The Field of Love - 24. Chapter 24

Field of Love

Chapter 24

Late May sunlight spilled across the field, and Andy still caught himself thinking about the campaign sometimes — the noise, the faces, the long nights. Now, in late May, the field felt like another world. He was barely thinking of baseball, if at all, when the coach walked up to the front of the dugout.

Coach Parker rattled the chain‑link fence covering the dugout, the sharp metallic clatter slicing through the laughter and chatter. The horseplay died instantly; dust hung in the humid air as the boys turned toward him, caps pushed low, eyes alert.

“We’ll lead off with Taylor in center field,” Coach Parker said, voice steady and sure.

Steve gave Taylor a quick pat on the back. “You’ve got this right‑handed pitcher, Tay‑Tay — like a cat huntin’ a mouse.”

A ripple of chuckles and nods moved through the bench.

Coach Parker smiled, shaking his head at Steve’s comment before continuing. “Batting second and playing second base is Joey. Sammy’s at shortstop and batting third. James is at first base and batting clean‑up.”

A few boys whooped, the sound echoing off the aluminum bleachers.

When the lineup was done, Taylor grabbed his bat and headed toward the on‑deck circle. The smell of leather and pine tar mixed with the faint sweetness of cut grass. Coach Parker caught his arm, leaned close, and said quietly, “You hit righties well, but take the first pitch — gauge his fastball. Scouting says he likes to start with his best pitch. The second one will probably be off‑speed.”

He gave Taylor a firm pat on the backside. “Be smart and get on base.”

Taylor nodded, the weight of the bat familiar in his hands, the roar of the crowd just beginning to rise beyond the fence.

Andy sat on the bench and watched Taylor take practice swings while he waited for the pitcher to warm up. A million thoughts swirled through his head, and baseball wasn’t one of them. After traveling around the state with his father, the doctor had asked that Andy refrain from any extracurricular activities. So, he sat on the bench as an observer, though he wasn’t really observing anything—just the random thoughts drifting through his mind.

He was now one step closer to becoming the son of a governor after his father’s victory in the Republican primary. Since his name had become a hot topic on social media, he often found that his face was recognized throughout the state. He was thankful that, so far, no one knew anything about his financial situation—but how long would that last?

Andy watched Taylor take the first pitch for a strike, but honestly, at that moment he didn’t care. If his father won the general election, would he be forced to move and lose Joey, Roger, and his other friends he had known since grade school?

At the ping of the metal bat, the dugout exploded with cheers as the line drive off Taylor’s bat sailed over the second baseman’s outstretched glove into right field for a single. Andy slowly looked up and smiled, forgetting fears for a moment. Joey was up and that demanded his attention.

He had been fascinated by Joey from the moment he first saw his blond hair from the back of the school bus, and since then, he had come to love and depend on him very much.

The coach flashed a sign, and Joey stepped to the plate. Taylor took a short lead off first. The pitcher came set, then snapped a throw to first—Taylor dove back safely. Andy caught the next signal and knew what was coming.

As soon as the pitcher moved toward home, Taylor broke for second. The pitch came—a fastball on the outer half—and Joey drove it right where the second baseman had been before moving to cover the bag. By the time the right fielder retrieved the ball, Taylor was sliding into third in a perfect hit‑and‑run.

The dugout exploded — players leaping to the rail, shouting his name. Helmets clattered, fists pumped, and the coach’s voice was lost in the roar.

Andy was on his feet before he realized it, heart pounding as Taylor slid into third. The crowd surged to its feet, a wave of noise rolling across the field. Parents shouted, kids waved caps, and the scoreboard lights flickered like applause.

Joey sprinted through first, his blond hair catching the sun, and Andy felt something twist inside him — pride, joy, and something deeper he couldn’t name. For a moment, the whole world seemed to move in rhythm with Joey’s stride.

When Taylor slid safely into third, dust rising like smoke, the cheers hit their peak. Andy found himself yelling too, his voice breaking with the rest of them. But beneath the noise, he knew it wasn’t just the play that thrilled him — it was Joey’s light cutting through the ordinary, the way he made everything feel alive.

