Page 32 of Fair Ball

“Dutch. If I remember correctly, it means hidden river or something close to it.” When the wind picks up, she crosses her arms over her chest, her long-sleeved T-shirt not enough for the weather today. “And I mean Dutch, as in people from the Netherlands, not the Pennsylvania Dutch, who are the descendants of German immigrants.”

I slip my sweatshirt off and hold it out to her. “Is it time for my history lesson now?”

She glances down to my zip-up then back up to my face. “If you want it to be, and what do you want me to do with that?”

I hold the sweatshirt open, waiting until she slides her arms inside it to say, “I’m ready for the history lesson now.”

She toys with the cuffs for a minute, adjusting them until she’s comfortable, and then she starts, “The Lenape people were native to this land, and…”

She talks for forty-five minutes about the history of the area, and I don’t stop her. Not to ask a question or even to warn her about watching her step. I merely pull her away and let her continue because I could listen to this woman describe paint drying. She’s knowledgeable and passionate, especially when she talks about the river and how the population of fish was severely impacted by industrial waste. She says in grade school, she wrote letters to her local and federal officials to tell them how important it was to pass environmental protection legislation. Explains how she hasn’t eaten any animals, including fish of any kind, since fourth grade when she found out about how animals are raised and slaughtered. Although she promises she can make a “mean black-bean burger” if I am interested in trying it.

Of course I’m not interested in trying it, but of course I’d eat it if she made it for me.

We walk the boardwalk all the way to the end then turn around and hit up the dog park by my condo building. She was right when she claimed it would make me feel better to pet a dog.

A pit bull rolls to his back so I can scratch his belly, and Millie squats down next to me. “Maybe we should get you a dog.”

“The bird is more than enough.”

She snickers into her shoulder, which irritates me enough to tug on a strand of her hair, urging her to pick up her head, showing off my favorite thing in the world—her smile.

I don’t need therapy. I don’t need to talk. I simply need Millie’s happiness and her dimple.

“You want to come to the game tonight? Since it’s not a school night, Noah can come. And your mom.”

She winces, almost imperceptibly, but I notice. I notice everything.

“What?”

“You really want me there? The team lost the last time I was there.”

“You’re not bad luck, Millie.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off. “Please come. It’ll make me feel better.”

I know I’m a piece of shit for using what happened earlier against her, but I never proclaimed to be a nice guy.

She considers me and eventually nods. “Yeah, okay. Noah would love it, and it might be nice to get my mom out of the house.”

With that, we head back to my place, where I get ready to go to the stadium while she takes care of Harold and some random tasks I’ve asked her to complete. Like reorganizing all my cabinets and separating Skittles by color…because it was the best I could come up with and because she’s told me she loves to categorize items.

Hours later—after I gave Yadi all the green Skittles, and I ate all the purple—I hype myself up enough that I can face my brother and head out onto the diamond for the game.

But I play like shit.

I can’t stop thinking about the last time my brother and I were on the same field together. When he tried to pull the caring big-brother card, talking me down from my temper when I knew they were going to take me out of the game. When I told him he didn’t have shit to say to me after what he did.

I can still feel the crunch of bone under my fist.

Hear the boos of the crowd.

Feel the betrayal so deeply I can’t even look at him, which makes pitching to him really fucking difficult.

After his third homer off me, the manager calls for a time-out, and he walks out to me, along with all of the infielders.

“Don’t,” I tell Bettina. “Don’t take me out.”

Carl Bettina has been nothing but supportive since I was traded to Philadelphia, and as much as I hate it, I respect him. He claps me on the shoulder. “Let’s give Cruz a chance to finish it out.”