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PJ Nolan has convinced himself he can get through one last year. That changes when he arrives for the first day of spring training and his teammates think it’s funny to mock the one night that made him feel alive. They don’t realize those pictures are all he has left of Nate Kendricks.
Nate knows nothing about baseball, but agrees to a spring training road trip with his twin brother. He’s not thrilled about the prospect of seeing PJ Nolan, the man who’d haunted his dreams since the night of the charity auction. Nate thought their chemistry was undeniable, but after that night, he never heard from PJ again.
Once they reunite, PJ’s certain of one thing: he’s not going to let Nate slip away again. As he gets closer to joining his dad in the record books, he feels Nate slipping away. What will he choose if forced to pick between new love and a lifelong dream?
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What is your favorite baseball memory?
When I was a kid, we had an Oakland A’s farm team in my hometown. Besides getting to look back and think about the MLB players we’d seen in their early years, one night in particular sticks out.
We were sitting along the third base line, probably about three rows up. Mom, Dad, and I were sitting in our seats, but my twin brothers were standing on the railing with a bunch of other kids. Mom wasn’t really interested in baseball, so she was reading the program. Dad had always warned all of us that you had to pay attention when you were at a small park, because you never knew when a ball would come your way, but she’d forgotten that rule. Somehow, the ball went over all the kids and their gloves, hitting Mom on the bridge of her nose (don’t worry, she was more stunned than hurt).
After the game, everyone loitered behind the bleachers to collect autographs from just about everyone, because you never knew who’d be famous someday. When the visiting team made their way from the field to the locker rooms, my dad pulled aside the rookie who’d hit the foul ball that hit Mom. When he told the player (who later went on to have a long career in MLB) what’d happened, the poor guy looked ready to crap his pants. He stumbled over his words, trying to apologize to Mom and make sure he was okay, apologizing to Dad (still eyeing him carefully, in case the burly truck driver decided to hit him), apologizing to us kids, maybe even some strangers. Dad finally took mercy on him and pulled the ball out from behind his back. “No sweat, kid. Suppose you could sign the ball?”
The relief was evident as he scrambled for a pen. I’m not sure where that ball is, but every time I saw him play on TV, I remembered him as the man who hit my mom in the face.