Fielder's Choice (15 page)

Sometimes he’d watch old footage of the greats from the past—Mays, Ruth, Aaron. Every generation had its marvels, its wisdom. With baseball, a player was always in competition with the past, no matter how he focused on his own game.

He wondered sometimes about the days before television, the days when baseball was only words on a page or voices on the radio and the strength of the imagination, the days before Internet and video and YouTube. Now you could play performances over and over if you wanted to, play them in slow motion, study them and marvel.

He’d learned early on that the key was always doing his personal best in the moment. But it was impossible not to measure his performance against great players, past and present.

There was always a measure in baseball. Stats were feedback, but you had to know how to read them.

Solid numbers—home runs, runs batted in—those numbers could pull a guy forward, lift him when he was doing well. Errors and strikeouts, those could fire a player up or sink the player who couldn’t adjust and get his focus back.

Matt crouched as Scotty threw in a perfect change-up. Hursh, the Braves’ slugger, managed to get a piece of it, and it careened foul into the stands.

Matt saw the fierce concentration in Hursh’s eyes. He knew that look, knew that level of focus.

Their catcher signaled for a low outside pitch, and Hursh watched it go by without flinching. He looked back at Scotty and nodded, as if to say
nice try, meat
.

Scotty wound up and threw. The sharp line drive split the hole between first and second. Hunter grabbed it before it shot down the line, but Hursh made it to first with time to spare.

Focus could be a wild mistress. Hursh evidently had her number.

Some guys just slipped into the zone and made focusing seem effortless.

But that kind of focus required far more than effort. That level of focus lived in a player’s body.

Some guys struggled and never really found the sweet spot, that zone where mind and body worked together with a mysterious power, a power that any guy who tapped into it craved and protected. During the rare times when his mind got in the way, his body wouldn’t cooperate and all he was left with were basics and no spark. Then it was time to shut down the chatter, to focus and visualize and move his body through the paces that he knew would bring him back into the flow. Practice and preparation, those were his tools for keeping open to the sweet spot; they rarely failed him.

He fingered the laces on his glove and watched the next Braves hitter step into the box.

There were plenty of temptations that could draw a guy off his game, waste energy, and then the game would suffer. When the game suffered, everybody noticed. Then it was time to deal. Players who couldn’t pull the stick back up fell into obsessions that eroded their game. Women, drugs, gambling—it almost didn’t matter what guys who were losing it did to fill the hole. It was a downward spiral.

He’d never be one of those guys.

Women had never been a distraction for him. Sure, before he married Liza he’d looked, sometimes acted, often fantasized—he’d been a testosterone-fueled twenty-year-old. After he married, he’d dammed all that up.

Until Alana.

She’d swept into his life and suddenly, like water freed from a dam, energy began to flow in him, some of it familiar, some of it stunningly new, all of it powerful and—if he didn’t take care—risky, given the tumultuous state of his life.

There wasn’t any practice, any discipline, that could’ve prepared him for the surprise of Alana.

Scotty wound up and threw. The hitter bunted, and Scotty snagged the ball, throwing the runner out at first.

The Braves manager called for time and made a lineup change. Gomez, the pinch hitter, took a couple of swings as he headed to the plate. The guy hit three for four off Scotty the last game he faced him. Matt recalled a similar situation the previous season when Gomez hit Scotty’s low-and-outside sinker through the hole between third and short. If Aderro, their veteran catcher, signaled for that pitch, Matt would be moving toward third.

Walsh walked to the mound and signaled for a pitching change. The playoffs loomed close and the Braves were on their heels for first place in the league. Scotty grumbled as he left the mound, but he knew better than to argue with Walsh’s calls. The guy knew the game.

The Giants’ lefty headed in from the bullpen. There was always a palpable change in the sound of the stadium during a pitching change. Matt could feel the focus withdraw from the field as fans rushed off to the bathrooms or grabbed beers or texted their friends. And then he heard the sound of Alana’s laugh, throaty and sweet, with music rising up under it.

He was losing his mind.

He caught Alex’s eye, and Alex nodded toward the stadium screen behind Matt.

He turned just in time to see a man in a tuxedo slide his hand down the two-story image of Alana’s barely clothed back. The man spun her and brushed a kiss to her ear as he whispered something no doubt decadent. Alana looked directly out at the field, her eyes sparkling with energy, tossed her hair and laughed. As the words advertising tickets for the San Francisco Symphony gala crawled across the screen, she looked like she was having the time of her life.

Alana’s laughing face started to fade out from the ad just as the umpire called for the pitch. But as Matt looked back toward home plate, her face and laugh still burned into his mind.

Aderro signaled for the inside sinker. Matt slid to his right, crouched and ready.

Gomez blasted a sharp two-hopper. Matt grabbed it. For a split second he wasn’t sure of the situation on the field. Then he hauled back his arm and fired the habitual long throw to first. The shock of disbelief in the crowd matched the look on Alex’s face as he caught Matt’s throw and tagged the runner out.

Matt stood stunned. He’d completely spaced Hursh on second, even though he’d have run right by Matt. Instead of making the easy out at third, he’d thrown out the runner at first. It wasn’t the right decision—Hursh stood safe at third, a sacrifice fly away from scoring.

He’d made a mental mistake.

He could count on one hand the number of those he’d made in all his years in the game. Physical mistakes were one thing; mental mistakes were in a whole other realm. It wasn’t a world he wanted to inhabit.