The cheers were still echoing when Sammy stepped up to the plate, tapping the bat twice against the edge of the plate. The coach gave a quick signal, and the dugout quieted just enough for Andy to hear the faint thud of cleats shifting in the dirt.

Taylor took his lead from third, Joey stood on first, and the tension thickened. Sammy glanced toward the mound, then back at the coach — calm, steady, the kind of player who thrived under pressure.

Andy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still feeling the pulse of Joey’s hit in his chest. The crowd began to chant Sammy’s name, a rhythmic hum that rolled through the bleachers. The pitcher wound up, and for a moment, everything seemed suspended — the dust, the noise, the sunlight glinting off Sammy’s helmet.

The pitcher came set and fired a fastball on the outer half of the plate. Sammy went with the pitch perfectly, driving the ball deep into the right‑field corner. The crowd erupted as Taylor sprinted home, Joey rounding second with the coach waving him on.

Andy was shouting before he even realized it, the sound lost in the thunder of the stands. The right fielder chased the ball to the wall, fumbling for the ball as it bounced away from him. After he got control of the ball he threw it to the relay man as Sammy was well past second. Taylor crossed the plate, Joey right behind him, and the scoreboard flashed two more runs.

By the time Sammy slid into third, the dust hung in the air like smoke after fireworks. The dugout exploded again — players pounding the rail, the coach clapping hard enough to sting his palms.

Andy met Joey at the dugout opening, both of them breathless and grinning. Joey’s uniform was streaked with dirt, his blond hair plastered to his forehead. Andy slapped his shoulder, feeling the warmth through the fabric.

“Nice run,” he said, voice rough with excitement.

Joey laughed, eyes bright. “Couldn’t have done it without Sammy.”

Andy smiled, though inside he knew it wasn’t just the play that had him trembling—it was Joey’s joy, the way it lit everything around them, making the world feel right again.

James followed with a deep fly to left. The fielder caught it at the warning track, but it was far enough for Sammy to tag and score easily. Pine Hills led 3–0 in the top of the first.

Unfortunately for the Cougars, Eric’s elbow began to hurt in the top of the seventh, and out of caution Coach Parker removed him. The freshman Ben Honeycutt relieved Eric. Nerves got to the freshman, and he gave up two walks, a hit batter, and two damaging hits. It was enough for Powell County to erase the three‑run lead and end Pine Hills’ season.

Even from the dugout, Andy could see the disappointment in everyone’s faces as they trudged towards the dugout after the winning run had scored for the Powell County Eagles. Joey actually has tears running down his face and that broke Andy’s heart.

Andy stopped young Ben, who was hanging his head, at the dugout door. “Ben, look at me.”

Softly Andy said, “Ben, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You had a good year and from what I’ve seen you always gave your best. And that’s all anyone can ask of you. You’ll be a killer next year. You wait and see, okay?”

Ben slowly nodded and smiled his understanding, before walking off to gather his stuff.

Joey was standing near the dugout, shoulders shaking, trying to hide his face. Andy wanted to give him space, but seeing him like that twisted something in him. Everyone could see — parents, players, the other team — and Andy hated that he had to break down like that, with everyone watching.

Andy stepped closer anyway. “Hey,” Andy said quietly, “you played your heart out. Nobody can ask for more than that.”

Joey didn’t answer, just nodded, wiping at his eyes. Andy wished he could take the hurt for him, but all he could do was stand there and let him know he wasn’t alone.

Andy looked around to see if anyone was watching Joey too closely, then shook his head. Damn the consequences, he thought. I love that boy, and he needs a hug.

And he did just that. Andy wrapped his arms around Joey and whispered in his ear, “I love you, and I’ve got you.”

Joey snuggled deeper into Andy’s embrace, pressing his head against Andy’s chest. He could hear Andy’s rapid heartbeat and knew without a doubt that Andy’s words were true.

Coach Parker walked up to Andy and Joey, patted Andy on the back and softly said, “Dugout, boys.”

Once the coach had everyone’s attention, he shrugged and began, “I know this hurts, but you guys should be proud of the season we had. We went twelve and three. Do you know when the last time this school had a season that good was? 1975 — that’s right, 1975. Forty‑five years ago. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to coach.”

