“But I do,” Mason chimes in. “And I like good players. Ergo, you’re not on my team.”
“Good to see you too.” I catch Cody’s brown-eyed gaze. “And to answer your oh-so-sweet question, did you not see the game-winning homer I hit? Why are you giving me a hard time about my first at bat? Also, in my second at bat, I did get to first base,” I point out.
Cody’s about to answer when another voice cuts in. “Ah, glory over consistency. The age-old dilemma.”
The comment echoes from down the hall, coming from a clear and confident voice.
It’s Edward Thompson, striding toward us in his crisp button-down and charcoal slacks. He was a minor league manager, a major league utility player, then a hitting coach for Seattle. Now he’s the play-by-play analyst for The Sports Network, and he has the experience to back up every opinion.
I straighten my spine before I reply. Edward Thompson is that kind of man. “Which do you think is best, sir?”
He scratches his jaw, considering the question. “Both. I look for both in a player.”
“But how many have that?” my mom asks. She’s never met a question she’s afraid to ask or a person she won’t strike up a conversation with.
“Depends on the player,” Edward says, in that calm, centered voice he’s known for on-air and, reportedly, in the dugout. “Sometimes you need someone who plays for glory. Most of the time, you need someone consistent.”
My dad points to me. “And what about Holden? Has he got both?”
I roll my eyes at my father. “Dad . . .” Now is not the time to suck up to the man.
“Seriously. It’s a legitimate question.” My dad is a lot like my mom in this—inquisitive until the end of the world but likely to kill me with embarrassment long before that.
Thompson studies me, eyes narrow and thoughtful. “What I look for are the little things. The way a player stands. Whether he’s putting enough weight in the back foot. Getting enough rotation in the hips. All of those things can make a difference. Can add another ten points to your batting average.”
I stare at him, unsure if he’s giving me advice or criticism or just an observation. Before I can decide, he gives us a tip of an imaginary cap and walks the other way, saying to me, “Have a good season.”
As he retreats, Mom mutters under her breath, “Cryptic much?”
“Just a little,” my dad says.
She grabs his arm, saying in excitement, “He’s like one of those guys in a Webflix Christmas movie, Charlie.”
“Exactly. One of those wise old men who pop out of nowhere and offer sage advice to the hero.”
Mason rolls his eyes. “These two are so obsessed with Webflix holiday movies, even when it’s not Christmastime.”
My mom smiles. “What can I say? We like what we like. We’ve even been known to watch them during the summer. Like the other night.”
“You two sure know how to have a rocking time,” I say as we make our way to the exit.
“You got a problem with that?” my dad challenges, full of fire in that playful way of his.
I hold up my hands in surrender. I know better than to argue with my parents. If they want to watch Christmas movies in July, then they damn well should. I want them to have everything they crave, including being able to retire when they want.
The more success I have in the majors, the more of those things I can give them.
We head to our favorite diner in Ballard, near our home. My folks study the menu like it might have changed in the decades since we’ve been coming here, and Cody opts for his usual—burger and fries.
That one word—fries—lingers in my mind.
Takes me back in time to another night at another diner, a night that led to so much sexiness, so many kisses, and so many possibilities that ended too soon.
When we’ve ordered and the waiter leaves, I drum my fingers on the table, a little lost in time still. “Did you know that french fries are the exemption to every food rule?”
My mom furrows her brow. “Is that a quote from a movie?”
“Or maybe a TV show,” my dad suggests.
“Ooh! It’s from How I Met Your Mother,” Cody says, shooting his hand up, a grin spreading across his face.
I snap my gaze to him. “How old are you? Thirty? You watch How I Met Your Mother?”
He gives me an epic eye roll. “Retro TV shows are so in. Don’t you know anything?” He shakes his head like I’m a pop-culture traitor for not keeping up with what decade-old TV show is popular again.
“Whatever you say, Cody.”
“So, the french fry rule isn’t a line from a TV show,” my mom continues after the waiter drops off our drinks. She’s hunting for a reference that she won’t get. Best to end this pursuit.
“It’s just something someone said to me once. No biggie.” I take a sip of my iced tea, hoping the small little smile that tugs at my lips isn’t obvious.
But my mother can see through anything. She leans in closer. “What’s that faraway look in your eyes?”
I shake my head, putting on my game face. “It’s nothing.”
She wags a finger at me. “No, it’s something. You definitely have a look. Like you were thinking of someone.”
She should be a detective.
“I swear it’s nothing.”
“You met a woman, didn’t you? You’re holding out on us. Who is she?” My mother’s apparently a pit bull too.
Time to adamantly deny her speculation. And by adamantly deny, I mean move the hell on like my ass is on fire.
“I am hopelessly devoted to the baseball diamond.” I shift my focus to my dad, since he’s easier to distract. “Now tell me, Dad, did you listen to that new podcast about Charles Manson?”
His eyes light up. “I did. Amazing stuff.”
We proceed to deep-dive into his other obsession, and with that, I successfully shove the memory of Reese Fallon out of my mind.
Yet again.
I’ve become particularly good at this since she’s been out of the country and out of my life.
It’s for the best. It was only one night.
But what lasts longer is the advice Edward Thompson gave me.
Advice that’s not so cryptic to me as it was to my parents.
For the next few weeks, I focus on little adjustments at the plate—a shift of my hips, a small switch in my stance.
By the end of the season, I’ve padded my batting average by ten points, finishing with .319—one of the best batting averages in the major leagues, and not too shabby for a guy in his second season.
That bright spot, though, is marred by a post-season interview that goes sideways.
8
Holden
The day after my sophomore season ends, a reporter from a Seattle paper asks the team’s publicist about interviewing me for a profile piece—a local-boy-makes-good kind of thing. I agree to meet the guy at Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium in Capitol Hill while I’m visiting my parents in Washington.
Carlotta can’t make it to the interview, since she’s in Los Angeles, but we review talking points in advance—focus on the season, goals for next year, and all the things I love about the city.