Page 83 of The Way We Swing Back

Next batter, same result. Strikeout, this time on five pitches. Two down.

I looked out toward center field. Jake jumped up and down, smacking his glove with his right hand, the sound there but unheard.

I took a breath and spun to Gavin.

One finger down. Fastball.

I wound up... and spiked it into the dirt. Ball one.

Then another fastball, another miss. Ball two.

Gavin stood and stepped in front of the plate. “You and me, Easton. Just you and me playing catch,” he called as he pounded his mitt. We’d done it so many times—just hitting each other in the glove, throw after throw—but none more painfully than two years ago under a bundle of trees one hundred yards away.

His voice steadied me now like it did that day.

He tossed the ball back. Then: four fingers down and a wiggle. Changeup.

I wanted the fastball. But I trusted Gavin. I’d trusted him since the first day I’d met him, when he’d invited me over to the Quinns’ house.

The ball pushed deep into my palm, my thumb and pointer finger making a circle.

Left foot back.

Pivot foot in the hole.

Rotate, lift the left knee up.

Extend both arms.

And throw it like a fastball.

I threw it right where Gavin wanted it, low and away. The hitter swung too early, exactly as Gavin had known he would, but managed to make contact.

The ball rolled to short. Was it too slow?

Zach charged and fielded it clean. There was no smirk now, only focus. He threw on the run, never coming set, the whip of his arm across his body so sure.

I quit breathing. The ball sailed past me across the infield, and I begged it to get there in time.

The ball reached the glove. The runner got there two steps later. I didn’t hear the ump; I just saw his right arm go up.

I exploded into the air, my arms extended high. I turned to Gavin, ready to celebrate. I didn’t have time to process a blob of red catcher’s gear and blond hair running at me, his mask spiked into the ground. He tackled me to the grass, his arms wrapped around my entire body. Zach got to us next, then Joe. The dog pile started, and I was pressed into the dirt, breathless.

I’d never felt more alive—perfect game, state title, clean slate. I had finally become someone I believed in.

Finally, the dog pile broke, and I found a way to breathe again, but only for a second.

Four arms wrapped around me, and two voices shouted, both trying to be louder than the other.

“THAT’S HOW WE DO IT,” Gavin said from my right.

On my left, Jake said, “PERFECT GAME, YOU BADASS.”

I shoved them both away from me, laughing, my skin still tingling. “Go celebrate with everyone else. We’ll talk later.”

The two of them sprinted toward the crowd, arms shot up high into the air, neither making any sense. Didn’t matter today, though.

I made my way to the two men who’d helped get me here. The guys who’d protected me, pushed me, saw me.