It was the second inning of a baseball game. We were up to bat, and I was sitting on the bench in the dugout. One of my teammates, a guy we all just called Whistler, leaned toward me and asked, “So are you gay or what?”

I turned to look at him and couldn’t determine from the expression on his face what answer he wanted to hear. I didn’t want to get into a discussion unrelated to the game and so I just said, “No, I’m not.”

He asked, “Well, why do you kiss guys then?”

I raced through memories to try and figure out where he would have seen me kiss Ian. I finally settled on our dinner at Satay. Other than my house or Ian’s, the only places I’d kissed guys in the past were Satay with Ian and Andy in a hotel room. I asked, “Why is it important for you to know? Are you looking for a date?”

My questions ended the conversation for the moment, and I hoped it ended the conversation permanently. I turned my attention back to the game and cheered along with the rest of the team when John hit a ground rule double scoring a run that gave us the lead.

He came home scoring another run just minutes later when the batter hit a solid single into the outfield. As John climbed into the dugout, he said, “Now it’s up to the rest of you guys to hold the lead. We can do this.”

He sat next to me on the bench and said, “I don’t know if I’ve said it directly before Blake, but I’m glad you’re on the team. I know this isn’t like the dreams we had in the minors, but it’s still the game.”

I nodded and said, “I appreciate that, John. Thanks. I’m glad to be back in the game.”

I looked up and saw Whistler in the corner of the dugout whispering to another of my teammates. It could have been about anything, but I felt a prickly sensation at the base of my spine. Information was out there, and I didn’t have control over it. It made me feel vulnerable.

My concentration was off during the rest of the game, and I recognized the feeling. It was like the momentary lapses in concentration after I kissed Andy. I did my best to kick it all from my head. I didn’t need another injury to deal with.

In the fifth inning, I managed a double that rolled to the wall. I stared directly at first base to make sure that I didn’t step wrong. I sighed heavily with relief when I tagged third base without incident as well. Maybe I did learn something after the broken leg experience.

The next inning, when our team was at bat, Pete slid in next to me on the bench. He whispered in my ear, “You know, Blake, if you are gay, it’s okay. You don’t need to worry about it.”

I lowered my head into my hands trying to figure out how to respond. I saw the whispers, and it was a safe bet that everyone on the team was now aware of the rumors. I turned to Pete and asked, “Why does it matter? Does who you fuck have anything to do with the game of baseball?”

Pete held up his hands and a few guys turned their heads near us. He said, “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it.” He looked to the other guys and said, “Get back to the game. There’s nothing of importance going on here. We’ve got a game to win.”

I couldn’t keep my mind on the rest of the game. I made two bad errors in the field, and soon the game was out of our reach. It wasn’t completely my responsibility, but I knew that I was off my game. We lost by three runs in the end.

Pete asked after the game if I wanted to go hang out at Balls, and I turned him down. I was suspicious of the motivation and extent of rumors about me floating through the team. It was something I didn’t experience anywhere else before, and it was starting to screw with my head. I decided to climb in my car and head home immediately without hanging around.

As I drove across the city toward home, I thought about Ian. Over the past several days, I successfully put him out of my mind for most of my waking hours, but now he was back. I felt ashamed that I denied being gay. I wanted to tell myself that I didn’t really have a choice, and I was backed into a corner, but I knew that I could have handled it differently.

I tried to support myself on a technicality saying perhaps I was bisexual, but I knew that was just avoiding the truth, too. I didn’t feel a physical attraction to women that remotely approached what I felt for men.

I hoped that Ian would be gardening when I arrived home. Then I could talk to him without having to make a phone call or knock on the door. Maybe I could tell him what happened and he would say it’s a really tough situation and give me a hug. That was probably what I most wanted. I wanted a hug from someone who understood the situation.

Unfortunately, there was no sign of Ian when I pulled into my driveway. His car was gone from his house. His plants were as neat and tidy as always, and mine were starting to wilt and be crowded with weeds. That’s how I felt about my life.

I walked in the house through the kitchen door and stepped into the living room tossing my glove on the couch. I stared at the three cardboard boxes that sat in the middle of the living room for the past week or more. The boxes of photos and old glassware were nearly empty with small piles of crumpled up old newspaper lying around them.

The remaining box that held an old catcher’s mask was still closed up with nothing removed. I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and decided to sit down and dig through the rest of the box.

I pulled out an old bat and an old glove that had very little padding compared with today’s models. Digging a little further down, I found kneepads and old-style uniform socks. I thought about putting up shelves somewhere in the house and displaying my historical baseball objects.

Then I dug clear to the bottom of the box, and I came up with a surprise. Three balls were buried in the very bottom of the box. I pulled them out one by one, and I set them on the coffee table.

I’m not someone who really believes in signs or suggestions from a different power, but it was difficult to look at the coffee table and come up with any other explanation. The three balls lined up together on the coffee table were not baseballs. They were, in fact, softballs.