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Three more outs and the game would be over. Ethan would have pitched a complete game shutout.
He was upset about Chase Turner leaving the team. Moody when Manny Fernandez got kicked off the team. But he was having a killer year despite the changes. He had adjusted well and kicked ass.
It was his best year ever.
An All-star year.
The best friend in me scoured the sports channels hoping his name got mentioned for the All-star team. He deserved it. He hadn’t been invited yet in his short career but this year was his best chance.
When we were growing up, he used to hit balled up wrapping paper with leftover wrapping paper rolls all over our houses. Even though baseball doesn’t have cheerleaders, I would tell him I would always be his cheerleader. I would make up cheers and yell,“Go Ethan, you’re the best. And my best friend. Yay.”
Sometimes I would be the announcer and call the play-by-play while he threw the paper around. But he didn’t like my calls that much.
“Ethan Jones up to bat. He kinda sucks at paper ball, but we are hoping for the best. Here’s the pitch. He swings and misses. Again. What a loser!”
Usually, he ended up chasing me around with the roll of wrapping paper.“I thought you were my cheerleader?”
“I am… when I am a cheerleader. That time you wanted me to be the announcer. And announcers call it like they see it!”
At some point, I was no longer the announcer and just his permanent cheerleader. Which suited me just fine. I took that role seriously.
And that is exactly why I hadn’t moved a muscle since the 7th inning when Ethan went back on the field and got three more outs. I realized then that he could end the game himself. With no help from the bullpen. It would most likely solidify his All-star chances.
Not to mention, my years spent in Atlanta had made me a huge Kings fan. I wanted them to win forme,too.
All I had to do was stay in that exact position or I would jinx him and the team.
Even though I had to pee.
Even though my muscles were cramping in my left leg.
Even though I had sweat dripping into my eyes.
I was stock still.
And if he didn’t hurry up and throw the dang ball, I was going to kick his ass.
“Strike three,” the ump yelled.
Yes. Keep throwing the pitches, Ethan. End the game so I can move.
The next hitter grounded out to shortstop. An easy out.
Ok. Sweet. Throw another pitch, Ethan. God, I need to pee.
The first pitch to the next batter was foul and coming down my way. Everyone started to yell, “Look out,” but I didn’t move. It would just have to knock me out—which sounded like bliss at that point. Luckily, it landed two rows behind me.
The next pitch was strike two.
Yes! I was about to be able to move, to pee, to get out of this hot sun.
But instead of throwing another pitch, Ethan stepped off the mound and looked around. Then he dried his hands on his pants. Then he asked the catcher for new signs. Then he walked back off the mound. He drew something in the dirt. He got back on the mound. He asked for more signs. He called timeout.
That damn bastard.
He was doing it on purpose. I would bet my life on it.
I squinted my eyes and hoped like hell he could see my “mad face” from where he stood. He was talking something over with the catcher during the timeout. I bet he was saying, “Every day I find new ways to make Madison crazy.”
