* * *
As soon asthe fans clear out, we break out the keg. Chris and Andy hoist it onto the field and place it on home plate. The entire varsity team huddles around, waiting for their chance to pump the tap into a red plastic cup.
I’ve never been one for hazing rituals or cult-like team bonding exercises, but this one Wolfpack tradition feels like a fitting send-off to our season — and, for some, to the game in general. Most of these guys won’t play at the collegiate level. Certainly not in the minor or major leagues. Which means, as of tonight, their baseball careers are effectively over.
When all eighteen of us have full cups, we gather in one final player huddle.
“Wolfpack on three!” I yell, holding up my cup toward the sky, where a full moon is rising.
A chorus of voices joins in, cups lifting to join mine. “One… two… three…WOLFPACK!”
We chug until our cups are dry.
Then we fill them up again.
And repeat… and repeat… and repeat… until I’ve lost track of how many beers I’ve consumed. Until the world has turned into a tilt-a-whirl, spinning madly all around me.
For one night only, I don’t worry about repercussions or responsibilities. I allow myself to be just another one of the guys, laughing at stupid jokes, reminiscing over our best plays, celebrating the end of something that, in many ways, defined my teenage years.
My eyes sweep around the empty stadium. Without the bright overhead lights blazing, it’s lit only by moonlight. The bases glow in the dark, white squares shining in a perfect diamond formation. The pitcher’s mound is a dark hill at the center.
There are many things I will not miss about Exeter Academy of Excellence. The god-awful green uniforms, for one. Don’t get me started on the demanding teachers. The pretentious students. The utter lack of diversity in the student body.
But I will miss this. Being a Wolf. Screaming my lungs out with my teammates on a dirt patch three nights a week, knowing we’re about to send our rivals home with wounded pride.
I never feel quite myself during the off-season. Without baseball, I am utterly unexceptional. Just like any other guy on the street. For months on end, I walk around with restless hands, waiting for the day I’ll finally pick up my glove again. It’s as though I’ve pushed the mute button on the most vital part of me.
I still haven’t quite wrapped my head around the fact that the next time I play, it’ll be in another stadium entirely. Another state. Another chapter. But for tonight… for one last night… I am still a Wolf. I push the future aside as I howl up at the full moon with the teammates who’ve become unlikely friends.
At some point, someone discovers that The State Championship trophy — shaped like a massive chalice with ornate gold handles — makes for a perfect drinking goblet. Lee Park shoves it into my hands, filled to the brim with frothy beer.
I laugh as I lift it to my lips, already regretting the headache I’m going to have in the morning but far too buzzed to argue.
“REY-ES! REY-ES! REY-ES!”
The entire team chants, their volume growing to a roaring crescendo as I begin to chug the contents. I don’t stop until the chalice is completely empty.
“Hell yeah!” Chris pounds my back, grinning ear to ear. “That’s how it’s done!”
“Yo! Reyes!” Andy calls, picking up a bat and giving it a few lopsided swings. “Let’s see if you can still strike me out when you’re blackout drunk.”
“Hilton, I could strike you out blindfolded.”
He tosses the bat at me. I dodge it, stumbling slightly. My reflexes are slower than usual, sloshing around beneath a layer of foam.
“Ah yes. The great Archer Reyes.” Ryan Snyder scoffs sarcastically, shooting me a scathing look across the keg. Even in the dark, his double black eyes are apparent. “A hundred bucks says he crashes and burns before his first collegiate season. Any takers?”
There’s a collective intake of air as silence falls over the rowdy group.
Snyder isn’t done. His slurred voice booms into the night like a thunderclap. “Two hundred bucks says he never even makes it off the bench!” He smirks. “Archer Reyes is nothing but a flash in the pan.”
In the suffocating quiet that follows, I set down the trophy with deliberate slowness. Screwing up my face in faux-confusion, I glance around the group, then back at Ryan’s twin black eyes.
“Sorry… could someone translate what he just said?” I ask. “I don’t speak raccoon.”
Chris snorts beer out his nose.
Snyder takes two steps toward me, tossing his empty cup to the ground. His fists swing up into a fighting stance. “You want to go, asshole?”