Read It Was Me for Free Online Page B

faces. I saw a range of ages, but most looked in their early to mid-twenties, guys who wanted one more shot.
    Or maybe, guys who'd never gotten one. Like me.
    I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked between Abby and her dad  as we headed toward the stadium. Abby didn't try to hold my hand. I think she sensed my anxiety and was trying to give me space.
    We found the sign-in table and I filled out the three page release. It asked for personal information, plus my baseball experience. I had to explain why I was under scholarship to Stanford, then released from the scholarship. It didn't help settle my nerves in any way.
    I turned in the clipboard to the two guys at the table and they gave me a number to pin to the back of my T-shirt. They pointed me toward the entrance to the field and said I had about fifteen minutes until we got started.
    Abby took the number from me and spun me around. “Do you hate me right now?”
    “Never.”
    “I hope not.”
    “Abs, I told you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be here.”
    “I guess.” She tugged on my shirt, then turned me back around. “But I know I can be pretty persuasive.”
    “You can,” I told her. “But this is my thing.”
    “Okay,” she said.
    “I need to go get loose,” I said. “Wish me luck.”
    She squeezed my elbow, then stretched up and kissed me. “You don't need luck. You'll be great. But however you are, I'll love you when you're done.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “Love you, too.”
    I watched her head into the stands, then found the gate to the field and stepped out onto the grass. I set my bag next to the fence, pulled the glove out of the bag and found another guy without a partner who wanted to throw a little bit. We set ourselves parallel to the first baseline in the outfield and tossed the ball back and forth. My shoulder was already loose from the morning run and the heat and the throwing was easy. My partner seemed a bit unsure with his glove and had a goofy hitch in his throwing motion.
    At least I knew I was better than one other guy there.
    After a few minutes, he begged off, saying he wanted to do some jogging. I tossed the glove against my bag and sat down, stretching my legs out, making sure nothing was tight in my legs or back. I spotted Abby and her dad up in the stands. They were having a conversation and not looking my way. I turned my eyes back to the field. Guys were tossing the ball back and forth, sprinting the foul lines, taking imaginary cuts with their bats. It was impossible to tell who was legit and who was not.
    A guy strode out to home plate and hollered for us to bring it in. A couple of eager beavers sprinted toward him, probably hoping their hustle and enthusiasm would help them stand out. It did, but only in a way that made other guys roll their eyes. The guy at home was dressed in khakis and a golf shirt, his hair was buzzed short and he looked like a baseball player that had aged gracefully. He didn't smile much and he was blunt.
    “There's a good chance all of you will go home today and never hear from any of us again,” he said, his eyes scanning all of us. “That's just the reality. If any team is interested, they'll contact you. I'd suggest not contacting them unless you want to make sure you never hear from any team ever again.”
    Snickers snaked through the crowd.
    “We're going to rotate you through stations,” he said. “Pretty routine stuff. We'll get you divided into groups in just a moment and then we'll get started. I'd say it'll take us two to three hours to get through everyone. Any questions?”
    There weren't and he waved over several coaches or scouts or whoever they were and started dividing us up into groups. The group I was placed in was set up to run the bases first. They would time us twice, once going up the line to first, then again going all the way around the bases. I was glad this was my first station. I was fast, I was warmed up, and it was pretty hard to screw up running the