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It’s the middle of September when Blaine gets called up with the expanded roster. The big league team’s catcher is old with bad knees and a worse arm and Blaine still gets butterflies in his stomach when he thinks of the phone call, "pack your bags kid. You’re getting on an airplane”.
Even though fall is fast aproaching, he’s in Los Angeles and it never really gets cold. None of his teammates wear long sleeve shirts under their jerseys and the scoreboard flashes a temperature in the mid-80’s, but Blaine still has goosebumps along his arms all night.
He’s not in the starting line-up. Most of the call-ups aren’t. The Dodgers are in a pennant race, half a game behind Kurt’s San Francisco Giants, and they have all of their best players starting. Blaine is content to sit on the bench and take everything in; the roar from the crowd, the smell of pine tar and leather, the stadium lights that are so bright they’re almost blinding.
It’s the bottom of the eighth when he feels his life change. "Anderson, you’re pinch hitting for Martinez!" is called out from somewhere down the bench and Blaine’s heart jumps into his throat, his feet suddenly made of concrete. He grips his hands onto the wooden bench and blinks his eyes a few times, trying to make sense of the words and clear the ringing from his ears. "Let’s go, hustle, you’re on deck!" is shouted loud and impatient, his manager’s voice tough and cutting through the the chit chat around him.
In an instant he’s up, reaching for his helmet and gloves, momentarily forgetting his bat in the process. When he grips onto the handle, he starts to calm down. It’s just baseball, he reminds himself. It doesn’t matter if he’s in Kurt’s backyard in Ohio or on the field of Dodger Stadium; this is what he loves to do.
He doesn’t hear his when his name is called out over the loud speaker or the fans who cheer his name, doesn’t see the sea of blue and white jerseys in the stands. Everything is a blur, out of focus, as he takes the steps of the dugout one at a time and makes his way over to the on deck circle.
He takes a few practice swings, digs his toes in the dirt, and breaths so deeply he feels like his lungs may explode.
Now batting for the Dodgers. Number 25. Blaine Anderson.