Twinkle Fiddles

Chapter Twenty-Four

"So, how many games end like this anyway?" Julie shifted in her hard, stadium, chair back seat. When she last checked her pink watch, it was approaching eleven p.m., and that was before they danced their most recent shag.

Dylan pulled his scorebook from between their seats, where it had rested for the last few hours. "Not many, a few long delays, but at some point, they'll call it tonight, and come back tomorrow morning. Do we need to leave?"

"No, it's okay, I was wondering, that's all." Julie hadn't bonded like this with Dylan in months. She wasn't about to abandon this experience. "It looks like a lot of games in there, lots of memories."

"So, this is when we went to UNC." Dylan described the game he had randomly opened the scorebook to find. "I had been staying with a friend over spring break when I had car trouble. Her mom let us take their minivan. It was a day game. We left early in the morning came back that night, kind of a quick up and back. The radio didn't work and all she had was a Disney CD. We listened to the Tarzan Soundtrack the entire trip to and from Chapel Hill."

"You know you could have talked," offered Julie.

"Yeah that or listened to Tarzan. And by the way, I still know the words to all those Phil Collins songs."

Julie laughed, "I think you know the words to more Disney songs than you'll ever admit."

"Yeah, probably," he agreed before turning to the next game and another story. "So, it's still spring break, I got the Jeep fixed. The team was playing Coastal Carolina, in Conway, near Myrtle Beach. A friend of ours had an oceanfront house at Surfside so we stayed there. We lost the game but went to Broadway at the Beach afterwards. That's where I bought the pirate flag."

"The one in your car now?"

"Yeah, there's this huge kite shop there. I saw the flag and had to have it. A couple of weeks later I ripped the top, and hung up the flag, been there ever since."

"You know this isn't about baseball."

"What do you mean?" Dylan looked at scribbling on the side. It was in a girl's delicate handwriting that read, "Road to Omaha."

"It's the experiences of what this special time meant to you. Your friends, your memories. Can I see it?" Julie asked as she reached to the scorebook.

She flipped through a few pages before turning to the beginning and the first recorded game. On the inside cover there was an inscription, in the same distinct female handwriting pattern.

I believe in long white pants; letters are stitched across the chest, numerals on the back. I believe in runs, hits, and errors, and men left on base. Where you green light your best hitter, and trust your ace and his low hanging curve on a full count. There are lazy rollers and drives up the middle, a bunt inside the chalk. I believe in road trips and knowing it's better at home. You should congratulate your opponent when you are the one advancing with walk-offs and dog piles. I believe in family and friends, and in a place where we celebrate victories, support defeats, and know rain brings patience and hope. I believe in baseball.

-B

"I like that, kind of poetic. Who said it, who's 'B?'"

"' B' is for Berkeley. She used to sign things that way," he explained. "She wrote it, used to believe in it."

"Odd name, Berkeley. I think I'd use 'B' too." Julie said, more concerned about the girl, than the sentiment.

Dylan clarified her name. "She was from a little town called Moncks' Corner, South Carolina. It's in Berkeley County. Her parents liked the name, so she was Berkeley."