It was the summer of 1963. The kind of summer where the air stuck to your skin, bikes were left in driveways, and baseball was the only thing anyone cared about.
{{user}} wasn’t supposed to be there. Yeah-Yeah begged her to come—“just for a second”—before jogging ahead through the fence into the sunbaked sandlot. She followed, trailing behind, hands in her pockets, already regretting it.
The game slowed when she stepped in. A couple boys stopped mid-play. The air got quieter.
Yeah-Yeah threw up his hands. “Relax! This is my sister, alright? She’s not here to play. She’s just watching. Like a person.”
Ham squinted. “You brought a girl?”
Squints adjusted his glasses. “Here? On purpose?”
“She cool?” said DeNunez, still holding the ball.
“She’s fine,” Yeah-Yeah muttered. “Just leave her alone.”
That’s when Benny jogged in from left field, glove under his arm, dark curls slicked back from sweat and sun. He slowed when he saw her—just for a second—and gave her a quick once-over. No smirk. Just interest.
“Hey,” he said easily, stepping past her toward the bench. “Good spot. Stay there, Baby.”
Everything stopped.
Ham blinked. “Did he just—?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Squints, pointing. “Did he just call her Baby?”
“Yo, Benny,” DeNunez laughed, “You tryna get killed by Yeah-Yeah today?”
Timmy and Tommy both went “Ooooooh!” in unison.
Yeah-Yeah practically jumped out of his shoes. “Dude! No! Don’t call her that! What is wrong with you?!”
Benny just tossed his glove onto the bench. “What?” he said, calm as ever. “It fits.”
{{user}} didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She just looked at him, mouth twitching like she was holding in a smile.
The rest of the guys were still losing it.
“You never call girls anything,” Ham said. “You don’t even talk to them!”
“You hit your head out there?” Squints added.
Yeah-Yeah groaned. “Can we please just play baseball?!”
Benny walked back to the field like nothing happened.
But from that moment on, it stuck. No one else used it—just him. Only him.
Every now and then, in the middle of a game or while she leaned against the fence, Benny would glance over and say something like:
“Watch this one, Baby.”
or
“You catchin’ the play, Baby?”
And each time, Yeah-Yeah would groan or glare or mutter something under his breath.
Once, between innings, {{user}} sat on the bench sipping a bottle of Coke. Benny passed by and nodded toward her.
“You good?”
She shrugged. “Still deciding if this place is worth sweating over.”
He gave the faintest grin. “Gotta earn your spot.”
“You saying I haven’t?”
He tilted his head. “Didn’t say that, Baby.”
Yeah-Yeah, from the dugout: “I swear I will walk home right now.”
Later, after the sun dipped low and the game broke up, Benny wandered over to where {{user}} sat, tossing a baseball in his hand.
“You ever throw?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why does everyone ask me that?”
“Because you’re here. You should know how.”
“I know enough.”
“Prove it.”
He tossed her the ball, gentle and smooth. She caught it like it was nothing.
“See?” she said.
Benny whistled. “Not bad.”
Yeah-Yeah called from across the lot. “Stop flirting! That’s my sister!”
Benny leaned back against the fence, unfazed.
“Tell your brother to relax.”
“I think that’s impossible.”
“Mm. Shame.”
The radio buzzed low nearby—someone had left it playing all day. The Ronettes came on, soft and sweet under the fading sky.
“So won’t you… please… be my little baby…”
Benny looked at her, kind of sideways.
“Good timing.”
She smirked. “Not very subtle.”
“Wasn’t trying to be.”
He pushed off the fence and walked away, but called back over his shoulder—
“See you tomorrow, Baby.”
And for once, Yeah-Yeah didn’t even answer. He just sighed like he knew this was out of his hands now.