Stealing Home

THE FIELD OF DREAMS TEAM IS ALL LINED UP TO RUN ONTO THE diamond before the national anthem. They’re a T-ball team of five-year-olds in orange and gray Orioles uniforms. Not one of their hats fits quite right, their pants bag around their ankles, and every one of them is wearing eye black stickers even though it’s 8:05 p.m.

They’re basically the cutest little munchkins I’ve ever seen.

“Okay, guys,” I say as I squat down in front of them. “What are we going to do after the song ends?”

“Run to you!”

“Right! And where am I going to be?”

As a group, they turn and point to the gate across the field, near the other team’s dugout. Their parents will be waiting for them in the holding area beyond that, and then they can all return to their seats.

“Are you ready for this?”

“Yes!” They dissolve into some sort of contorting that I assume is the five-year-old equivalent of dancing.

I line them up by their numbers so that they’ll be in the right order when the announcer says their names. “Okay! Who’s in front of you?”

They yell a jumble of names.

“Who’s behind you?”

They spin around looking for the person next in line.

“Can you remember that?”

“Yes.”

The answer should actually be no, because I’ve done this a million times, and half of these kids can’t even remember their own last names, but I still try to keep the chaos as organized as possible.

The littlest one, Leon, is a head shorter than the next closest one in size, but he makes up for smallness with energy. His hand is a little sticky as he holds tight to me, but I don’t mind. Once I get him calm, all the others will chill out and stay in line behind me for what seems like an eternity. Or five minutes.

“What’s that?” Leon asks, pointing to the scoreboard.

“That’s how we know who’s winning.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s the pitcher’s mound. Don’t you have one of those when you play?”

He shrugs. I’m not sure baseball is going to be Leon’s game.

“Who’s that?” He points into the dugout.

My throat grows a little tight when I see who he’s pointing to. “That’s the catcher, Nathan Olivera.”

“Hi, Nathan!” He waves frantically.

“We call him Ollie.”

“Hi, Ollie!”

Without fail, Ollie turns and his face breaks into a huge grin. He jogs over to us, metal cleats crunching on the cement, and offers Leon a fist bump. “Hey! Are you going to be my buddy for the anthem?”

Leon nods so hard I’m afraid his little head is going to snap off his toothpick neck.

“That’s awesome.” Ollie crouches down in front of him so they’re right at eye level. “What’s your name?”

Leon doesn’t answer. His eyes are wide, like he’s crossed from excited into terrified.

Is it possible to be furious at someone and grateful for them at the same time? I know Ollie will take care of Leon, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to smack him in his big, traitorous mouth.

“Ollie, this is my friend Leon. Leon’s really happy to be here tonight.” I turn the little boy so he’s looking into my eyes. “Ollie’s going to hold your hand all the way to home plate and then you’ll run, run, run to me when the song is over. Right?”

Ollie tucks his catcher’s mitt under his arm and takes Leon’s other hand. Over the little boy’s head, Ollie lifts his eyebrows at me in an unspoken question. I read it as: Are we okay? Or maybe: Can we talk?

My answer either way: Not now.

I give him a flat look in response, and get the rest of tonight’s starters lined up next to their assigned kids. Everyone jogs to their positions when the soundtrack from the Field of Dreams starts.

Once they’re all in place and the announcer starts the rundown, I break into a sprint through the stadium tunnels and out through the other team’s dugout door. The last few bars of the national anthem fade, and the T-ball team puts their hats back on. I wave for them to come to me.

Eight of them remember my directions and head my way. One stands next to home plate, glommed on to Ollie like a handful of half-chewed bubblegum.

“Leon,” I yell, but he doesn’t move. I’m not supposed to go onto the field unless it’s between innings, but he’s got to get off.

Ollie solves the problem, sweeping the little boy into his arms and jogging across the field to me. We have an awkward handoff, and Ollie smiles at me like he’s not Benedict Arnold.

I carry Leon to his very apologetic mother. She hugs me around her little boy and I hug her back, taking in the smell of summer and popcorn and the red dirt that Leon managed to get all over him.

There’s nothing like this. Nothing like making those little kids happy, and hearing the ball hit Ollie’s glove at ninety-four miles per hour, and the crowd’s applause as the team is announced.

Then Mia walks toward me, frown on her face.

“What’s wrong?” The ticket office has been having problems with the computer system, and it takes forever to reboot. If that happens, we charge everyone general admission and let them sit wherever they want. Then people argue over who’s supposed to sit where. It’s a huge pain. “Do you need my help?”

“No. I’m here to take over for you.” Mia touches my arm like she’s trying to calm me down. Like I’m her version of Leon. “Your mom’s here. And she wants to see you.”

I grip Mia’s hand like I need it to stay upright. “Do you think she knows about the Kiss Cam?”

“How could she possibly know about that?”

“Ollie.” I show Mia the text and the picture.

She doesn’t try to smooth it over. “Oh. That does look bad.” The shot must have been taken the instant after Campbell kissed me, but you can’t tell from the angle because our faces are so close together.

“But I don’t think that’s why she’s here. She’s in the owner’s booth with three men. They’re all in dress shirts and pants. Very business.” Mia grimaces like she’s sorry to say those words out loud.

My mom hasn’t brought men to the ballpark because they’re her friends. This has to be the ownership group. “I didn’t think she’d bring them to a game. Maybe for a meeting. Or a tour. I thought I had another day.” I press my fingers to the middle of my forehead, a headache blooming between my eyebrows. “Tell her I’m not coming.”

Mia tips her head to the side, looking at me with pity.

“We’ve got the Dugout Dance-Off next, and I haven’t pulled contestants.”

“I can do that.”

I know Mia can, but I need an excuse. I’m not ready to face the people responsible for my nightmares.

