I'll Catch You
Your arms in mine.
Any time.
Wouldn’t trade anything.
You’re still my everything.
To my surprise
Before my eyes.
You arrive.
Don’t worry, I’ll catch you.
Don’t worry, I’ll catch you.
Don’t ever worry.
-The Get Up Kids, “I’ll Catch You”
"I need a seat on your next flight to Pittsburgh," I told the woman at the US Airways ticketing counter.
She typed some codes and then looked up sympathetically, "The next plane leaves here in 15 minutes. You'll never get your bags checked in time."
"What if I don't have any bags? Could I make it?"
"If you ran, I'm sure you could."
"Great, charge it," I said, handing her a credit card.
She handed me the ticket and boarding pass, then smiled brightly, "Have a nice flight, Mr. Zito."
I ran towards the security checkpoint, which was very easy to get through since I only had a pair of sunglasses, a set of car keys, and my wallet with me. I got to the gate two minutes before the scheduled takeoff, and somehow I'd lucked out and gotten a window seat. As the ground got further and further away, I started to feel a little better. I'd lived in
California for my entire life, but suddenly, it felt like anything but home.
During the ride to Bridgeville—the area of Pittsburgh where Andy lived—I replayed the day's events in my head. We'd held on, only one run down, for the entire game. And then the ninth inning happened. They got three runs, and you could just feel the life slip out of the dugout. And then Ellis hit that homerun. We were alive; you could feel the electricity in the air.
We were not going out in the first round this year. We couldn't. And then just like that, it was over. All over again.
I rubbed my hand over my eyes, blinking back tears. Maybe this was my fault. Divine punishment for spending the entire series thinking about Andy. First no one could diagnose the problem, then he had to have surgery, and then I was worried about his career…I couldn't keep my mind off of him. If my mind couldn't stay in the game, how was I supposed to have helped my team?
By the time I got to Andy's, I'd convinced myself that I'd jinxed Oakland by not caring enough about the game. I'd been so damn worried about my life, I hadn't paid enough attention to the guys around me. I paid the cab driver silently, afraid to try to speak because of the tears threatening to spill from my eyes.
I stared up curiously at his house, wondering why it was completely dark. I glanced at my watch—it wasn't even midnight yet, it was only 11:37—oh. 11:37 Pacific time. Which meant it was nearly three a.m. in Pittsburgh. No wonder it was dark. But the taxi was gone, I didn't know anyone else in the city, and if I took ten steps in any one direction, I was sure to be completely lost. So I knocked softly on the door.
After a few minutes, the door opened, and my heart jumped. "Barry?" he asked confusedly, running a hand over his hair—or lack of it, as his head had been shaved since the last time I saw him. "What are you doing here?"
I bit my lip, then croaked lamely, "I needed to see you."
He reached for me, pulling me into a warm hug. I hadn't realized how cold it was outside until his hands were on me. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly against my ear.
I buried my face in his T-shirt, "Not really," I whispered as he closed the door behind me.
"You have to be tired," he said as he ushered me up the stairs, "it's been a long day for you," he added as we got to his bedroom. It was messier than I'd ever seen it-his blankets were in all different directions, falling off of his king-sized bed.
"Rough night?" I asked with a half-smile.
He grinned sheepishly and stared at his feet, "Not really…it hurts too bad to try to fix them."
I grimaced, angry with myself for not asking how he felt. I touched my hand to his stomach, then tugged at his T-shirt hem, "Can I see?" He nodded, so I pulled the shirt up, exposing four tiny incisions. The surgical glue holding them closed was nearly black
because of the dried blood underneath. I winced as I ran my fingers over the cuts, then I fell to my knees in front of him and pressed a kiss to the center of his abdomen, then rested my cheek against the solid warmth there. "Does it hurt all of the time?"
"Pretty much, but its only been three days since the surgery. It'll take a while before the pain is gone," he answered as he ran his fingers through my hair.
"I'm so sorry that this had to happen to you," I murmured as I stood up, locking my hands around his waist.
He slipped his hands up onto my shoulders and then behind my neck, "I really missed you this week. Well…I always miss you, but…this week was so hard. I haven't slept well in over a month—I miss waking up with you. Between that, being scared, and the pain-I don't think I've slept at all since I came out of surgery," I kissed his forehead, then his cheeks, then his lips. He smiled softly, "Oh, and by the way, the ESPN announcers are assholes."
I laughed, "Really?"
"Mmmhmm. First they were bitching about you having a bad game—before you'd even given up a hit-and then they killed your no-hitter."
"How'd they do that?"
"They talked about it. That's like mentioning a goalie having a shutout 16 minutes into the third period. You just don't say it—you’ll jinx it. And that's what they
did."
I shrugged, "It doesn't matter. We still lost the series. Again," I swallowed hard, "and I couldn't do anything to stop it."
His eyebrows knotted up, "What else could you have done? You won the only game you played."
"I don't know. But I should have been able to," I replied, "I mean. I keep hearing people talk about the Cy Young. If I'm that fucking good, I should have been able to do something. I would have gone in after Mark. Or something. Anything. If I deserved the Cy Young, we'd have won that fucking series."
He held my face in his hands and pulled me down until my forehead was resting on his. "Barry, you don't control the rotation. You were given one game; you won that one game. You did everything possible."
"No I didn't," I sighed, "I couldn't keep my head in the game. I kept wondering how you were, if you were scared, if you were in pain, if you were all alone, crying yourself to sleep. But I was so fucking helpless. I just sat there and watched. I couldn't help my team win; I couldn't help you. I let my team down," I paused long enough to meet his eyes, "I let you down."
"You want to know the truth?" he asked. "Yes, I was scared. Terrified. I didn't know what was wrong with me. I didn't know if I would ever play again. It all hurt so much, and yes, there were nights when I cried myself to sleep. But I'm okay. In a month, I'll be on the ice again and this will just be an unpleasant memory."
"But I wasn't here for you."
He smiled, "Yes you were. Even if you couldn't physically be here, you were in my mind all along. I know that you care about me, Barry. You don't have to be here with me for me to know that. I love you, and that got me through."
I swallowed hard, blinking back tears, "I love you, Andy. You're so important to me, and I was so scared for you. I love you and need you…and I want you so much."
He grinned lasciviously, "I want you too, babe. Believe me. But it’s late, and I haven't slept in a few days. And I finally have my favorite snuggling buddy back. Let's go to bed."
I pouted, "What, you don't want me?"
He crawled carefully into bed while I fixed the blankets, "Oh no, trust me. I want you. But I'll still want you tomorrow morning."
I kicked off my shoes and got into bed, cuddling up against him. He kissed the top of my head, running his fingers over my back. As I started to doze off, he laughed softly, "I'll definitely want you in the morning. And during lunch." I smiled and hugged him closer.
"And then in the shower. And on the couch while we watch TV. And again on the kitchen table after dinner. And then…"
"That's it," I exclaimed as I dove under the covers and started tugging on his boxers, "I can't wait until tomorrow."
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