It's the last game of the season. I go down to the field to watch warm ups. There's a groupie talking to Coach C. He had said he was going to wear pink earlier (when he complimented me on my sweater, which was pink, and said he liked me in pink), so I asked him where it was. "I’m wearing pink undies," he says, to Groupie’s delight. He asks if I’ll be back next year and says he’d like to be, if he can’t be in the big leagues. Right there with you, buddy. TM finishes stretching and comes over. "Here’s your two favorite fans," C says to him.

 

The Redbirds do not manage a baserunner until there is one out in the eighth inning, against a Nashville pitcher who this season has gone 5-12 with a 6.53 ERA, and who has a little boy who will grow up to be a Super Bowl champion. 

  

After. TM is walking toward the parking garage, on the concourse. He glances at me and says, "Bye Molly." I wave. He waves. I burst into tears. Not really. I call Marketing Guy to see if people are sticking around to hang out after the game. (Later, I find out that this is actually a tradition, where all staff can go hang out in the pavilion, but no one told me.) He says there are some people, but not a lot, drinking out in the pavilion. He is not planning to stay, and S is not there. MG laughs. "[Big Leaguer] just drove out on the warning track," he says. TM catches up to me at the gates and looks down at me. "What are you doing?"

M: Nothing. Some people are out in the pavilion, drinking, but I think I’m just gonna go home.

We wait for the elevator. He steps up right in front of me – I mean, RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, to the point where I have to tilt my head back all the way to look up at him – and says something, low, so I can’t hear him.

M: What?

TM: (still talking low, and grinning now) I said, are you still trying to make me let you practice [on me]?

M: (raises eyebrows, smiles) Uh...well...

TM: (grinning) You’re thinking about it?

M: Mmm...no...I mean, because I want you to be good! ... And everything. ... 

Second floor. We step off. My car is parked right by the elevator. His is parked about halfway down the row, on the left. 

M: Well...have a good off-season...

TM: Come down here with me, to my truck. ... So ... I mean, we could do it right here (as he looks toward the passenger seat of his truck).

M: No, I have a thing against parking garages.

TM: Heh. Okay. Well, come here.

He hugs me again, pats me on the back twice, and then smacks my butt twice. Hee! He is giving me on of the leaning-down hugs, and it is really, really nice. He steps back.
TM: Be good.

M: Yeah. You too.

 

Then he gets in his car and says something about having a good off-season, and I respond in kind, but it’s weird, because I mean, he could be coming back next year but probably he won’t be, and I probably will be back, but I might not be. He watches me walk away, and waves with two fingers, and we exchange good-byes, and then I yell, "Don’t forget me," to which he smiles and says, "I won’t." Although he’s probably just saying that, whereas I will probably remember him forever. And if I don’t, I’ll read about it here.

 

We leave the ballpark. At the I-40 interchange, he goes west and I go east.