Almost Home

Chapter Eight

At the game, nearly a week later, exactly one week before Easton's scheduled surgery, the Frogs are playing another game.

Easton's arm is in a sling, though he keeps insisting that it's unnecessary and his dad is making him wear it.

"There's nothing worse that can happen if I don't wear it," he says to me out of the corner of his mouth, "But my dad will go nuts if I take it off. He think it's helping."

Sitting in the hot, sticky dugout, surrounded by baseball players at all side, he has finally had enough.

Sighing, he slides the sling over the top of his head, dumping it onto the bench next to him.

After glaring at it for a minute, he adjusts his eyes on me, flexing his fingers a bit before adding, "Finally."

I snort, "Your dad will lose his mind if he sees you without it."

Easton puts a silent finger to his lips, "He'll never know."

I only laugh as Carson steps up to the plate, doing a quick check swing before sinking his cleats into the dirt.

He takes two pitches in the dirt before a strike finally comes, hard and fast down the center.

Gritting his teeth, digging his cleats down, Carson swings and the ball ricochets off of his bat, sailing through the air.

I have to squint against the sun to see the ball, a small dot lost in the sky until it begins to drop, plummeting towards the ground.

"Oh, that's out," Easton stands, adjusting his hat over his head to block out the sun, "Car, I think that's-"

And just as Easton said it was going to, the ball lands outside the fence.

Carson, jogging slowly towards first base, looks like he may be in denial, running half-pivoted towards the fence where the left fielder is jogging through the gate to pick the ball up.

He'd hit a couple home runs in high school, but I guess he never imagined he'd hit one here, or, maybe, hit one with that specific pitch.

No matter the reason, I know he's glad that he did.

As he makes it around the bases, rounding third, he glances once up at the sky as if to thank God before making it to the dugout.

Later that game, after a slight break to dispute a bad call, Easton turns toward me, his sling again secure around his neck as the game draws to a close.

"Are you hungry?"

I consider the rather small breakfast I'd had, "I could eat."

Easton nods, "Let's go get something to eat, then. I'm hungry, too."

I shrug, filling in the small diamond as Derek crosses the plate, "Okay."

Back at the hotel, Easton waiting in the lobby for me, we head towards a small café across the street - not exactly a five-star restaurant, but nice and homey.

When I'm about halfway through my chicken wrap, Easton says, "I have news."

"Wait," I hold up a hand, "Is it bad? Does it have to do with your elbow?"

He glances back to where, yet again, the sling is looped around his chair, not supporting his arm, "No, it has nothing to do with my arm, but yes, it is sort of bad."

I frown and he continues, "That's the thing. I have good news and bad."

"Bad first," I reply, immediately, "Then it'll be made better by the good news."