I grinned wildly as I pressed the camera to my face and zoomed in on Rome at-bat. The fans adored him. How could they not?
I had a brief moment to appreciate his athletic form as he took position, batting righty, which gave a good view from first base. The amiable and easy smiles he had given me during pregame faded to the consternation of someone on a mission. His lips pursed together, feet planted, hands loosely moving the bat. His entire body exuded the potential for power, like a weightlifter gripping the barbell before yanking the thing upward.
I snapped a burst of photos as the pitcher threw the first ball. Rome’s left leg lifted as he steppedintothe pitch, as if he was too eager to get things going. His entire torso contorted as he swung with what appeared to be controlled anger.
Zip.
The ball sailed on by and landed in the catcher’s glove. I knew enough about the game to call that a strike.
Rome cracked his neck. Reset. The ball returned to the pitcher and I returned to my camera.
Zip.
Another strike. I frowned. Well, there’d be nine innings of this and surely I could get a good—
Crack!
I snapped a burst of photos of the hit but immediately lowered the camera as my jaw loosened. I targeted the ball flying high and far where it landed somewhere in the stands in the outfield. My eyes widened.
“Wow,” I whispered to myself.
Rome flipped his bat toward the opposing team’s dugout and slow-jogged his way around the bases. Two runs for the Riders.
I followed his movements with my camera as the crowd boomed with, “Ro-mo! Ro-mo! Ro-mo!” I found myself quietly chanting with them. I zoomed right in on Rome’s face as his cleats hit home base. Curiously, he crossed himself, then kissed his fingers. I shouldn’t have found that odd—there were plenty of religious athletes—but I did. I tracked him all the way back to the dugout where he made a brief stop and grabbed a ball from a bin. Someone handed him a pen, which he used to scribble on the ball. He headed back out and went right to the little sick boy. I had never seen someone so excited in my life, like it was Christmas morning for that little guy. Rome handed the ball to him.
Click.
I lost interest in the game when Rome didn’t take the field. Instead, I bided my time by glancing at his Wikipedia page, trying to hide my phone from the other photographers so I didn’t seem like a creep. My eyes glazed over when I saw the innumerable amounts of statistics with enough zeroes and decimal points to make me go cross-eyed. The hell did any of that stuff mean? I did see that Romolo Francesco Moretti (really,though, how could that be any more Italian) was thirty-one years of age, one year older than me. Important stuff now reviewed, I skipped right to the section for his personal life.
Moretti is known for keeping his personal life private. He often avoids the media’s spotlight despite the achievements of his career. His exceptional ability to deflect inquiries and avoid intrusive questions has led to the creation of a popular internet meme featuring Moretti humorously pretending not to hear reporters’ questions during interviews. Despite this avoidance, Moretti is known to be very close with his family and can speak fluent Italian. He has also been listed on many “most eligible bachelor” publications.
A private fella. I could respect that.
Crack!
“Oh, here we go,” Bill said.
I dropped my phone and lifted my camera while tracking the flying ball. I knew instantly it would be in center field somewhere. It was the top of the fourth, which meant Rome was somewhere…
Found him. I had my focus adjusted and everything ready, watching as Rome backpedaled toward the wall with his head locked onto the sky. He took a careful glance behind him, looked back at the ball, and took a running leap. My camera burst into action as I held down the button. Frame after frame after frame of Rome and his perfect athlete’s body leaping to catch the ball, crashing into the padding of the wall, and slamming back down onto the ground with his glove raised.
A massive reaction came from the crowd. A quick glance at the scoreboard told me that was the last out needed to end the top of the fourth. I watched as Rome crossed himself again, tossed the ball toward home, and jogged infield.
As he neared, I felt Rome’s eyes scan the camera well until he found me standing next to my good friend, Bill. He held out bothhands, as if in question, brow raised.
Is he… asking me if I got the shot?
I gave him the thumbs-up and Rome pumped the air with his fist. He ran by and went into the dugout.
“Did he…?” Bill said, his voice trailing off. “Did he just ask if we got that on camera?”
“I think so,” I said with hesitation.
Bill scratched the back of his head. “He’s never donethatbefore.”
Rome was back out of the dugout again, this time with a wooden baseball bat as he scrawled his signature on it. He went back to his new little buddy and handed it over. I almost forgot to bring my camera up in time to snap a picture. I had been too busy staring in awe. Were all Major League Baseball players this generous?
Time dripped by like molasses until Rome was up to bat again. When he finally was, I lasered in like I took pictures of heads of state. His eyes shot right to me in the well as I zoomed up on him. And then he winked.
