Jordan said nothing, trailing him. The gym was filled with the activity and noise of fifty boys running, drilling, and catching.

“I hear a lot of nice things about you from Coach Natale.” Chris kept his tone light, to get some good vibes going. “He told me he really enjoyed coaching you.”

“Oh.” Jordan half-smiled, head down.

“He also said you’ve really improved.”

Jordan didn’t say anything, walking in his characteristic stooped fashion along the plastic curtain.

“It’s hard to improve, I find. But you did it. You made varsity.”

Jordan nodded, with a slight smile.

“You might even start tomorrow.”

Jordan nodded again.

“How did you do it?”

“I don’t know.” Jordan shrugged.

“Somebody teach you?”

“Not really.”

“You wanna know who taught me to play baseball? My mom.” Chris rolled his eyes, self-deprecating, as they reached the opening in the curtain and entered the isolated part of the gym, which was empty.

“Huh.” Jordan half-smiled, and Chris decided to carry the conversational ball, hoping to lay a foundation for Jordan to open up.

“My mom is awesome, was awesome. I was close to her. Unfortunately, my dad was a real jerk. A drunk, actually.” Chris heard the ring of truth in his words, since one of his foster fathers had lived inside the bottle. “My mother tried to be the mom and a dad, both. She was tall and bowled in a league. She’s the one who bought me my first glove, even helped me oil it. She took me to the park and taught me how to throw.”

“Huh.” Jordan met Chris’s eyes for the first time. “I learned from YouTube.”

“Really?” Chris couldn’t remember when YouTube had started.

“Sure, I watched a lot of YouTube videos. I still do. There are professional ones like MLB Network. They have Pedro Martinez talking about Colon. I like them but I like the amateur ones, like, from college and high-school coaches. They take it slower and explain. I think that’s how I got better. I worked on my mechanics. That’s what recruiters look for. Good mechanics.”

“It’s true, you can’t get to the next level without good mechanics.” Chris realized that Jordan warmed up when the subject was baseball. “I like videos, but some aren’t worth it. Is there one you recommend? A favorite?”

“Yeah, it’s from Texas. It’s mad technical but the coach explains it in a way you can understand.”

“Can you send me the link? My email’s on my teacher page.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” Chris had just opened up a line of communication to the boy. “I also heard you picked up some new pitches.”

“Yeah. I had a fastball, two-seam, and a change-up. My curve was okay. I added a three-seam, a slider, and a sinker.”

“Wow, terrific.” Chris imagined Jordan training himself with only videos for guidance. Overall, Chris was hearing solitude, even loneliness, which he would exploit to his advantage.

“Plus I worked on my legs. They were too skinny. I was all arms before, when I pitched.”

“Legs matter.”

“The power comes from the legs and hips.”

“Exactly. Good for you.” Chris decided to plant another seed. “Hey, listen, before we get started, I’m sorry about what happened at the beginning of practice, with me and Coach Hardwick. That was kind of, uh, embarrassing.”

“I know, right?” Jordan’s eyes flared. “On your birthday, even.”

“Right.” Chris had totally forgotten that it was his fake birthday, but Jordan hadn’t, an excellent sign. “I was late because I was talking to Coach Natale, but I don’t want you to think I disrespected the team.”

“No, Coach, I wouldn’t think that. I don’t think that.”

“I care about the team as much as I care about my class. Coaching and teaching, they’re two sides of the same coin.” Chris looked down as if he were feeling shame anew, then screwed the baseball into his glove. “Did you enjoy class today, by the way? It was fun, right?”

“Sure, yeah.” Jordan smiled.

“Okay, let’s have a catch. You need to warm up, and I need to blow off steam.”

“Okay.” Jordan smiled, warmly.

“Then we’ll move into your new pitches. I heard so many good things that I wanted to see it for myself.” Chris backed up, and Jordan walked in the other direction. Chris rotated his arm to loosen it up, ignoring the ache from his batting-cage workouts, then threw to Jordan. The boy threw it back effortlessly, the ball making a smooth arc that was a product of innate athletic talent and muscle memory.

Chris caught it and tossed it back harder to establish some credibility, and the ball made a solid thump when it reached Jordan’s glove. Jordan threw it back harder, too, and as they went back and forth, Chris could discern an overall relaxation of the boy’s body, his movements becoming more fluid, throwing and catching as if at play. Jordan even laughed when Chris’s throws went wide or high, and each time he did, Chris made sure to say “attaboy” or “well done.”

Chris realized that playing catch was a bonding thing, better than conversation, especially with a boy who was more comfortable with action than words. He thought of that old movie Field of Dreams, about the son who wanted to have a catch with his father. Oddly, Chris found himself wondering why so many fathers were missing, including his own. He only rarely thought about his father anymore, a man he’d never met. It was past.

Chris tossed the ball to Jordan for the last time. “You good to go?”

Jordan nodded.

Chris got the face mask, put it on, and positioned himself about the right distance, then dropped into a catcher’s crouch. “Okay, don’t kill me!”

Jordan stepped up onto the pitcher’s mound, of white rubber. “Don’t worry, if you got good insurance!”

“Ha!” Chris put down one finger, an old-school signal for a fastball.

Jordan wound up, lifting his front leg and rearing back, then pitched perfectly, releasing at the right moment and following through, back leg raised. The ball zoomed toward the strike zone.

“Nice!” Chris caught the ball, impressed. The ball speed had to be at least eighty or eighty-five miles an hour. He threw it back.