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The rest of the Beacons whooped and cheered in agreement. I let them blow off a little steam with the shouts before bringing them back down to earth. Our exhibition game against the local community college was always fun, but my guys behaved like they were already in the winner's circle.
"Hold on, fellas." I raised my voice to cut through the chatter. "I know you're still riding high from the state championship, but let's not get too cocky. The Walleyes have some serious talent, including some of your former teammates. They know our game."
Coop, our hard-hitting first baseman, glanced at me. "C'mon, Coach, we've been busting our butts in practice. You know that. We've got this one in the bag."
Reaching up, I raked my fingers through my buzzed hair and sighed. "You might think that, but listen to where I'm coming from. I've been in their shoes, wearing that Walleyes uniform. Being the underdog means you fight twice as hard. Trust me, I know."
The dugout fell silent, the air thick with tension as my players exchanged wary glances. The faint scent of sweat and dirt mixed with the distant chatter of the crowd.
"For those of you who had me in history class, remember the Battle of Trenton? On Christmas night, Washington's troops crossed the icy Delaware River, catching the Hessians off guard. I'm not rowing any rivers today, but don't let the Walleyes catch you sleeping." A few of the guys grinned, recognizing the lesson.
I paced up and down in the dugout. "Look, I'm not saying we can't win this." Glancing at them one by one, I added, "But you've gotta know nothing's a sure thing. You've gotta play like you did at state: smart, hard, and as a team. Got it?"
The over-confident prancing was over. In its place, I saw a quiet focus. They listened to me, and I knew they were ready.
As my men emptied the dugout to start their warm-ups, I spotted Maggie Brooks, the aunt of my shortstop, Andy, waving at me from the bleachers. A light smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I jogged over to her.
"Hey, Tyler, a belated congrats on that state championship. Must feel like reliving your high school glory days." Maggie beamed, and she pulled me into a gentle hug. "It's been too long since I've seen you."
"It has." I stepped back and took it all in, head to toe. "What brings you out to the ballpark? Special occasion?"
Maggie nodded toward the field and then waved. I looked just in time to see Andy, my shortstop, waving back as he ran drills with the other infielders.
"Unfortunately, I missed all of the regular season games, mostly 'cause of work, but Andy asked directly about coming out today. I couldn't turn my favorite nephew down. He thinks you've got a tough game."
"I agree." While nodding, my gaze drifted further down the bleachers, where I spotted Ronan Gallagher sitting and staring at the field. I snapped my attention back to Maggie. "Our men are ready for the challenge, though."
She didn't miss my wandering eyes. "I see Blue Harbor's new mystery man is interested in the game."
My cheeks flushed slightly despite my attempt to stay entirely calm. "Yeah, I literally ran into him at the parade. Plowed into him, to be honest."
Maggie raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? I guess that was around the same time he stopped in at the bank. Rumors are already spreading, particularly about his connection with that eccentric great-uncle, Ian."
I leaned in closer. "What kind of rumors? People are talking about him already?"
Before Maggie could respond, my manager called to me from out on the field. I shrugged and tilted my head toward home plate. With a promise to continue the conversation on a future date, I rushed back to the field.
With one quick glance, I looked at Ronan again. Keeping my eyes off him was hard, and I desperately wanted to know more about his story. I told myself my curiosity about him was because of my ongoing interest in the history of Blue Harbor, but in my gut, I wasn't so sure.
For the moment, I had to focus on the game. The players looked at me as a role model and loved to hear me talk about my days as a player.
Our grizzled manager, Skip Lemon, muttered, "Dugout," and I followed him there. We sat on a weathered wooden bench while I listened to the rhythmic thump of baseballs hitting gloves on the field. Skip hunched over a clipboard, preferring to use old-fashioned technology.
"Is it time for the last look at the game plan?" I asked.
He turned his head toward me. "Yeah, we should win this one, but it won't be easy."
Before he could embrace his love for tiny details, I had a few of my own observations. "Torres is their key. His curveball and slider are lethal, but he crumbles under pressure. We need to rattle him early."
"Yeah?" Skip rubbed the gray hairs on his chin.
"Yep, he has a history of folding into a death spiral if he gets rattled early."
Skip tapped his pen on the clipboard. "So… what's your plan to get inside his head?"
"Send Andy out as leadoff batter for a change. He has speed and a great feel for the strike zone. He'll draw a walk more often than striking out. If he gets on, that will put pressure on Torres immediately."
"Not bad, not bad."
