The past few weeks have been tough on Brady. He’s pitching again. But he’s not pitching particularly well. He was so looking forward to being out on the mound again, but now it’s almost like he dreads it. He’s lost his confidence.
I think he expected to jump right back in where he left off and be at the top of his game. When that didn’t happen immediately, it messed him up. The team is giving him some latitude because they know it takes time, but even after only a few weeks, he tells me he can feel his manager’s confidence waning as well.
It kills me to see him like this. I go to as many games as I can. I take Stryker with me a lot. He loves to watch baseball. He wears the glove Brady gave him. Keeton’s glove. Someday we’ll tell him where it came from.
Brady always looks up at me when he’s walking to the mound. Sometimes he looks at me between pitches, especially when he seems to be getting frustrated. I just wish there was something I could do to calm him down. He’s always telling me that when he thinks too much about pitching, it messes him up.
The past few weeks have been tough on me, too. Since he’s back playing, I haven’t gotten to see him much. Especially since he’s done with physical therapy. While it’s true that players get some sort of PT on a daily basis, they don’t go outside the organization for that day-to-day stuff.
It’s plain and simple. I miss him.
Today is Saturday and Stryker and I are getting our Hawks shirts on. Murphy and Lexi are coming by shortly and we’re going to the first game of their double-header together.
Stryker already has his baseball glove on. “I’m gonna play baseball like Bwady,” he says.
He stopped calling Brady ‘baseball man’ when Brady started spending more time with him. Ever since we got back from Lincoln, Brady has made it a point to eat with us—both of us—whenever he can. And he’s gotten creative about it, even coming for breakfast when he’s in town since he knows Stryker will be in bed by the time he stops by after his games. Sometimes he spends the night and then gets dressed before Stryker wakes up, pretending he’s just shown up for breakfast. I love those nights. Nights when I can lie in his arms and dream about the possibility of a future with him.
He asked me to marry him. Marry him. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. And Brady hasn’t let me forget. He brings it up almost every time we’re together. “Marry me yet?” he says. And I give him my standard answer. “Not yet.”
I get down on my knees in front of my son. “Do you like Brady?” I ask. “He wants to spend more time with us, would that be okay?”
He nods emphatically. “Bwady helps me play baseball.”
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?”
I know Stryker understands the basic concept of a daddy, but he never asks me about it. I guess because he has a nanny and isn’t in a daycare setting, he’s not seeing men pick their kids up and then questioning me about it. Occasionally when we read books that talk about fathers, he will ask a question or two, but sometimes I think he believes kids either have a mommy or a daddy, but not both.
The doorbell rings and I let Lexi and Murphy in. They both high-five Stryker and then he tells them a knock-knock joke.
His joke is silly and juvenile and it makes us all laugh. It also gives me an idea. “We need to stop at the corner market along the way,” I announce.
I put my Hawks ball cap on and give Stryker his and we go on our way.
When we get to the stadium and find our seats next to the first-base dugout, I pull out the thick black marker and the poster boards I bought and get started on my project. I hope Brady doesn’t get mad. But in my defense, he only said he didn’t want me holding up ‘I love you’ signs.
Brady looks up at me when he heads to the mound. I give him a thumbs-up and Stryker yells, “Go Bwady!”
Brady winks at Stryker and then looks over at Caden, who’s his catcher. The first two batters fly out to center field. The third batter hits a ground ball and gets thrown out at first. The fans go crazy. But Brady isn’t happy. All three batters got a piece of him. He’s not going to be happy until he strikes out every last player on the team.
When the Hawks are up and Caden comes up to bat, Murphy grabs my elbow. She still gets nervous every time he steps up to hit. We all yell and scream when he hits a double.
Sawyer comes up next. He gets a few strikes on him and then hits a good dinger over the head of the second-baseman to bring Caden home. It’s so much fun to watch Sawyer on base. He steals more bases than anyone in the league and everyone knows it. It’s a game between him and the pitcher—will the pitcher throw him out or will Sawyer add another stolen base to his impeccable record? Luckily, Sawyer wins that game most of the time. In fact, we’re all on our feet cheering when the next pitch gets past the catcher and Sawyer steals home.
Brady doesn’t get to hit because the next few guys get out and he’s pretty far down in the lineup. Hitting is not Brady’s strong suit. Whereas Caden is one of the best batters on the team, Brady is considered average. They didn’t hire him because of his hitting ability. And that’s the problem. They won’t keep him because of his hitting ability either. If Brady doesn’t prove himself on the mound, there will be no reason for him to play.
The second inning is more of the same. Brady gets the ball over the plate well enough, but balls are being hit to the outfield and the other team scores a run. I can tell how frustrated he is when he goes back into the dugout.
When he comes out to pitch the third inning, I decide it’s time to hold up the sign. I turn around and apologize to the fans behind me and then I hold up the large white poster board over my head. It reads: KNOCK KNOCK.
As usual, he glances over at me on his way from the dugout. He looks confused, however, when he sees me holding the sign. He looks away and then the batter comes up to the plate. He throws a strike, but then throws four balls and walks the batter.
I hold up the sign again, hoping he’ll look over. He does. I stare him down until he mouths the words, “Who’s there?”
I smile and change the poster to a new one. This one says: EUROPE.
The second batter comes up and the first pitch is a strike. Then Brady throws three balls. He’s frustrated. Caden calls time and approaches the mound. Brady looks over at me and I hold up the EUROPE sign again. I stare him down until he acquiesces.
“Europe who?” he mouths, reluctantly.
I switch to the last sign and hold it high over my head. It reads: NO – YOU’RE A POO.
He reads it and then shakes his head. I can’t see his eyes under the bill of his hat, but I’d guess he’s rolling them at me right now. Brady and Caden share a few words and then Caden walks back behind the plate. Brady glances over at me and the left side of his mouth turns upward into a half smile.
Then he throws two strikes in a row and the umpire calls the batter out.
The third batter gets two fastballs right up the middle and then a curve ball on the inside. He never stood a chance.
Brady tips his hat at me before walking back into the dugout.
He doesn’t look at me much for the rest of the game, but when he does, he’s laughing. And he has the best game he’s had since he came back.
Hours later, when he comes to my apartment after the second game, he picks me up and carries me back to my bed. He lays me down and crawls on top of me, hovering over me. “What made you do that?” he asks.
“I guess it was a combination of things. You mentioning the signs and then Stryker told a joke earlier today.”
“I never said anything to you? Maybe talked in my sleep?”
“About what?” I ask.
He laughs. “You know I hate those girls who hold up the stupid ‘I love you’ signs, but I’ve often thought I’d like it better if they held up a sign with a joke on it.”
“Really?”
“It’s like you read my mind, Ry. And it worked.”
“It wasn’t the sign, Brady. It was all you. You just needed to stop thinking about pitching for a minute.”
“I did, you know. I kept thinking about that stupid joke every time I looked at you.” He leans down to kiss me. “God, I love how much you get me. Marry me yet?”
“Not yet,” I say, smiling.