LAST YEAR, ONE OF OUR SPONSORS PROPOSED TO HIS LONGTIME girlfriend in his company’s suite. It was the first time in my memory that we’d served any alcohol other than beer in the ballpark. They shook a bottle of champagne and opened it, leaving a sticky mess for me to clean up.

Mess aside, the whole thing was awesome. All their friends and family were clapping and cheering and crying when she said yes. I know that, too, because I helped film it.

No one cheers when I open the door to the owner’s suite, but something lingers in the air that reminds me of the night of the proposal.

My mom’s sitting sideways across her chair. One hand, holding a glass of white wine, rests delicately across the chair’s back. She must have brought the goblet with her, because we don’t have anything that fancy in the stadium.

She’s cut her hair into a perfectly sleek bob that looks like it was professionally blow-dried. And she’s wearing a navy sheath dress, a coil of pearls, and nude stilettos. Who wears pearls and stilettos to a ballpark?

Only people who are expecting something big to happen. Like the sponsor’s girlfriend. And, apparently, my mom.

She looks up when the door closes behind me, and she smiles like she hasn’t seen me in forever. Something lodges behind my breastbone, like a lump of hot dog I didn’t chew all the way, and I realize how much I miss seeing her every day.

Mom crosses the room in two quick steps and throws her arms tight around me. I want to sink in, let her be my mom for a few minutes, but I know she’s not here for long hugs and longer talks. She’s here to destroy my dreams.

“I have some people I want you to meet,” she says as she takes my hand and leads me across the room to the three men, who have all come to their feet. Two of them are older, brothers if I had to guess, with salt-and-pepper hair and strong widow’s peaks. She introduces them to me as Bryan and Bill Faulkner, owners of Black Keys Entertainment.

The little handful of nachos I snarfed earlier feels like glass in my stomach the moment I hear the company’s name. I know all about Black Keys Entertainment. They’ve purchased four teams in the last five years and moved three of them to new locations.

I fight down my nerves and manage some politeness. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Your mom says you’re the heart and soul of this organization,” one of the Faulkners says, but I’m not sure which first name applies to him.

“She says you’re the grease that keeps the machine running.” The other Faulkner wears thin wire-rimmed glasses and nudges them up his nose as he talks.

The words are supposed to be complimentary, but I think about Meredith losing her job, and our seasonal staffers, and Dad. “Everyone here works really hard.”

The Faulkners smile at each other and at my mom like I said the perfect thing, but I couldn’t think of anything else that wouldn’t sound combative and unprofessional. My heart wants me to tell them to leave the park and not come back, but my brain reminds me that minor league baseball is a small business. Team owners and front office staffs know each other. Anything awful I might say would spread, and if we lose the Beavers—

I don’t even finish that thought.

Mom introduces me to the third man. He’s younger, maybe Mom’s age, with the build of an athlete and a shaved head covered in thick black stubble and a matching goatee. I’d bet the Beavermobile he’s a former player.

“And this is Demarcus Jamison,” she says, maneuvering me closer. “He’s the VP of Operations for Black Keys.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ryan. Your mom says you plan to work in baseball forever.”

“Yes, sir. I hope to run the Beavers someday.”

“Good. It’s easier to know where you’re going if you’ve got a destination.” He takes a quick swig from his bottled beer. Something about that makes me like him better than the wine drinkers. Or maybe it’s that he didn’t look at my mom like he’s only talking to me for her benefit. “Have you ever considered interning with another team for a summer so you can get an idea of how other organizations are run?”

“No, sir. I’ve got a job here.”

Mr. Jamison grins at me like that was a good answer too, and the sharp pain eases a little. “If you ever change your mind, I know a couple of teams who’d love to have someone on staff with a little experience instead of coming to them fresh out of college.”

“You should think about it,” Mom says, nodding at me like this is the best idea she’s ever heard.

While I want to give her a big old “Nope,” I do the polite thing and accept the business card he offers. “Thank you,” I say, stuffing the black and gold rectangle in my back pocket. “But if y’all don’t mind, I’ve got promotions to run.”

They all laugh like I’m a kid who’s done something cute, and Mom escorts me to the door, her arm slung around my shoulders.

She follows me into the hall and shuts the door behind her. “See. They’re not so bad.”

I look at her like she’s grown horns, and honestly, if she turned into a demon right now it wouldn’t surprise me that much. “Mom, I’m sure they’re not bad people, but you cannot sell the team to them.” I’m trying to keep my voice to a low whisper, but it rises on the last word.

Mom hushes me, but I ignore her. “Black Keys buys teams, tears them apart, sells their assets and—”

“Not tonight.” She cuts me off, then checks over her shoulder to be sure the heavy door is still closed. “They’re leaving soon, but I’ll be back Sunday, and I’ll listen to anything you have to say.”

“You swear?”

She cups my face like she used to when I was small, looking right into my eyes. “Yes. I’ll hear you out before I make any decisions.”

Then she yanks me into a fierce hug and kisses me hard on the cheek. “I miss you so much, Ry.” When she pulls back, there are real tears in her eyes. “I miss late-night grocery store runs, and falling asleep on the couch, and knowing that you’re never more than one room away.”

Her words cut deep. They poke at a place that I’d forgotten hurts. “Whatever.”

One tear trickles down her cheek, and she swipes it away before it ruins her flawless makeup. “Call you later?”

“If you want.” I turn and walk away.

“Oh! I heard all about Sawyer Campbell.”

As fear traces a cold finger across the back of my neck, I face her. “What about him?”

She smiles, but there isn’t anything devious underneath it, like when she knows I’m hiding something. “I want to tell him hello after the game. Have him brought up to the press box.”