“Ten percent of the population is left-handed. You know that?” Coach Taylor’s jaw rolls as he chews at a piece of gum. His eyes are trained on the track, his focus on the clump of fielders making their way around it at different paces.
“Something like that, yeah. I read that somewhere maybe,” I answer, even though I haven’t. It’s just a fact that seems about right.
“I bet you think that makes you special,” he spits out, and my mouth pops open in awe. I close it quickly, disciplined enough to know that anything I say next will surely be incriminating. He snaps his gum once as his head swivels my direction, his eyes full of years of experience dealing with players like me.
“No, sir,” I decide on. It’s the right response, and I can tell by the way he draws his mouth into a tight, satisfied smile. Despite this little spat, I know that I am, in fact, special. I know that throwing the way I do is rare, and I know he is aware of how rare it is. I know in my gut that this is simply him showboating to get the upper hand. But he’s tugging this little thread that leaves me unsure whether he means what he says. I get the insinuation—he’s not afraid to cut me. Right now, I’m not sure he is.
“Run it again.”
I blink, still out of breath from my two-hundred meter sprint. He pops his gum and gnashes his back teeth, flashing his canines.
“Now?”
Damn it, Cannon. Of course, now.
Coach shifts his stance, his shoulders squaring up with me, his arms still crossed over the taught coaching shirt stretched over his chest. He’s in shape, not a has-been.
“Right, now. Okay.” I exhale, letting my lips flap with the air. I’m probably going to throw up, but I get the sense he would be impressed by that.
Dropping my things at his feet, I jog over to the curve where I started last time. Just before I kick into a run, Coach calls out, “Two and a half minutes will put you on pace!”
I crane my neck back and stumble a little. That’s what a ten-minute-two-miler breaks down to over two laps. I planned to work up to that, maybe by next week. Mouth agape, I manage to stop myself from questioning this time, nod, and hope he’s too far away to see the WTF written all over my face.
“I’ll tell you when,” he says, lifting his arm and tapping on his digital watch. He’s actually going to time this.
I nod and kick out my legs, already tightening from cooling down. I get the idea that this—sprints—running in general—gets the blood moving, makes stretching more effective, and preps the heart rate. What I’m doing right now, though, is purely to satisfy his ego. It’s bullshit, but I’m gonna do it anyway.
He shouts Go as the largest group of fielders passes me for their second lap. I use their pace to kick me into overdrive, burning past them until I leave them well behind by mid-straightaway. My cheeks puffing in and out on a steady count, I mentally coach myself into the first turn, feeling the burn threaten my chest and numbness tickle my calves and thighs.
“A quarter through. Do this. A quarter through,” I grunt out, nobody around to hear me.
Beads of sweat slide down my forehead as Coach comes into view at the end of the track. He holds up his arm when I hit the curve again, tapping on his watch.
“Two seconds slow,” he shouts.
Fuck me all to hell.
My brain tells my legs to move faster, but I don’t know if they are. I pump my elbows back, hoping for slingshot, and lengthen my stride, thankful for my long legs. If I had to do this with more steps, I think I’d die.
I’m completely gassed by the time I get to the next curve, and now I’m basically falling my way through the rest of the run. I lean my weight forward, using it, grasping at every advantage, my breath coming out in heavy grunts and pants. I sound like a woman birthing a forty-pound baby. My arms begin to flail at fifty meters, my balance threatening at thirty, but I hold on through the finish line, giving in to gravity and tucking my shoulders as I fall into an awkward double summersault that gashes up my knee and leaves my forearm with one hell of a raspberry.
Finally stopped, I let my arms flop to my sides, my legs out like a scarecrow, my chest rising and falling like a giant, blood-filled heart. That’s what I am right now, and I’m not sure whether I’m going to pass out, vomit, or burst open.
Coach’s shadow shades my eyes, and I run my forearm over my matted, sweaty hair and forehead as he drops my ball cap on my chest. I clutch it, too tired to put it on my head, too exhausted to sit up. I shield my eyes from the sun with a chopped hand at my brow, my eyes wanting to close, my body begging me to sleep, right here, just for a minute or two.
“Eight-fifty-eight,” he says, followed by a snap of his gum. He gives it another chew and spits it out into the dead grass near the long jump pit.
“What?” I breathe out, not sure what he means. Afraid he’ll mistake my question for more attitude, I force myself to sit up, palms flat behind me, legs lifeless and stretched out before me. I shake my head and widen my eyes.
“Sorry. I mean, I don’t understand.”
He’s smirking. Smug prick.
“You ran an eight-fifty-eight two-mile pace. I lied about your first lap.”
He reaches down to help me to my feet. I puff out a sharp laugh, my chest giving out a breath it’s been working hard to find. I stare at his outstretched palm for a few seconds, working my way up to a full sit, my elbows propped on my knees. A drop of sweat falls from my brow into my eye, and I squint before taking the bottom of my soaking T-shirt to my face. Then I grip his hand and haul myself to my feet.
I slide my hat over my damp hair, tucking the sides in as we slowly cross the space between the track and the ball fields.
“You sure it was eight-fifty-eight?” I quirk a brow as I look at him sideways.
He lifts his watch to show me the time.
I have to stop walking to get a good look at it, and after a full two seconds of staring, I laugh out loud enough that the guys stop throwing and look at me.
“Hot damn! Woo!”
“Personal best, I’m guessing?” Coach questions.
I continue to laugh silently, a little in disbelief, and I nod.
“Uh, yeah. You might say that. My dad is going to think it’s an honest to God miracle,” I confess. My response pulls a laugh from him, a genuine one that’s raspy and accompanied by a smile that reaches his eyes.
I bend down and grab my glove and cleats, my body suddenly full of a zest, as though I could do that again if I really had to. I’m not going to offer, but I do feel that little additive pride gives my steps, and I’m not completely empty.
“Cannon,” he says as we near the bullpens. It’s the first time he’s said my first name, and the significance is not lost on me.
I nod and straighten my hat, pulling down on the sides to offer more shade and curve to the brim.
“Tomorrow when you come out here to run, know what you’re capable of, and don’t sell yourself short. Every workout and drill and warmup and stretch is an opportunity to be better. Don’t waste your own time on mediocre.”
I let my eyes meet his directly, feeling the burn of the uncomfortable stare, letting him look behind mine to see that I hear him, that I’m sorry, and that I’m about to prove to him that I am indeed special.
“Yes, sir,” I say, a little stunned at how damn good this guy is. It took two and a half minutes for me to buy in completely. And I’m in—one-hundred percent—when it comes to this team and this coach. What I’m not in for just yet is the catcher waiting in the bullpen with her helmet and mask balanced on her head, her hip jutted out, shin guards covering her legs, and chest protector layered over her Yankees practice shirt.