Author Sahara Foley

Carter

I pulled into the players’ lot at Falcons Stadium, my truck’s tires crunching over the gravel as I found my usual spot. The afternoon sun bathed the stadium in golden light, and I could already smell the freshly cut grass as I grabbed my gear from the passenger seat. Practice days had their own rhythm, different from game days—less pressure, more fine-tuning. I stretched my arms over my head, feeling yesterday’s game still lingering in my muscles. Coach Miller would be waiting, probably already pacing the field with that damn whistle, ready to critique every move we made.

The locker room buzzed with the usual pre-practice chatter. I nodded to Rivera at his locker across from mine.

“Blake! How’s that shoulder feeling?” he asked, tossing me a roll of athletic tape.

I caught it with one hand. “Better than your batting average.” I grinned to soften the jab.

“You’re an asshole,” he laughed, pulling his practice jersey over his head.

I changed quickly, my movements practiced after years of this same routine. The smell of liniment and sweat permeated the air, familiar and oddly comforting. I laced up my cleats, grabbed my glove, and headed for the dugout.

The late afternoon sun hit me full in the face as I stepped onto the field. I paused at the top step, taking it in—the emerald expanse of the outfield, the reddish-brown dirt of the infield, and the crisp white baselines freshly laid down. This view never got old. A baseball field was the one place in the world that made perfect sense to me.

“Blake! Stop admiring the scenery and get your ass over here!” Coach Miller’s voice cut through my moment. I jogged over to where the team was gathering along the first-base line. Coach stood with his arms crossed, his Falcons cap pulled low over his eyes, that perpetual look of mild disappointment etched on his face.

“Alright, listen up,” he barked, not bothering to raise his voice—he never needed to. “Infielders with me. Outfielders with Coach Taylor. Pitchers to the bullpen with Ramirez. We’re working on fundamentals today because apparently, some of you forgot what those are during yesterday’s game.”

A few guys chuckled. We’d won yesterday, but it had been sloppy—three errors and some baserunning mistakes that had Coach’s veins popping out of his neck by the seventh inning.

I followed the rest of the infield to our positions. The dirt felt firm under my cleats as I took my spot at shortstop. Coach Miller stood at home plate, fungo bat in hand.

“Let’s go! Double plays. Martinez to Blake to Thompson.”

He smacked a grounder toward second base. Martinez fielded it cleanly, pivoted, and fired the ball to me. I caught it as I glided across second, tapped the bag with my foot, and threw to first in one fluid motion. The ball hit Thompson’s glove with a satisfying pop.

“Again!” Coach called, already sending another one.

We fell into rhythm. Ground ball, scoop, throw, catch, pivot, throw, catch. My body knew what to do without my brain getting involved. The sun warmed my back, and sweat began to trickle down my spine. I loved this—the mechanical precision of it, the way my muscles remembered every movement.

“Blake! Watch your footwork on that double play!” Coach Miller’s voice cut through my flow. “You’re getting lazy with the pivot. Do it again.”

I didn’t argue. Coach’s eyes missed nothing. Instead, I reset my position, adjusted my stance slightly, and waited for the next ball.

“He’s on your ass already?” Thompson called from first base.

“When is he not?” I shot back with a grin.

The next grounder came hot, a tough short-hop that I had to charge. I scooped it cleanly, stepped on second, and fired to first—textbook.

“Better,” Coach Miller said, which from him was practically a standing ovation.

We worked through the drills for another twenty minutes. The rhythm of practice wrapped around me like a comfortable blanket—the crack of the bat, the calls from teammates, the thud of balls hitting gloves. My shirt stuck to my back with sweat, and dirt collected in the creases of my palms.

“Water break, then switching to situational defense,” Coach announced, blowing his whistle.

I jogged to the dugout, grabbing a paper cup and filling it from the cooler.

“Looking smooth out there, Blake,” said Diaz, our catcher, as he filled his own cup.

“Thanks, man. How’re the pitchers looking?”

“Chen’s slider is nasty today. Cruz is still fighting his control.”

I nodded, draining my cup and crumpling it. The water was cold against my throat.

“Blake!” Coach Miller appeared at the dugout steps. “I need you to work with Rodriguez on his transfers. Kid’s got good hands but he’s fumbling the exchange.”

“Sure thing, Skip.”

Rodriguez was our rookie second baseman, called up just last month when Pearson went on the injured list. Good kid, quick feet, but still learning the ropes.

I found him by the batting cage, nervously fielding grounders from one of the assistants.

“Hey, Rodriguez,” I called, trotting over. “Coach wants us to work on transfers.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” His eyes widened slightly. Working directly with a veteran always made the rookies nervous.

“Relax, I don’t bite. Much.” I grinned, positioning myself next to him. “Show me what you’re doing.”

The assistant coach hit him a grounder. Rodriguez fielded it well but fumbled slightly as he moved the ball from his glove to his throwing hand.

“I see the issue,” I said. “You’re rushing it. Let me show you.”

I nodded to the coach, who sent a grounder my way. I fielded it smoothly, transferring it to my throwing hand in one fluid motion.

“See how I let the momentum of the ball carry into my throwing hand? You’re trying to force it.” I demonstrated again. “It’s all about rhythm. Like dancing with a pretty girl—you’ve got to feel the flow.”

Rodriguez nodded earnestly. “Can I try again?”

We worked for another fifteen minutes, his transfers gradually becoming smoother. Coach Miller watched from a distance, his arms crossed but his scowl a little less severe.

“Better, kid.” I clapped Rodriguez on the shoulder. “You’ll get it.”

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