Page 19 of The Fall Classic

“I don’t know,” he says. “That’s a big ask.”

I fold my legs up crisscross on the bench. I could talk to this man forever.

How much forever can I fit into eighteen minutes?

“So, are you ready to talk poetry, Logan?”

“I was born ready, Georgie.”

Hearing my name from his lips sends a thrill through me. I watched him play a handful of times last year when I was babysitting Lulabelle. But I first heard about him from my current baseball seatmates, the Chicks. The three men came in one day last April before a game and were arguing about which of the Fischers was better.

Chick Hanks said, “If Logan would put his book down in the bullpen and focus, he’d already be in the pros.”

Chick Parkinson shook his head. “It’s his grip, not the book.”

And they kept arguing while all I could do was wonder about this professional athlete who read books during games.

“What was he reading?” I asked.

“How should we know?” Chick Allen asked.

“Tuesdays With Morrie,” Chick Parkinson said.

“It’s a bit heavy for the bullpen,” Chick Hanks said.

“No, it’s a good book,” Chick Parkinson said.

“It’s a wonderful book,” I said, getting the men their coffee. Logan was reading the true story of a sports journalist who found out his beloved professor was dying of ALS and decided to visit him every Tuesday until he passed—and he was reading it in the bullpen?

I’m not saying I already had a crush on Logan without ever having seen him, but the idea of a pitcher reading such a beautiful book while waiting to be called to the mound—it did something to me. Intrigued me. Filled my head with silly thoughts and even sillier dreams that I would never, ever entertain.

Now here I am, sitting across from the man himself⁠—

Entertaining silly thoughts and even sillier dreams.

“Let’s talk Frost.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Georgie

My hot chocolate is hot in name only.

I don’t notice at first, because Logan and I have been talking nonstop, as we have each of the last few days since he showed up the other night. Somewhere in the last two minutes, he shifted from the back-and-forth discussion we’ve been having to … snowballing. But I just took a sip of my drink while he took a breath, and now it hits me that I’m drinking room temperature cocoa.

I glance at the mug like it bit me and set it down to give Logan my full attention.

We’ve been talking about “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” one of my favorite poems ever.

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer