A private jet doesn’t impress the kid. I didn’t expect it to, but as we’re given our seats, I make sure to slide into one facing him with Frankie at my side while the flight attendant comes around to pour us glasses of champagne.
“No, thank you,” he says to the woman, “water, please.”
“Same,” I say, and then look to Frankie.
“Seltzer and lime,” she says.
“What is it like?” Kai asks me, leaning forward in his seat as his agent and interpreter make themselves comfortable in the row across from us.
“What’s what like?”
“The Major Leagues. The big leagues. The show.”
“You think you’re ready for it when you get there. You’ve played baseball your entire life, so how could it be any different than every game before it? But it is. It’s so different. There’s no bigger jump than the one you make into the big leagues. The best pitchers. The best hitters. It’s grueling and terrifying at first. Everyone’s bigger and stronger and knows more, but then it hits you one day, that you belong. And it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. The crowd. The stakes. Your teammates. It’s everything you ever dreamed of and everything you ever dreaded all wrapped into one glorious season, and one day you’ll look back and you’ll miss it like hell, so you’ll find yourself talking to a rookie who hasn’t made it yet like you’re an old man reliving his glory days. I can’t wait for you to see for yourself, kid. You’re gonna love it.”
The flight is short. A little under an hour and a half and the drive to Glendale isn’t bad either, but my phone is already lighting up with texts, mostly old friends from the game asking if there’s any truth to the rumor that we got Kai on a plane to Arizona.
The baseball world is very, very small sometimes and its fans are rabid. There’s always someone watching and our secret isn’t a secret for very long.
I imagine, by the time the game gets underway, the ballpark will be packed with fans hoping to get a glimpse of the sport’s next big thing, but when we pull up, it’s still relatively quiet.
The Desert Dogs are taking batting practice and there’s a security guard waiting to escort us from the player’s entrance through the inner workings of the ballpark, hallways I once knew like the back of my hand, and then onto the field where the bright sunshine, blue skies and the perfect scent of grass, dirt, the wood of the bats and leather of the gloves envelops us.
Cole Davis is already out on the field waiting. I imagine he’s usually the first one out on the field, and his reaction is instant, making a beeline for us and, before anyone can perform introductions, he’s already talking.
“I’ve studied the film from the Japan Series,” the young catcher says, without preamble and definitely without worrying about the interpreter. I had him do his homework. I wonder if he figured out what I did, that Kai Nakamura understands and speaks perfect English. “You worked your changeup in a lot more than you usually did during the regular season. Was that a deliberate choice to throw off their scouting report or was it just working that day so you went with it?”
To his credit, Kai just goes it with: “I . . . I only use the changeup when all my other pitches are working.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because it is a new pitch and I am building confidence with it.”
“A new pitch? When did you start throwing it?”
“Early this season. I knew I would need it for the major leagues and thought it would be important to have it developed fully before I arrived here.”
“Well, it’s definitely ready to be mixed in more . . . Wait, Xander and Archie are here. Guys, what took you so long? We’ve been waiting.”
The other boys emerge up from the tunnel, jogging toward us in their Brooklyn uniforms, metal cleats clacking against the cement steps of the dugout in unison.
“Sorry, my fault,” Archie says. “I almost put diesel in the gas tank and then I thought Ididput diesel in and we had to call an Uber so the mechanic could make sure I didn’t. It’s nice to meet you. Your stuff is wicked.”
“Wicked?” Kai asks, and turns to Xander and freezes, mouth dropping open, eyes lighting up like he did when he first saw me coming out of the house to greet him.
“Great, he means great,” Xander says, holding out his hand. “I’m Xander Greene. This is Archie Esposito.”
“Archie,” Kai says, nodding toward the other young man, but reaching for Xander’s and shaking it slowly, “and Xander. It’s . . . it’s nice to meet you?”
Neither one of them pulls away. Xander is staring at their joined hands. Kai is simply standing still while their handshake stops and they blink at each other silently.
Huh . . . what . . . oh.
Oh.
My eyes fly to meet Frankie’s and it’s clear she put the puzzle pieces together as well.
Sparks. I recognize them easily enough and this is . . . well, it’s interesting. There’s a reason, I guess, that there were no mentions of a girlfriend back in Japan, no mentions of anyone in his life.
