Nothing Like the Movies

Wes

“All right, Bennett—go pick up Benevento.”

I gave a nod, took a deep breath, and left the bullpen.

Second inning with the bases loaded.

Not exactly how I’d anticipated entering the final game of the series, but when did anything ever go as planned? Benevento was usually money, but today his pitches were all over the place, and we’d gone from being up 2–0 to being down 3–2 with the bases loaded.

Zero outs.

LSU’s bats were on fire, and the packed-out stadium was loud and electric. I headed for the mound as Bennie headed for the dugout, and I tried shutting everything out as I heard the beginning of “Power” start to play and the stadium got even louder.

I’d become a master at quieting the world during a game; it was my superpower. My dad always thought he was responsible for my fastball and my cutter, but the truth was that his legacy was my focus. He’d crammed baseball first down my throat for so many years that as long as I was able to shut his voice down, everything else went silent when I stepped up to pitch.

But this week was testing me.

Because the media—ESPN, KETV, Fox Sports—had a hard-on for my story. Not only was I the hometown kid, returning to Omaha to pitch in the CWS championship, but I was the hometown kid who’d dropped out of school two years ago to support my family after my dad died.

They were eating it up.

Which was fine. I got it—it was a great story.

But there was a twinge of pressure on my shoulders that usually wasn’t there, a what-if-I-disappoint-them doubt in my head that usually didn’t exist.

Because everyone I’d ever known was at the game.

My high school friends, my calc teacher, Mrs. Scarapelli from down the street (who’d been wearing a T-shirt with my face on it throughout the entire tournament), my mom, my cousins, my friends from Hy-Vee, Liz’s parents, my Little League coaches—it was everyone from my past.

In addition to the Bruins fans, my teammates’ families, and oh, yeah—MLB reps.

The place was full of my heart and my dreams.

I inhaled through my nose, trying to memorize the moment as Kanye’s voice growled out the words, “No one man should have all that power.” I wanted to capture every detail, even as I tried my best to act like it was just another game.

I stepped onto the mound, looking toward the LSU dugout as I went through my mental checklist, envisioning the way I was going to sit those batters, one by one. It’d been a long season—I pictured the ROAD TO OMAHA wall back at Jackie—and we were there to finish the job.

We were there to win.

But I couldn’t deny myself a quick look—a one-second distraction—when I heard it.

Liz’s whistle.

And yes—I could tell hers apart from a stadium of thousands.

She created it specifically so I would. She was so proud of the fact that she’d learned to whistle (loud as hell) around her fingers, and to make sure I could differentiate hers from everyone else’s, she did five quick whistles, right in a row.

It was silly and smart and effective, just like Liz.

I glanced toward first base and immediately saw her, four rows back; the seat she’d been in for the entire series. But today she looked different.

They were the same sunglasses, and the same blue ribbon was tied around her curls, but she was wearing a UCLA jersey. That alone was remarkable, because she was firmly rooted in the opinion that wearing a jersey when you weren’t a player was stupid, but holy shit—her jersey had my number on it.

It looked authentic, with a 32 sewn just underneath the cursive UCLA that stretched across her chest, and then—God help me—she did a quick spin, as if she knew I was looking and could see exactly what I was thinking.

BENNETT was stitched across her shoulders, the last T resting right around the spot where her tattoo (still) was.

Elizabeth Fucking Bennett, ladies and gentlemen.

Buxbaum.

Ahem. Elizabeth Fucking Buxbaum.

I flipped the ball, running my index finger along the seam before taking a deep breath.

And as I got set to throw, I heard my dad’s voice.

For the first time in months.

Only this time he wasn’t yelling.

This time, instead of shouting throw ’em the gas or something critical, he repeated the words Liz had sent to the dugout during the first exhibition game, so many months ago. His voice was calm, almost reassuring, when I heard him say, Just pitch, Bennett. You’ve got this, kid.

And I did.

EXT. CHARLES SCHWAB FIELD—DAY

The first notes of “Dreamland” begin playing.

As we see Wes throw the pitch and hear the roar of the crowd, the camera follows a green leaf in the outfield as it lifts up and floats away from Charles Schwab Field.

The leaf cartwheels through the summer sky, dancing over and past the downtown Omaha skyline, dipping down to briefly land on the Stella’s neon sign before lifting again.

We continue blowing through the blue sky on the leaf until we reach Oak Lawn Cemetery and move down to street level. The leaf lands beside a cardinal that’s sitting on top of a headstone before lifting yet again, this time tumbling over Teal Street.

The leaf slowly dances down toward the ground, fluttering between two houses before finally settling underneath the windshield wiper of Liz’s car, which is parked on the street between the two houses.

FADE OUT