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SUNRISE REPS
FRIDAY, AUGUST 29TH
Dylan
The clang of iron rings through the Birch Harbor fire-hall gym was sharp enough to slice the dawn in two. I guide the bar onto its hooks, steam unfurling from my breath into the cold air leaking through a cracked window. 5:42 a.m. — eight minutes behind schedule, which wouldn’t matter if my right shoulder weren’t already reminding me there’s a price for every stubborn rep.
Rookie Lee is fighting a resistance band in the corner, freckles orbiting a grin way too wide for this hour.
“Already on set two, Coach? Thought you finished your second life before sunrise.”
“Bench, shower, coffee,” I tell him, mopping sweat with a towel. “Warm-ups, not lives.”
“Sure. You got a hot date tonight?”
“A busy day at the Bluewater Cove baseball tournament.”
“Jealous,” he laughs, just as the station’s alert tone screeches overhead. Adrenaline spikes, then fizzles when dispatch cancels: burnt toast on Harbor View. Classic.
Ten minutes later, sunrise splashes orange across the harbor while I balance a cardboard coffee cup on the truck hood and flip open my Fundraiser to-do binder.
Build dunk tank frame — half done, hinges arrive today.
Source LED stringers — Ben promised extras.
Confirm volunteer umpire — still blank.
Crossing off tasks gives me a jolt stronger than the coffee, so I slam the notebook shut, grab my coffee, climb into the cab of my truck, and tap the battered Hawks bobblehead on my dash. It nods like a tiny, helmeted therapist who still believes in my fastball.
I catch the derelict pier at the stoplight — boards jutting like broken ribs, gulls stalking the posts. Someday I’ll land the grant, sand the planks, string fairy lights, and give this town a place to dance. Someday. The light shifts to green, the image fades, and I keep driving.
I ease onto the cedar-lined back road, windows down, letting the late August air swirl through the cab as Fun.’s “Some Nights” pulses from the speakers. It’s the song that soundtracked every firepit party my junior year, the one that made us feel invincible.
I’ve been driving for forty-five minutes. I drum the wheel, smiling at the memory, then spot the familiar hand-painted sign — Welcome to Bluewater Cove — End of Summer Invitational — and my stomach flips with the good kind of nerves.
The gravel lot is already a tangle of vans, lawn chairs, and coolers. Parents I’ve spent every Saturday with since June wave as I step out. Mr. Patel winks at me— Coach’s lucky coffee is waiting — while Mrs. Ramirez holds up her homemade granola bars like a victory banner. I give them both a grateful thumbs up and head for the dugout.
The kids are there before I reach the fence, jerseys half-tucked, faces streaked with eye black they definitely didn’t need but insisted on anyway. Maya is demonstrating her new curveball grip to Kenzie, who’s nodding like it’s province-secret intel; Josnah’s rereading the lineup card I posted yesterday, mouthing positions to calm his jitters. They look up as one.
“Coach D!” they shout, a messy chorus that drowns the buzz of the concessions stand.
I lean against the dugout roof. “Tournament day, team. You ready to knock this out of the park?”
Ollie pumps a fist. “Ready Freddy!”
Laughter breaks the tension — and that’s half the win. I lead them into a quick stretch, sprinkling reminders: breathe between pitches, follow through on throws, trust each other the way you trusted the drills all season. They finish with the chant they invented in June: “One play, one heart, storm surges!”
Game time. The other team jogs out in pristine uniforms, but confidence isn’t stitched into fabric. Our bench is scuffed, colorful, alive. Bottom of the second, we’re down one. Jonah walks the leadoff batter, shoulders sagging. I call time, jog to the mound, and crouch so we’re eye level.
“Hey,” I murmur, keeping my voice low so only he hears, “what’s the view from up here?”
He blinks, confused. “Um … I can see Mrs. Patel’s neon visor?”
“Perfect. Focus on that bright target behind the plate. One strike at a time. Back pocket trick: exhale as you start the windup — blows the nerves right out.” I offer my glove for a knuckle bump and step off. He inhales, exhales, fires. Strike one blazes past the batter. The dugout erupts.
By the fourth, we’ve clawed back to a tie. Maya’s pitching now, face set with determination beyond her twelve years. After a long at-bat, she walks a hitter; I catch her rubbing her shoulder. I signal time again, but she meets me halfway, whispering, “I’m okay, just tight.” She’s been honest with me all season, so I nod. “Two more batters, then ice.” Boundaries respected, trust reaffirmed.
