then flipping it out of the glove in one motion to the second baseman, who made the turn like a pro and finished off the double play that gave the Tigers a 7-5 win over Texas.
Then the night became different from all the others before it. Usually Brian was in no hurry to finish his chores, even when he knew his mom or Finn’s mom would be waiting outside. Sometimes even Finn would tell him to pick up the pace, asking Brian if he was shining the shoes or putting new soles on them. Mr. Schenkel liked to tell Brian they didn’t have all night.
Tonight they did.
The game had taken three hours and thirty minutes, which meant that the game-ending double play didn’t come until a few minutes before midnight. Brian saw the players showering and dressing in a hurry, dumping out of the clubhouse as quickly as they could, knowing they had to be back by ten in the morning, even though Davey had given them all a shout-out that there wouldn’t be any batting practice.
Hank Bishop, who’d hit another home run tonight, was usually one of the first to leave, which made it easier for Brian and Finn to stay out of his way once they started doing their work—staying out of what Finn called the line of fire. But for some reason he took his time tonight, ended up being one of the last to head for the players’ parking lot, actually pausing to say “’Night” to Mr. Schenkel as he passed by his office. As usual he ignored Brian and Finn, who were tossing towels and uniforms into a bin near the clubhouse doors.
It wasn’t until Hank had disappeared through the doors that Finn sarcastically said, “Good game, Hank.”
Brian joined in. “We’ll have your coffee ready when you get back, just the way you like it.”
Finn, laughing now, said, “Hope I don’t spit in it.”
“Heard that!” Mr. Schenkel called out from his office.
Then they all laughed, Brian and Finn the loudest, mostly because it was still totally ridiculous to them that they got to do this tonight.
When all the work was done, Mr. Schenkel brought out a couple of dark-blue Tigers blankets and a couple of pillows, then began shutting off the lights in the players’ lounge and in the trainer’s room.
“Ask you something, Mr. S.?” Finn said.
“Where are your cookies and milk?” he said.
“No,” Finn said. “I wanted to ask if we can watch TV for a little while.”
Mr. Schenkel handed them the remote. “Knock yourselves out,” he said. “Just keep the volume down, because I’m going to be asleep in about ten minutes.”
Brian and Finn had each brought T-shirts and the Tigers sweatpants Mr. S. had given all the batboys. They changed into them now. “It’s like we’re getting into our jammies,” Finn said, before Brian told him to shut it.
Now the only lights in the clubhouse came from the flat-screen in front of them, showing all of the highlights from Sunday’s games.
When the show went to a commercial, Brian got off the couch and walked over to Hank Bishop’s locker.
“Be careful,” Finn said. “There might be some sort of invisible fence around it, like people use for dogs.”
“Just want to check it out,” Brian said.
Hank had a couple of bats in there, a few extra pairs of spikes, a pair of sneakers. A pair of jeans hung on a hook. There was a bunch of toiletry stuff on the upper shelf.
And taped to the inside of one of his locker walls was a picture of a girl.
A teenaged girl, Brian was guessing, tall and pretty, smiling, standing on a beach somewhere.
The picture was big enough that she had written “Love you, Daddy” in Magic Marker against the blue water behind her and the blue sky.
Brian had almost forgotten that Hank Bishop had a daughter. He’d gotten divorced during his steroids suspension. Brian suddenly remembered her name, Katie. Katie Bishop. Living near an ocean somewhere without a parent, singular, the way Brian was.
He stood there and stared at the picture and wondered if there was one like it in the
Then the night became different from all the others before it. Usually Brian was in no hurry to finish his chores, even when he knew his mom or Finn’s mom would be waiting outside. Sometimes even Finn would tell him to pick up the pace, asking Brian if he was shining the shoes or putting new soles on them. Mr. Schenkel liked to tell Brian they didn’t have all night.
Tonight they did.
The game had taken three hours and thirty minutes, which meant that the game-ending double play didn’t come until a few minutes before midnight. Brian saw the players showering and dressing in a hurry, dumping out of the clubhouse as quickly as they could, knowing they had to be back by ten in the morning, even though Davey had given them all a shout-out that there wouldn’t be any batting practice.
Hank Bishop, who’d hit another home run tonight, was usually one of the first to leave, which made it easier for Brian and Finn to stay out of his way once they started doing their work—staying out of what Finn called the line of fire. But for some reason he took his time tonight, ended up being one of the last to head for the players’ parking lot, actually pausing to say “’Night” to Mr. Schenkel as he passed by his office. As usual he ignored Brian and Finn, who were tossing towels and uniforms into a bin near the clubhouse doors.
It wasn’t until Hank had disappeared through the doors that Finn sarcastically said, “Good game, Hank.”
Brian joined in. “We’ll have your coffee ready when you get back, just the way you like it.”
Finn, laughing now, said, “Hope I don’t spit in it.”
“Heard that!” Mr. Schenkel called out from his office.
Then they all laughed, Brian and Finn the loudest, mostly because it was still totally ridiculous to them that they got to do this tonight.
When all the work was done, Mr. Schenkel brought out a couple of dark-blue Tigers blankets and a couple of pillows, then began shutting off the lights in the players’ lounge and in the trainer’s room.
“Ask you something, Mr. S.?” Finn said.
“Where are your cookies and milk?” he said.
“No,” Finn said. “I wanted to ask if we can watch TV for a little while.”
Mr. Schenkel handed them the remote. “Knock yourselves out,” he said. “Just keep the volume down, because I’m going to be asleep in about ten minutes.”
Brian and Finn had each brought T-shirts and the Tigers sweatpants Mr. S. had given all the batboys. They changed into them now. “It’s like we’re getting into our jammies,” Finn said, before Brian told him to shut it.
Now the only lights in the clubhouse came from the flat-screen in front of them, showing all of the highlights from Sunday’s games.
When the show went to a commercial, Brian got off the couch and walked over to Hank Bishop’s locker.
“Be careful,” Finn said. “There might be some sort of invisible fence around it, like people use for dogs.”
“Just want to check it out,” Brian said.
Hank had a couple of bats in there, a few extra pairs of spikes, a pair of sneakers. A pair of jeans hung on a hook. There was a bunch of toiletry stuff on the upper shelf.
And taped to the inside of one of his locker walls was a picture of a girl.
A teenaged girl, Brian was guessing, tall and pretty, smiling, standing on a beach somewhere.
The picture was big enough that she had written “Love you, Daddy” in Magic Marker against the blue water behind her and the blue sky.
Brian had almost forgotten that Hank Bishop had a daughter. He’d gotten divorced during his steroids suspension. Brian suddenly remembered her name, Katie. Katie Bishop. Living near an ocean somewhere without a parent, singular, the way Brian was.
He stood there and stared at the picture and wondered if there was one like it in the
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