8th Inning Baseball

8th Inning Baseball

MARP MARP MARP MARP, my alarm cut the sweet sleep that had graced me from consciousness for about 4 hours. The clock reads 4 p.m. that leaves me about 3 hours till I go back to sleep. Guess I can get my stuff done, but then again, what does it matter, nothing really matters. I guess I could at least make something to eat. I drag my limbs from their dormant positions on my bed. 

I’m a little tired of the way that most of what I eat is just microwave junk. How could it go from me making amazing meals diminish to this 60-second rice and microwave chicken that smells nasty? My baseball cap and equipment are still standing in the corner as if it's glaring at me to put it all on and go throw. Wilson, the old bat, I had when I was a kid, still hasn’t been cleaned from when Lindsay hit wiffle balls with it at the diamond behind the elementary school. Funny how all that time kinda doesn’t matter now. She hasn’t messaged me in 2 and a half weeks. Odds are, she hasn’t even thought of me. 

I heard some light beeps over the speaker playing some brain-melting music that I use to dim the head. Food’s done. Lights keep blinking around the microwave to signal me that the garbage that’s heating up is done. Pacing back to my 3 legged folding table that has a massive dent in it, the music stops, and my phone dies. What kind of life am I living?

After the phone was back on after about 10 minutes of charging, the music burst out as if nothing had happened. Another thing dung though, but I’m too hungry to care. 

Ding! I jolted my head up off of my couch and jogged to the portal to the outside world. 

“Hello sir, this is for you.” The delivery man held out a rose and a card. 

“Thanks.” 

I shut the door, completely unaware of my long stubble and greasy shirt, and baggy pants I had on. The man looked me up and down, turned around, and waved goodbye. Blood started pumping and my heart started pounding and I felt like my cheeks were super hot. Though I knew not who this rose and card were from, however, I could guess. The emotion was rare so my limbs were a little jelly as though I was performing standup. Funny how I was like this even though no one's eyes other than mine were there in the room. Following a couple of passes of the rose from hand to hand, I snapped up the card. ‘Figured, it’s probably time to open this up. 

‘Dear CJ, I’m sorry for everything that my family put you through. I’m sorry for the way that I handled things too, I should've spoken up to them like you said. Jobs don’t matter to me at all, your income doesn’t determine how much I love you. Blessings, like you, don’t come up very often. When you said I should’ve done something when they started to lecture you, I was angry and I lashed out at you when I should not have. Anger crept up on me, you were not the one who needed to change what they said, my parents have always been judgemental, but they were always in my life. Even though I care about them immensely, I love you, and they have to accept that. It would be understandable if you don’t want to, but I was thinking, I miss our days out and doing things together. If you have been thinking too, about me, about what happened, meet me at the baseball diamond behind the school tomorrow at 4. Bring Wilson if you want to, I love you. Sincerely, Lindsay.’

Whelp. You could say the ball is in my court now. I definitely miss her. All the thoughts about her, her hazel eyes, her soft hands as we walk down the street or watch the Cubs play together. How in the world could I say no? 

To end the day, I spent more time with my thoughts. Love was a silly feeling, like this shouldn’t be a very debatable choice. It’s essential that I see her, at least talk to her. Plagues of concepts and false realities keep passing through my head. I gotta chill out, my head is the only thing that could make me fail at this point. Falling asleep, my last big thought was about the wiffle ball she broke with Wilson. 

Sizzle sizzle, the eggs in the pan keep firm, the yolks won’t break on my watch. I season them with a bit of salt and a bit of pepper. The common table seasoning shakes and rustles as I wave them back and forth carefully observing that there wasn’t too much or too little. I put the eggs on my nicest and cleanest plate along with a tan piece of toast with a generous amount of butter and 4 links that I had in the microwave, I don’t care though, food is food, especially when you're feeling good. 

The knife ran down the eggs bit by bit and chunks disappeared down my throat. Yellow off the yolk runs nice and gets dunked on by the toast. With pep, I clean off the plate and the utensils, following, I pick out a nice shirt and some athletic pants to put on after my shower and shave. The mop on my head I call hair was hard to style, but it went together alright. 

At about 3, I made a couple of salami sandwiches, Lindsay’s favorite. I deposited them into a backpack, the same backpack that held the equipment for baseball. Racing down the stairs, I mentally recollect and ensure that I have everything. I launch onto my backpack firmly strapped on and zipped down the bike path. The path came out in front of the school where a couple families were still leaving. 

There she was, her long brunette hair, she was in shorts and her favorite athletic tee. 

“To be honest, I really didn’t think you were going to come,” Lindsey shouted to me as I laid my bike up against the dugout. With a little chuckle and smirk, I shouted back.

“You know I wouldn’t miss something like this, another opportunity to flex my absolute 5 star Michigan scholarship offered baseball talent on you.” 

My voice got more sarcastic and quiet as I approached where she sat in the away dugout, opposite of where my bike was set. She brought her glove and threw a baseball at me. Luckily, I knew her well enough to anticipate something like this, so from behind my back, I pulled a gloved hand and caught the ball.

 “I know you far too well, love.” 

“I guess so, love” She blushed a bit. “Let’s play ball.” 

As though we were playing in Wrigley Field itself, she announced after a bit of play, “Bottom of the 9th, full count, Chapman on the mound for the away Yankees, Mrs. Rizzo is down to her last strike in the 3-3 affair.” I gave her a little glance, one with a snicker. I was about to throw her favorite pitch, the 2 seamer, low and inside on her left-handed side. Releasing the ball, I saw her eyes light up and she reared up to swing, the ball was crushed. She shot it outside of the fence and acted as though she was the crowd of the game and cheered. Of course, I played along. Celebrating, she gloated a bit,   

“That’s another Chapman moment!” 

Playing along, in a defeated tone, “how could I give up something like that!?” After crossing home plate she walked up to the mound where I stood. 

“I missed these moments, my parents don’t know anything about you. I love you.” Her head wound up in my chest as her arms wrapped around me. I held onto her and whispered,

 “I love you too.” Walking away with my arm around her shoulder, I asked, “want ice cream?” 

“Of course.”

We rode away on the moonlit road to a little ice cream parlor that by some miracle we caught open. 

The End.