gear I'm gonna have to use today.”

  EIGHT

  The glove fit my hand decently and the bat was exactly the size and weight I used. Turned out that her dad gave her some info on what to look for before she and her mom left the casita. He'd guessed pretty well. The cleats were fine for a tryout and the pants fit the way they should've. As I dressed, though, it felt like I was getting dressed for my first game. It was a strange feeling that I couldn't exactly describe, other than that I felt awkward, like one of those actors who play a baseball player in a movie but you can immediately tell that they've never held a bat or thrown a ball in their life.

  Abby's dad drove and she rode up front with him. I was stretched out in the back of the SUV. Her mom elected to stay behind, wishing me good luck, still wearing an expression that seemed to say she was worried that her father and daughter were pushing me into doing something I wasn't sure that I wanted to do. I may not have been sure that I wanted to do it, but they hadn't talked me into it. If I really hadn't wanted to go, I would've put up a bigger fight. Abby, like always, seemed to know me better than I knew myself. She knew I'd go before I knew I'd go.

  I stared out the window as we approached the city. The entire city of Tucson had the feel of a much smaller college town. Every store and every business seemed adorned with the University of Arizona colors and logos. Bike racks were everywhere. And every road seemed to lead toward the sprawling university campus. The massive football stadium was visible from nearly everywhere and grew larger as we got closer to the school.

  The tryout was at Hi-Corbett field, the old minor league stadium that the university had recently taken over and renovated for their baseball program. The Padres minor league affiliate played at a smaller, older stadium on the other side of town that apparently wasn't even sufficient enough to hold a tryout at. Mr. Sellers followed the signs toward the stadium and the butterflies in my gut suddenly turned into small pigeons.

  He pulled the SUV into an already crowded parking lot adjacent to the field and cut the engine. He twisted around in his seat. “You alright?”

  “I'm alright, yeah.”

  Abby turned around, too. “You want us to watch? Or come back and pick you up?”

  “No. Stay.”

  Her father looked relieved.

  We got out of the car. Steel spikes clicked against the asphalt as other guys walked past in the lot, headed toward the field, bags slung over their shoulders, caps pulled tight on their heads, serious expressions on their faces. I saw a range of ages, but most looked in their early to mid-twenties, guys who wanted one more shot.

  Or maybe, guys who'd never gotten one. Like me.

  I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked between Abby and her dad as we headed toward the stadium. Abby didn't try to hold my hand. I think she sensed my anxiety and was trying to give me space.

  We found the sign-in table and I filled out the three page release. It asked for personal information, plus my baseball experience. I had to explain why I was under scholarship to Stanford, then released from the scholarship. It didn't help settle my nerves in any way.

  I turned in the clipboard to the two guys at the table and they gave me a number to pin to the back of my T-shirt. They pointed me toward the entrance to the field and said I had about fifteen minutes until we got started.

  Abby took the number from me and spun me around. “Do you hate me right now?”

  “Never.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Abs, I told you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be here.”

  “I guess.” She tugged on my shirt, then turned me back around. “But I know I can be pretty persuasive.”

  “You can,” I told her. “But this is my thing.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “I need to go get loose,” I said. “Wish me luck.”

  She squeezed my elbow, then stretched up and kissed me. “You don't need luck. You'll be great. But however you are, I'll love you when you're done.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Love you, too.”

  I watched her head into the stands, then found the gate to the field and stepped out onto the grass. I set my bag next to the fence, pulled the glove out of the bag and found another guy without a partner who wanted to throw a little bit. We set ourselves parallel to the first baseline in the outfield and tossed the ball back and forth. My shoulder was already loose from the morning run and the heat and the throwing was easy. My partner seemed a bit unsure with his glove and had a goofy hitch in his throwing motion.

  At least I knew I was better than one other guy there.

  After a few minutes, he begged off, saying he wanted to do some jogging. I tossed the glove against my bag and sat down, stretching my legs out, making sure nothing was tight in my legs or back. I spotted Abby and her dad up in the stands. They were having a conversation and not looking my way. I turned my eyes back to the field. Guys were tossing the ball back and forth, sprinting the foul lines, taking imaginary cuts with their bats. It was impossible to tell who was legit and who was not.

  A guy strode out to home plate and hollered for us to bring it in. A couple of eager beavers sprinted toward him, probably hoping their hustle and enthusiasm would help them stand out. It did, but only in a way that made other guys roll their eyes. The guy at home was dressed in khakis and a golf shirt, his hair was buzzed short and he looked like a baseball player that had aged gracefully. He didn't smile much and he was blunt.

  “There's a good chance all of you will go home today and never hear from any of us again,” he said, his eyes scanning all of us. “That's just the reality. If any team is interested, they'll contact you. I'd suggest not contacting them unless you want to make sure you never hear from any team ever again.”

  Snickers snaked through the crowd.

  “We're going to rotate you through stations,” he said. “Pretty routine stuff. We'll get you divided into groups in just a moment and then we'll get started. I'd say it'll take us two to three hours to get through everyone. Any questions?”

  There weren't and he waved over several coaches or scouts or whoever they were and started dividing us up into groups. The group I was placed in was set up to run the bases first. They would time us twice, once going up the line to first, then again going all the way around the bases. I was glad this was my first station. I was fast, I was warmed up, and it was pretty hard to screw up running the bases.

  Unless, like the first guy in our group, you trip over first base and go ass over hat into the grass. The guys ahead of me in line laughed as the guy trotted back to the line, his chest covered in dirt and his upper lip dotted with blood.

  “Shit,” he muttered as he took his place back in line behind me, as I would be last to go.

  “Don't worry,” I said to him over my shoulder. “If your time was good, it won't matter.”

  “It wasn't good,” he said, shaking his head and touching his lip. “I'm slower than shit.”

  “Go wide from here then,” I said. “On your way to first. Cut down the angle to second and just hit that inside corner and push off. It'll help.”

  “Thanks,” he said, nodding. “Thanks.”

  The guy ahead of me took off and I took a deep breath, shook out my shoulders and arms and stood at home. I got ready and when the guy gave me the signal, I took off. My body felt light going up the line and I was pretty sure I was fastest in my group when my foot thumped first and I turned outward into foul territory. I heard the stop watches click and watched as the scouts scribbled on their clipboards as I jogged back to the line. I had no clue what they were writing.

  I watched as the guy behind me did as I told him, running wide to first and taking a good ang
le to second and the rest of the bases. He was right. He wasn't fast. But at least he looked like he knew how to run the bases rather than just fall down in a cloud of dirt.

  He came up behind me in line, huffing and puffing. “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks, man. Really. I'm still slow but at least I didn't eat shit that time.”

  “That's a good motto for life, dude.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. Guess so.”

  My turn came and I ran the bases with ease. It didn't feel like baseball. It just felt like running in a square. Again, I was pretty sure I got around the quickest. Not because the scouts were looking my way, but because the other guys in my group were now watching me. I had a target on my chest.

  And I was fine with that.

  They worked us through more stations. Throwing from the outfield. Taking infield. Calling out situations, letting us decide where the ball needed to go. Then they took a few minutes to set up the screen in front of the mound so they could throw to us and we could hit.

  I stood next to my bag at the fence and sucked down one of the bottles of water I'd brought. My shirt clung to my chest with sweat and my hair beneath my cap was soaked. I'd played well so far. No mistakes and I didn't see anyone who threw as well as I did from the outfield. I felt more eyes on me, both the other guys trying out and the scouts that ringed the field and were sitting in the stands. I didn't think it was my imagination.