Nothing Like the Movies

Wes

“You think you can get tickets?” AJ murmured, stretching his elbow over his head. He was wearing those stupid sunglasses that he’d bought for five bucks in Canada, but I wasn’t judging, because the sun was shining directly into my shadeless eyes.

For once, I was jealous of his god-awful style.

“Probably,” Mick answered, leaning into a hip stretch. “But I need to know how many to ask for.”

“You’re in, right, Bennett?”

The team was warming up, running through stretches, but AJ was doing double duty, trying to get us tickets to an “epic” party that was happening Friday night. Since I didn’t know anyone at UCLA yet, aside from the guys on the field beside me, I figured I’d just follow along and see what transpired.

“Sure,” I replied as I stretched my hamstring. Partying wasn’t a priority for me, but I wasn’t opposed to being social either.

After the hitters split off for base running and we (the pitchers) started working the bands, I heard my name.

“Bennett, you’re up.”

I glanced toward the bullpen, and Ross was looking over at me. He was the pitching coach, but none of us actually called him Coach.

He was just Ross.

I jogged over, ready to throw, even as my stomach had reservations. Fucking breathe and calm down, I told myself. I’d played baseball for basically my entire life, so I needed to chill with the nervous butterflies.

It was only practice.

Riiiiiiight. To me, it felt like a hell of a lot more than that. After not being able to practice for two entire seasons, it felt huge that I was there, that these opportunities suddenly existed for me again after they’d all disappeared.

I saw Woody (bullpen catcher) getting ready, but when I reached Ross, he leaned his back against the fence and casually said, “So tell me about your first day.”

I wasn’t sure what he was looking for when he said it like we were just two random dudes chatting. I glanced toward Woody before replying, “Um, well—”

“Come on,” Ross said, shaking his head with a half smile on his face. The guy had always reminded me of young Kevin Costner (circa Bull Durham) because he was not your typical coach. He never yelled and he wasn’t intense.

He didn’t even seem like an athlete, to be honest.

He was just… cool, like he was simply a decent human who knew a lot about baseball. He said, “Don’t come up with a bullshit answer for the coach. You and I both know this first day of school is more than that to you, and I’m curious how it’s gone so far. What do you think of your classes?”

Ross was the one I called when I quit the team two years ago, and he was the one I called when I wanted to come back.

He was also the one who said thanks, but no thanks the first ten times I begged.

Two seasons off is just too much, kid.

“They’re great,” I said, meaning it. “I mean, definitely not easy, but at least they seem interesting.”

“Good,” he said, turning his head to spit. “Everything else going okay for you? I’m sure it’s a little weird, after everything.”

Talk about understatements. “Yeah, it’s very weird, but in a good way.”

“Had Fat Sal’s yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, don’t,” he replied, giving me a smirk. “That stuff’ll clog your arteries and give you a jiggly ass. Stick to Bruin meal-plan shit.”

“I am.” I’d heard a lot about Fat Sal’s, but I was too hyperfocused on performance right now to put a lot of garbage in my body. I said, “Everything here is too expensive, anyway.”

“Right? Fucking LA, man.” He gave his head a shake, straightened, and said, “You ready to throw a few?”

I followed him and threw bullpens, which felt amazing. There was nothing in the world like throwing a fastball (when it hit exactly where it was supposed to), and all those ridiculous butterflies disappeared the second my first pitch smacked into Woody’s glove.

I was on a roll—hell yes—until I noticed there was a giant blond dude filming me.

What the hell?

“Ignore him,” Ross said, apparently reading my face. “They’ve got crews filming all the time for social media; you’ll get used to it.”

“Ah,” I said, feeling a twinge of apprehension in my gut. I was working my ass off to be chill and not focus on the fact that how well I performed in preseason could basically determine my entire baseball future, so the last thing I needed was to have strangers with cameras adding pressure.

“It’s just Clark,” Woody yelled, grinning in the direction of the giant. “Nobody cares what that asshole thinks.”

“Oh, your mom cares,” the guy (Clark, apparently) replied with a laugh, though he didn’t lower the camera to stop filming me. “And she told me to tell you ‘hi.’ ”

“Tell her ‘hi’ back,” Woody said, pulling his face mask back down, “and ask her if she can get me tickets to your party.”

“She’s pretty exhausted, but I will,” Clark said, which even made me laugh. “Now shut the hell up so this guy can throw.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking a deep breath.

“No problem.” Clark moved over and lowered himself to his knees. “Trust me, it takes a village to shut down a Woody.”