Chapter Text
The interior of the red Ford F-150 is a vacuum of 1990s upholstery and high-stakes parental encouragement. It is a short drive to the Arlen Little League fields, but for Bobby Hill, sitting in the center of the bench seat between his parents, it feels like a slow ascent up a gallows. The vinyl sticks to the back of his thighs, and the scent of Hank’s Paco Rabanne aftershave mingles with the dusty smell of the dashboard. Hank’s hands are at ten and two, his eyes fixed on the road with the intensity of a man transporting volatile chemicals. He's already in "Coach" mode, even though he is merely a spectator today.
"Now don't you worry, son," Peggy says, reaching across Bobby to pat his knee with a flourish of maternal confidence. "You just do your best. And as a substitute teacher of the year, I can tell you that your best is statistically superior to most other children's 'great'."
Hank grunts, his jaw tightening. "Don't listen to her, Bobby. If you want to win, you're gonna have to do better than your best. 'Best' is just the baseline. It’s what you do when you’re not trying to be a hero."
Bobby stares out the windshield at the passing strip malls, feeling a hollow ache in his chest. He feels like a failure before he’s even stepped onto the grass. Nothing he does—whether it’s his prop comedy, his interest in modern "toilet" music, or his batting average—ever seems to reach the mysterious, shifting goalposts his father sets.
"How do I do that?" Bobby asks, his voice flat, devoid of the usual theatrical flair.
"You gotta give 110 percent," Hank declares, as if reciting a holy commandment. "That's what'll give you that winning edge. It’s about that extra ten percent that the other guy is too lazy to find."
Bobby blinks, his mind trying to reconcile the mathematics. "But what if the Wildcats give 110 percent, too?"
Hank’s brow furrows. He hadn't accounted for the Wildcats having a father as dedicated as himself. "Well, then you gotta try even harder. You dig deeper."
Peggy taps her chin, her eyes alight with the thrill of academic debate. "Hank, if the opposition is also at 110, perhaps Bobby should aim higher. How about if Bobby gave 112 percent?"
"Sure, that'd work," Hank mutters, checking his side mirror.
"Or maybe 113," Bobby suggests, a tiny, desperate part of him hoping to see how far this absurdity can go before it collapses.
Hank sighs, a long, weary sound that signals his patience is fraying like an old fan belt. "Yeah, yeah, that's even better. 113. Fine."
"No, I don't know," Peggy interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. "13 is a very unlucky number. We wouldn't want to invite a curse onto the diamond, Hank. Especially with Bobby’s tendency to lose his balance during the wind-up."
Hank’s grip on the steering wheel turns his knuckles white. The conversation has veered away from grit and into the realm of superstition, and it’s making his neck itch. "Look, we're not talking about 13. We're talking about 113, and even—Okay, give 112, what's the difference? Look, Bobby, just do your best, okay?"
The "okay" at the end isn't a suggestion; it’s a plea for the boy not to embarrass the Hill name by striking out looking. Hank pulls the truck into a gravel spot near the third-base line. The engine cuts out, leaving a sudden, ringing silence. Bobby hops out of the cab, the hot Texas air hitting him like a physical weight. He feels small. He feels like he is wearing a costume he didn't ask for. He reaches into the pocket of his oversized shorts and pulls out his tin whistle—a cheap, nickel-plated instrument he’d found at a garage sale that felt better in his hands than any wooden bat ever could. He hangs his leather glove around his left wrist, the weight of it dragging at his arm.
As he begins the long trek toward the dugout, the dust of the parking lot kicking up around his cleats, Bobby brings the whistle to his lips. He doesn't play a march or a fight song. He plays a soft, wandering melody—thin, high, and lonely. It’s a grounded sound, a silver thread in the middle of a world demanding 112 percent of something he isn't sure he possesses. To the other kids, he’s just the weird kid with the flute; to Bobby, it’s the only way to keep his heart from sinking into the Arlen dirt.