Page 67 of Sterling Touch
“Jesus,” Clint mutters under his breath while shaking his head as the opposing team hits a single.
“Henry,” I snap, turning toward the stands and leveling him with a shut-the-fuck-up glare. He’s one more shout from being kicked out of this game and I’d love nothing more. Mr. Stanton clearly needs a reminder of our zero tolerance for negative taunts. Banning him from our sidelines would give me great pleasure.
Instead, my focus returns to Hudson.
When he walks a kid after four thrown balls and then hits a kid in the ankle on an attempted curveball, also walking him, the bases are loaded. The next hit is a grand slam, and our opponent scores four runs. Sensing Hudson’s discouragement, Clint approaches the mound, giving him a pep talk and the option to sit out. But somehow Clint always finds the right words to keep a kid in the game and Hudson buckles down. When he eventually gets us out of the inning, his shoulders slump and his head is lowered as he nears the dugout.
“I suck,” he mutters, entering the fenced in area and tossing his mitt at the cage around the dugout before throwing himself onto the end of the bench.
“Hey,” I counter, hoping to catch Hudson’s attention. I don’t like to see any kid down on himself. Typically, Clint is good cop to my bad cop, so to speak. He’s comfort and encouragement while I’m more about instruction and discipline. With a quick glance toward the stands, I see Vale staring at the back of Hudson’s head, concern etched between her brows.
Sometimes we let the kids stew; other times we intervene. It isn’t unheard of for a parent to step forward and speak to their child. In this case, I feel the need to say something positive, and I take a step toward Hudson inside the dugout just as I see Stone round the short set of bleachers. This is a public field,and most parents bring their own chairs or blankets to sit along the edge of the baselines and watch their kids, but a wooden set of three risers sits behind the first baseline. I hadn’t noticed Stone standing next to it.
Our eyes catch a second before he quickly looks away, glancing down at his sulking nephew, and I’m caught in this weird quandary. Do I step forward? Do I step back? Stone freezes in position as well, before glancing up and giving me a short, sharp nod. If anyone respects the dynamics of coach and player, it’s Stone. He doesn’t step back but he also doesn’t move forward. Instead, I move.
“Hey,” I mutter again quietly, crouching in front of Hudson, attempting to draw his gaze away from his lap where he’s aggressively twiddling his thumbs.
I’m not one to coddle kids. Baseball is a game. The object is to hit a ball and outrun your opponent. My competitive spirit enjoys the thrill. But I also remember the pressure I’d put on myself when I was young. The way I saw every bad situation as a personal failure. A missed hit when I played baseball as a kid. A missed catch or tackle when I played professional football.
“We’re still in our early games,” I remind him. “We’re all a little rusty.” Despite skills practice and team scrimmages for weeks, we still haven’t figured out who fits best where and that’s the challenge of our level. This is a time for kids to explore different field positions and their feelings about the game. Our hope is these kids love baseball enough to continue to play in high school and pursue the sport in college.
As the recipient of a football scholarship, I appreciate the benefits of being a student athlete. My parents were grateful as well.
“Dust off the rust. Steel underneath.” I tap the side of my fist on his knee, reminding him of our team’s motto. A metaphor for scraping off the bad stuff and finding strengthwithin yourself. I’d like to take credit for the slogan but it’s all Clint.
Hudson weakly nods, signaling he hears me, even if he’s still struggling.
“I see you applying what we taught you about the four-seam fast ball. You had some good throws.”
“My curveball stunk.”
“So, we work on that in practice.”
Hudson purses his lips tight and moves them side to side before slowly nodding. He’s a good kid, great team player, and a natural leader. He’ll get where he needs to be, both physically in the game, and mentally.
“One minute,” I state, standing to give him time to regroup on his own. The initiative is something Clint wanted to instill for mental health reasons, asking kids to count down from sixty to settle their emotions. We had an incident two years ago with a kid who angered easily, throwing tantrums, and baseball bats, and having crying fits with every failure. Clint feared for the kid’s mental stability in competitive sports and read up on ways high schools and colleges were practicing mental health checks among athletes.
I hiss as I stand, feeling a familiar ache in my knee as it cracks. Immediately, I notice Stone has stepped back to his spot near the bleachers. The ache in my knee is a reminder of all I had, and all he gave up. The thought has my gaze seeking Vale, who is still watching Hudson. With a tip of my chin, I convey that Hudson will be okay. He’s strong, like his mom, and he’ll build the armor he needs to handle sports at this level.
Returning to my position beside Clint, he mutters, without looking in my direction. “He okay?”
“He will be.”
Clint nods once, squinting in the direction of Kennedy Archer up at bat. The girl has a nice swing. Too bad she can’t stay in our league after she turns twelve, although we’verecently learned a Women’s Baseball League is opening and the hope for a professional league will open avenues for younger girls.
“What’d you say to him?” A hint of fear laces Clint’s question, like he’s worried I’d tell the kid to buck up or something. Soothing egos or skinned knees is not my forte.
“Pulled a Clint.” I chuckle, slapping my brother one time hard on his shoulder blade in an effort to brush off my own concerns for the kid.
Clint turns his head at the comment, watching me. “Huh.”
“Huh?” That’s all he’s got to say? But I don’t miss Clint’s glance over my shoulder before the corner of his mouth ticks upward, fighting a smile that suggests he’s onto me, when there’s nothing to beonto.
Hudson Sylver is a kid on our team. I’m concerned for him like any other player. And it has nothing to do with his hot-as-sin mother who makes me want things I shouldn’t want. Like to take care of herandher son.
“Stone’s here,” Clint adds, as if I hadn’t already seen him.
“Yep.”