The coach began pacing back and forth in front of the dugout and continued, “We had some bad breaks, but we fought through them and came out stronger.” He looked directly at Ben. “Son, you have nothing to be ashamed of. We lost this game, so you can’t say I lost this game. Seniors, I’ll miss having you on this team, and the rest of you — I look forward to next year’s team. Guys, I hope everyone enjoys the rest of the school year. You’re all dismissed.”

Andy, Joey, Sammy, and Mike walked together toward the bus from Pine Hills, the last light of the day stretching long shadows across the parking lot. The air carried that quiet hum that follows a game—low voices, the scrape of cleats on asphalt, the distant call of a coach wrapping up. Andy could see that Joey had settled down, his shoulders loose now. James and Steve followed close behind, and Robert, always alert, kept a steady pace a step behind them, his eyes scanning the crowd that milled about in the fading gold of early evening.

All seven of them stopped beside the bus, the sky washed in the amber light of early evening. The air still carried the warmth of the day, mixed with the faint scent of dust and grass from the field.

Andy turned to Sammy and said, “Nice game. You did good, Sammy.”

Sammy smiled. “Thanks, Andy. I just wish we could have won.”

Joey nodded. “I feel the same way, but we’ll be stronger next year—especially with that kid in eighth grade everyone’s talking about.”

Mike grinned. “Terry Nichols. We go to the same church. He’s good. He throws harder than Eric or Ben, and man, can he hit.” He shook his head, remembering. “My last year in Little League, he led the league in average and homers.”

Behind them, Robert stood a step back, scanning the crowd with practiced eyes, the way he always did after games—quiet, steady, making sure everyone got to the bus safely as the sun slipped below the bleachers.

A loud voice pierced the dusk, cutting through the chatter of players and parents leaving the field.

“Hey, John—look at the faggots all huddled up.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and ugly against the fading light and the hum of the crowd.

Robert was the first to react, moving toward the sound of the voice. The four college‑age guys from Powell County swaggered forward, their laughter cutting through the noise.

“Back off,” Robert said, his voice low but carrying.

One of the newcomers sneered. “Or what?”

Robert didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped in, blocking the lead kid’s shove with a forearm and driving him back a step. Sammy was right behind him, catching another by the sleeve and twisting hard, sending the boy stumbling sideways into the fence.

The crowd’s chatter shifted—parents turning, players freezing mid‑stride. The orange glow of the setting sun flashed off metal bleachers as Robert squared up again, calm but coiled.

“Enough,” he said.

The four hesitated, realizing too late that the man in front of them wasn’t just another high school kid. Robert’s stance was solid, trained. Sammy’s eyes were steady, ready.

One of the Powell County boys muttered something under his breath, then tugged his friend’s arm. They backed away, their bravado leaking out into the dusk.

Robert didn’t move until they were gone. Only then did he glance at Sammy and nod once. “Good work.”

Sammy exhaled, the adrenaline fading as the night settled over the field.

Andy froze for half a second, the words hitting him harder than he expected. He saw Robert move first, Sammy right behind, and his gut clenched — not from fear, but from the sudden, ugly reminder of how fast things could turn.

He stepped forward, not to fight, but to make sure no one got hurt—especially Joey. “Robert!” he called, his voice cutting through the noise.

Joey and Mike tensed beside him, ready to jump in, but Andy lifted a hand. “Wait,” he said, his tone commanding. He motioned for James and Steve to stay put as well.

His heart was pounding, but his head stayed clear. He knew Robert could handle himself. He also knew how quickly a scuffle could turn into something worse.

When the Powell County boys backed off, Andy stayed where he was, jaw tight, eyes following them until they disappeared into the crowd. Only then did he exhale, the adrenaline leaving him in a rush.

Andy turned toward the bus, ready to put the night behind them.

Then he heard it—a voice, low and mean, drifting from the shadows near the fence.

“This ain’t over.”

Andy stopped cold. The bus door hissed open behind him, but he didn’t move.

As the bus engine rumbled to life, Andy looked out the window. The field was empty now, but something about the silence felt wrong—too heavy, too still. He told himself it was just the adrenaline fading. But deep down, he knew better.

OOOOO