Page 31 of The Way We Swing Back

I pictured myself in the batter’s box, the crowd buzzing around me, every eye on my frame instead of my shoulder—judging my swing, my form, and my speed. I swung, and the ball sailed past the infield, skipping over the grass into the outfield. I ran, every muscle remembering the motion it hadn’t performed in months.

I imagined a Cardinals scout leaning against the railing, notebook in hand, watching my every swing, my every step. Would he view me as done? As damaged goods? I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. I wanted to yell, to push the walls apart and make someone—anyone—realize I still had it.

Then reality hit. My shoulder twinged, a dull ache reminding me I wasn’t allowed to throw or hit. My hands clenched around the armrest of the couch, my nails digging into the fabric. It wasn’t fair. Not when every loss dug deeper than it would have if I were on the field, instead of being useless in the dugout.

I sank deeper into the couch, letting my shoulders slump. Gavin’s progress in algebra, the girl in the kitchen, even Zach’s sideways glances—it all faded away.

I closed my eyes and swung again, remembering the 2-1 hanging curve I’d smacked to the fence in the state semifinals last year. The one I could still feel in my hands when the barrel found the ball. The sound of the crowd when I pulled into second.

And for the first time in months, the ache in my shoulder didn't feel like an ending. It felt like a countdown. One day the arm would be mine again. One day I'd swing for real.

I didn't trust the feeling. I'd learned not to. But I let myself hold it anyway, just for tonight.

Chapter 15

“Does it look any better on paper?” I asked, dropping into the chair on the opposite side of Coach Berrios’s desk. His office sat right inside one of the school doors. The dingy lights of his office made it resemble a classroom, which I guessed made sense.

Coach looked up, hat still on, a wad of chewing tobacco tucked behind his lip. The smell drifted over to me; it was illegal in high school baseball, but what the umps didn’t see, Coach Berrios was going to do.

“Not in the slightest,” Coach said, putting the book in front of him.

We had lost again; Gavin, back to being eligible, couldn’t connect with the ball, my shoulder—even though it was better—still ached with soreness, and we didn’t have a single senior on the field.

I nodded, making eye contact with the desk. “I’m ready to hit.”

“No, you aren’t, Easton,” Coach sighed, his fingers moving through his goatee.

“I can do it,” I said, standing up from the chair and pacing the floor. “We’re getting our asses kicked. You need my bat, and I need to play.”

“You’re still hurt.”

“I’m fine. Hitting won’t damage me more than I am. I can manage.”

Coach closed his eyes, his breathing steadying. “Have you ever seen The Mighty Ducks? As in the movie, not that slop they made into a TV show.”

I turned back toward him, my face scrunching at the question, remembering watching it for the first time with the Quinns last summer. “Yes?”

“Coach Bombay had the right idea in the third movie with Banks,” Coach Berrios said, standing and walking toward a bat leaned against the back corner. He picked it up, rolling the barrel with his fingers before grabbing it firmly.

Mighty Ducks was a hockey movie, and I’m pretty sure he was talking about the second movie. But I knew better than to argue when I was trying to get back on the field.

He walked toward me, the handle of the bat now inches from my waist. “Grab the bat and hold it at shoulder height. If you hold it there for a minute, you can be our designated hitter for the rest of the year.”

I grabbed the handle, determined to prove him wrong. The bat was parallel to my shoulder in a second, but a numbing pain shot from my fingers to my neck.

I stared forward, biting my lip to move the pain anywhere but my shoulder. Sweat rolled down my face; I stared at the clock on the wall; the second hand moved slower than it did in English class. The bat started to waver in my hand before twenty seconds were up, but I wasn’t going to fail.

Coach Berrios reached out before we reached thirty, pushing the bat downwards and pulling it out of my hand. “There’s no way I can let you play right now,” he said, his voice soft.

“I have to,” I choked. I wasn’t sure what caused it—not being able to play this game, the pain in my shoulder, losing so freaking much, or remembering Dad was getting out of jail soon—but the tears started to flow fast and hot, like I’d lost control of everything.

Coach jumped up on his desk, taking a seat and staring at me. He didn’t try to hug me like so many people would have. I was overreacting, mimicking a kid who hadn’t gotten his way and wasn’t able to explain why he was so mad.

“I’ve had at most five players in my career as talented as you, Easton,” he said, as I started to regain my composure. “If we get you healthy, you can play in college. You have a shot at playing past that, even. Pushing through an injury is going to make it so none of that will ever happen.”

“Not fucking good enough to win you a state title last year,” I said, the memory of Coach Berrios watching me run by him after I made the final out sprinting into my brain.

“Is that why you’re so mad? Team sport. You played great in that game.”