Matt took his time walking out of the ranch parking lot and over to the grove where he’d been told he’d find the campfire. It’d been ages since he’d been out in the night without a stadium or a city wrapped around him and longer still since he’d spent time in the quiet of the country, away from the blare of city lights. A few bright stars scattered dots of light overhead, and there was just enough light from the waning crescent moon to navigate the path winding through the olive grove. He neared the glow of the fire and stopped. The silhouettes of people standing around the blaze cast tall, distorted shadows through the trees. He moved closer until there was sufficient light to make out faces. Alana’s wasn’t among them.

He walked away from the group and savored the quiet as each step took him farther from the chattering parents. They must have taken the kids off for an activity in another part of the ranch. He took a deep breath and crouched down between two trees. Over the distant hum of the laughter around the campfire, he heard crickets. The rise and fall of their song reminded him of zippers sliding up and down. Next the frogs started up a chorus and then stopped. After a few minutes they started up again. He always wondered what made them stop singing so abruptly and then pick up again as if they’d never been disturbed.

In the distance, a car sped up the drive and stopped in front of the frantoio. He heard Alana’s voice as the car door slammed. She sounded irritated. She had one of those voices that suited any mood. Some people sounded ridiculous when they were angry or unbelievable when they expressed joy or gratitude—their voices just didn’t fit the emotion.

He laughed to himself. Good thing her voice was versatile, for her range of moods apparently required it. She was no simple woman, Alana Tavonesi.

Matt stood and brushed the leaves off his jeans. He watched Alana head down the path toward the campfire. If he kept pace, he’d arrive in the circle a few moments after she would.

He was right. But rather than congratulating himself on his good judgment of her speed, he found himself looking into the eyes of a woman who’d been crying. She ignored the people around the fire and walked toward him.

“I’m glad you came,” she said. She held out her hand and he took it, held it.

“You okay?”

“Fine. Traffic from the city was horrendous.” She pulled her hand away and walked deeper into the shadows. “Sometimes I wonder where everybody’s rushing off to. I had to see Enzo off. It’s always such a performance.”

“Not the best of travelers?” He was glad the guy was gone, no matter how much effort it took to get him gone.

“He’s never here long enough. Next time I’m going to make sure he stays at least two weeks. I thought about asking him to stay for a month, but I doubt I could take him for that long. I have my limits.”

He couldn’t believe it. She was talking with him about another guy as if it didn’t matter. And still he didn’t want to believe the level of jealousy that flared in him. Darts of anger fired, and he wasn’t sure whether to kiss her or turn and leave.

“Let’s join the party,” she said. “I thought I’d enjoy this little event but after the day I’ve had, nothing could cheer me up.” She moved toward the gathering. “Tell me about your day. I’m sure it was much cheerier than mine.”

He’d made one of the worst mental errors of his professional baseball career just hours before. If he were to call that a cheery day, he’d be insane. But now that he could see her better in the light cast by the fire, he saw the sadness playing in her face. He didn’t want to add to it.

“I saw a massive image of you in the ballpark, up on the screen. That cheered me,” he offered. He didn’t tell her it made him forget how many outs there were and that he’d made a stupid throw to first.

“You did?”

“With a guy in a tux. And lots of violins.”

“Oh God. That ad was shot last winter. Another of Alex’s causes. He was convinced advertising at the ballpark would bump up attendance for the symphony fundraiser he’s chairing. They didn’t want to pay professional talent, so Alex volunteered me. Was it just awful?”

“The violins looked good.”

He dodged her punch. Scotty was right—she had a mean left hook. But he’d succeeded in making her laugh. The lines around her eyes eased, and her shoulders dropped down as some of the tension he’d read in her body melted away. She didn’t seem to be the type to cry easily, so whatever had upset her must have been pretty serious.

When they reached the campfire, Alana sat on a hay bale and motioned for him to join her.

“Stealing a few more minutes before I have to answer questions,” she said. “Being around some of these parents makes me think my childhood with absentee parents might not have been so bad.” She looked over to him. “You don’t seem to be a hovering type.”

“Worse. I’m away maybe too much. I might fit in the absentee category.”

“I doubt that,” she said.

The gentleness in her voice made him want her all the more. He didn’t want to think about what he might do to have her in his arms, to kiss her until all the lines of worry left her face, until she laughed and cried with the sheer release of—

“Dad! You came.”

Sophie threw her arms around him. Then she backed up and shot a chastising look at Alana.

“You’re
late
,” Sophie said, crossing her arms. “We only have two family rules and you broke the first one.”

“What’s the rule?” Alana asked. She moved so that Sophie could sit between her and Matt.

“Be on time,” Sophie said as she squeezed between them. “Everybody knows that.”

“And the second rule?”

“Always do your best.” Sophie tilted her head up to peer at Alana. “Since maybe you were following rule number two, it’s okay.”

“How can you tell I’m following rule number two?”

“Because of the look in your eyes. I can always tell if someone is really trying.” Sophie nudged him. “Dad tries
all
the time.”

“And rarely succeeds.” Matt laughed. “That’s enough of our family philosophy, miss. How about you go and get me one of those s’mores?”

“You’ll stay here?”

“Right here, Punkin.” He watched as she skipped away. “She should be a pitcher,” he said when Sophie was out of earshot. “She can read me from sixty feet.”

“I imagine you’re not terribly hard to read.”

Matt frowned. No guy likes being an easy mark.

“I mean for her,” Alana added quickly. “Everything you do has love written all over it.”

Hearing her say the word
love
made his gut tighten. It was true. He’d do anything for Sophie.

Sophie trotted back with four s’mores. She handed the plate dripping with melted chocolate and burned marshmallows to Alana.

“They gave me an extra, knowing it was for you. They said your grandma died today and you might need an extra treat.” She squirmed to sit between them on the hay bale. “
Did
she die today?”