Fast Pitch: Chapters 1–5

After a slight nod, she subtly steps one foot off the slightly raised white square, and shifts into a ready-to-run stance, eyes on Cala, like a little lion cub who has decided home plate is her prey.

This game was basically a scrimmage. It won’t hurt our record in the league or affect our standings as we head into tournament season a few weeks from now.

Still, though: The other girls in the creepily silent van voted to make me their captain. It’s my job to keep morale up...and I can’t think of a single thing to say.

There’s this one group called Boyz II Men that sings a lot of sappy songs our parents seem to love dancing and being ooey-gooey to.

And PopPop was apparently trying to live the dream for his daddy: my Great-Grampy JonJon. Our family’s baseball patriarch—

Our brunch rolls on without a hitch and with (mostly) typical Lockwood Sunday chitchat—a few gratitude circles, where we pass a plate around and say things we’re thankful for; talk about our goals for the week ahead; updates on the lives of distant family members Drake and I have never met (Mama and Daddy); fart jokes between Drake and me, and the fussing from Mama that always comes after (while Daddy secretly laughs behind his napkin).

Drake opens his mouth to protest: according to the meticulously kept calendar on the fridge, it’s my week to clear the table and load the dishwasher.

But then he props his cane on the floor and uses it and the railing for leverage as he begins the journey up.

He has epilepsy, but trust me when I say it doesn’t keep him from being your typical annoying sixth-grade sibling.

Pure honesty: I don’t have a single, solitary clue what’s behind that door.

Don’t need permission because I wouldn’t wanna defile such a sacred space. You know? We can head back downstairs.

There’s tan paisley wallpaper and a queen-sized four-poster bed with a knitted afghan folded and draped across the bottom.

There’s tan paisley wallpaper and a queen-sized four-poster bed with a knitted afghan folded and draped across the bottom.

There is baseball paraphernalia all over the place: framed posters—all signed—tacked up on the slanted walls, a case full of plaques and trophies, and a rack of variously sized old-school Louisville Slugger bats.

“Your PopPop kept it safe for a loooooong time, and he asked me to pass it to you to do the same. That way both men live on inside you. You’re carrying their legacies.”

Then when we started learning about symbolism in Mr. Bonner’s language arts class this year—a concrete representation of a thing or idea that is more abstract in nature—it clicked: the trunk wasn't an actual trunk. It was a symbol of my grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s legacies.

There are well-worn wooden bats similar to the ones on the rack (Great-Grampy JonJon clearly had a lot of bats), baseballs ranging from brand-new to gently beige to scuffed and grimy with unraveling red seams, four pairs of old cleats, and a few trophies and stacks of plaques with the name JonJon Lee Lockwood etched into their faces.

Or maybe it’s a ledger: though he’s gone digital now, Daddy used to keep a physical ledger for the pair of hardware stores he owns, and the little number-filled volumes were similar in size and shape to the book in the trunk.

“Integrity is one of the most important qualities in a leader,” Daddy’s voice rings in my head.

Maybe he was working on the cure for some disease. Or creating a schematic for an invention that would’ve shifted the world.

Luckily, drives to games are usually pretty quiet, so no one notices that I’m totally checked out. But once we pile out of the van and head to the away-team dugout?

When Coach Nat says, “Hey, Little Lightning, let me holler at you for a sec,” I flinch so hard, my mitt goes flying and wallops Khyler Jenkins—Hennessey’s robotics partner and our division’s best shortstop by far—upside the head.

She stretches out the fancy insulated bags packed with stuff like organic cheese cubes, carrot and celery sticks, and homemade hummus.

Thankfully, the Buford Barracudas are...not very barracuda-ish. Even with my head in the clouds instead of the flames—and certainly not in any sort of captain-mode—we Firebirds torch them. Final score: eight to three.

“Whoa” is all I can muster.

I give it my all at practice on Tuesday. Which is saying a lot because it’s a doozy—multiple cycles of around-the-horn drills followed by full-speed base laps, capped off with Coach Nat’s favorite form of torture: push-ups.

Before she comes to a complete stop in front of us, Britt-Marie is bounding toward the car.

They talk hair products (all three of us have big, curly manes, though I’m definitely not as into mine as they are), “skin-care regimens,” and baking recipes...all things I couldn’t give a flip about.

“Uncle Jack is the sweetest man you’ll ever meet. I’ve known him since your father and I started dating twenty-three years ago. Can’t say he’s always lucid, but he’s still a delight.”

When we step into the living room, and I see the part-bald, medium-brown-skinned man sitting in a recliner—with a Black Panther comic book that looks real vintage open facedown on one of the chair arms—I can’t help but smile, too. Old dude’s got good reading taste.