Abbey shows up at the game with a box of blue T-shirts. It’s the shirt the tourists wear, In Case of Tsunami on the front, Run Like Hell! on the back. The players descend on them like crows on roadkill.

“Ilani Gifts,” she says. “Five bucks a pop. I figured this team needed a uniform.”

Billy performs a quick swap with his Cardinals shirt, revealing a surprisingly good tan. “This team also needs a name.”

“How about the Tsunamis?” says Pablo.

“I don’t know,” says David. “Kind of a sore spot around here.”

Derek pokes his head through his collar. “How about Run Like Hell?”

He’s greeted with a rousing mob affirmative.

“There you go,” says David.

The ensuing game is more like Hit Like Hell. Continuing the mantra of low and hard, the team scores 14 runs in the first inning. What’s more amazing is that their opponents, a notoriously weak team called The Chumps, contribute not a single error to the onslaught.
Although Run Like Hell suffers the inevitable let-down after this deluge, come the bottom of the fifth they are one run away from sending The Chumps home on the ten-run mercy rule. With two outs, bases loaded and Billy at the plate, David calls time from the third-base coaching box and walks toward the plate.
“Blue! Got a sub. Derek Falter for Billy Redman.”

Billy can’t resist the comic possibilities. “Geez, Coach – I told you I’d pay you that ten bucks on Friday.”

Pablo goes to the end of the bench and nudges his brother. “Yo! Dimwad. You’re up.”

Derek looks up from his scorekeeping – which tonight has been a full-time occupation. “I’m… huh?”

“You’re up! Here – use this.”

He hands him his green-and-silver Easton, purchased mere hours before in Aberdeen. Derek takes the grip in his hands. “Nice!”
“Two tips,” says Pablo. “One: see ball, hit ball. Two: leave your brain in the dugout.”

“Now I know why you’re such a good player.” Derek flees for the batter’s box before Pablo can smack him. His Dad shouts a neutral cheer from the box (Humnow, get a good one, D”). Billy stands behind the backstop, clapping. The players in the field look tired, ready to call it a night, but pride demands that they try to earn another inning.

Derek takes a breath and runs his ritual. Dig a notch with the back foot, tap the plate, give the bat a left-hand loop and cock it over his shoulder. He decides to take a pitch, just to get his timing, to make sure he’s not too eager. The pitcher, a thin, long-haired dude who looks like he should be in a rock band, stands with his feet together and makes a precise bowling motion. The ball loops up and lands an inch behind the plate.

“Strike!”

His dad claps encouragingly. “All right D, you seen him now. Get your pitch, get your pitch.”
He gets back in, ready to swing, but the ball drifts inside and he has to step back.

“Good eye, good eye.”

This one, he thinks. Anything close. This takes the thought out of it, puts his brain back in the dugout. The ball arrives knee-high on the inside corner. Derek takes a swipe. He makes contact a few inches up from the grip and sends a slow roller up the third-base line. He has rehearsed every possibility in his head; this one calls for him to run first and ask questions later.

The scene he leaves behind is pure chaos. Merzy charges for the plate, performing a tidy leap over the ball. The third baseman arrives two steps behind, but the pitcher shouts him off: “Let it go! Let it go!” He lifts his glove and passes to the right, then spins around, the two of them following the ball down the line like schoolkids tracking the progress of an ant. The ball begins to trickle foul but runs out of steam, coming to halt two feet short of the bag and square in the center of the chalk line. The two fielders stare at it, hoping for some miracle gust of wind, but finally look at each other, shrug their shoulders and head to the mound for handshakes.

“Game!” says the blue.

Run Like Hell lets out a cheer marked by laughter, and Pablo races to first to pummel his little brother. They join the line of handshakes and end up at third base, where their father is studying the ball, fixed in its final resting place like a museum exhibit.

“Son, I wouldn’t want to accuse you of treachery, but have you been practicing this?”

“Even better,” says Derek. “I implanted a remote-control device.”

David snatches it up and shows it to the ump.

“Carl! How much you want for this thing?”

Carl waves him off. “Keep it! I was gonna take it out anyway.”

“All right,” says David. “Let’s get this thing autographed.”

The players gather in the bleachers, passing around the ball and a Sharpie pen. David feels a hand taking his, and the familiar gardenia scent of Abbey’s perfume.

“You are such a good father.”

“Says the woman with the miracle T-shirts.”

He gives her hand a squeeze and, much as he hates to, lets go.

Michael J. Vaughn is the author of ten novels, including the recently released The Monkey Tribe, available at amazon.com. For more info, see his fan page at Facebook.