𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲 | 𝐛. 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐳

𝐭𝐰𝐨 | 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

     SEVEN YEARS AGO, Benny and I were only seventeen years old. Seven years ago, I broke his heart... It wasn't by choice.

     Benny's lips part as he looks at me. He knows who I am but just can't remember. He must've pushed me away into the back of his mind—forgotten me. I don't blame him. He stands inside his dugout, his face partially hidden by the shadows. But I know it's him. I stand at the opposite dugout in the largest stadium in the Nation. I wear my old beat-up pair of P.F. Flyers and pull on a beat-up Dodgers baseball cap—the cap he bought for me when I first moved to San Fernando Valley. I grab my microphone, standing in front of the camera before Manny queues me. I brush my hair off of my navy and white striped clad shoulder. He counts down from five and I take in a sharp breath. I turn my back, looking away from Benny. I have a job to focus on.
     "Good evening, Sports Central viewers, this is Clark Harris and Michelle Brooks. Tonight, we bring you the live game of the Los Angeles Dodgers versus the Chicago Cubs tonight in Dodger stadium! Our reporter on the scene, Lennon Davis. Lennon?" Clark says.
     I clear my throat and smile onto the camera. Manny points at me and I receive the queue.
     "Hello, Clark and Michelle! It's great to be here tonight at Dodger Stadium!" I exclaim, smiling.
     I look around, turning back abruptly to look for Benny.
     "Oh man, I love your hat, Len! Looks great on you! So, how's the crowd tonight? Hyped up, I suppose?" Michelle asks.
     I turn back towards the camera, trying to focus. I nod, smiling at the camera, pretending I'm standing face to face with Clark and Michelle, two of my best friends from the broadcasting center. The crowd cheers and I can see my face up on a screen above the Cubs' dugout.
     "They certainly are, Michelle. I've also been in touch with the attendance managers and they've reported that there are roughly about 49,065 people here tonight! This is gonna be a game to watch, folks." I state.
     I can hear the crowd cheering as the Dodgers game gets closer to starting and they get closer to seeing their star player—Benny 'The Jet' Rodriguez.
     "Lennon, I remember you telling us that Dodger stadium is one of the largest, if not the largest, stadium in the Nation." Michelle says.
     I nod, looking around. I point to the stadium, motioning to all the filled seats.
     "That's true, Michelle! Dodger stadium is the largest in the nation with 56,000 available seats for any game you want to attend in Dodger stadium! Earlier, you heard me say that about 49,065 people attended the game today, that's about 88 percent attendance to today's game—a pretty good attendance if you ask me." I say.
     I can hear the game getting louder and louder as the game grows closer to starting.
"Well, Len, it looks like the game there is about to start. We will let you go and will get an update from you at the seventh inning." Michelle says.
     I nod, smiling at the camera. I imagine looking them in the eye and shouting from the rooftop my obsession with Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez.
     "Thanks, Michelle. Talk to both of you soon." I say.
     Manny turns off the camera and I groan out, squeezing my eyes shut tightly. I hate secrets. I hate sharing secrets. I hate keeping secrets. They always turn out this way.

     Benjamin 'The Jet' Rodriguez was the best batter the Sandlot had ever seen. It's like he was made for baseball. All he did was eat, sleep, and breathe baseball. When he was playing baseball, nothing else mattered. The bat connecting with the ball and hitting it out of the park was all he wanted. Nothing more. He'd take the bat into his hands, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, and wait for Kenny to pitch. The pitch was typically a hot one—maybe a heater, or a curve, or a cutter. Something hard. Something Benny could always hit. Benny was that good. He was a natural.
     When I would go to the Sandlot, I would play in the game. I was a decent second baseman. I was a hell of a shortstop. But I typically played outfield. Center. I, however, liked to observe. But, for me, the point of going to the Sandlot wasn't to play baseball. It was to observe the players—to observe Benny. The other players were vanilla to the heat Benny served. It was contagious, being around him. Intoxicating. He was never angry, or upset. He spoke the truth about everything. About everyone. He was honest and kind. Baseball was the ground he grew on. Some people grew like a weed in baseball—toxic and angry and violent. Like Phillips. Others, however, thrived under the sun of the sandlot. People like Benny. When Smalls joined the group, that made us into a full ten players. A batter and a full set. It worked well. Until we all started getting older.
     If I could go back in time and stop wishing my summer to come, I would. I wasted my time with Benny and the others. I lost it all too suddenly. Three days before I turned eighteen, Dad got a new job and was dragging us back to New York. Now that I finally had friends, a life, people I didn't want to lose. And I didn't even have time to warn everyone. The day I left, was the last time I ever saw them. All I got was ten minutes to say goodbye, six of which were spent with Benny. As soon as my feet left the ground and I stepped into the bar, I was on my way to New York. I spent my birthday in a shady motel scared that I might die in the shower if I mustered up the courage to even take one.

     That was seven years ago. I don't know what happened to everyone. I'm assuming they all followed their passions. But I know one thing—Benny made it. Benny made it.