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Today we’re the bad guys. The ones they want to beat. Send us back to the hotel with our heads hung low and our tails between our legs. But I’m determined not to let that happen, and judging by the energy in the clubhouse as we get ready, so is everyone else. With music playing and the vibrations of the bass rattling my chest, I sit back and observe; Nico is beaming, sure, there’s some nerves simmering under the surface, but he’s soaking in every moment of his first Opening Day. Luca plays DJ with his phone and set of bluetooth speakers that he’s positioned around the room, and the coaching staff is huddled in the corner, waiting for the final member of the team to join us.
There’s a knock on the door, almost in time with the music, and after a cursory glance around the clubhouse to make sure everyone is at least halfway decent, Roger opens the door andSutton steps in. She’s changed, from the tailored skirt and blouse she was wearing earlier, into her uniform. Today, she’s opted for pants that hit just below her knee and tall socks – a classic look, but one she’s never worn before, and today it makes me do a double take.
Her pants hug every curve of her body, jersey tucked in with one button open at the neck, revealing the Olympians green tank top that she wears underneath, and the faintest glint of the delicate chain around her neck – a gift, she told me, from her dad when she first started working in the major leagues – with a small baseball bat that rests just below the base of her throat. Her smile lights up the room, and warmth blooms in my chest when she looks my way.
After we’ve all gathered, Roger quiets us down, Luca shuts off the music and we all find our seats as Roger moves to the center of the room. He surveys the gathered team, and as he launches into his pre-game speech (only slightly different from the one last night) emotion bubbles in my chest and threatens to spill over. As I sit here watching my teammates lace their cleats and adjust their socks, test the fit of their mitts and shove their caps on their heads, I wonder what it might be like to wake up and drink my coffee leisurely on my patio, a breeze off The Sound as I do.
I practically grew up with a baseball in my hands, I’m no stranger to sell out crowds, or less than sell out crowds. I’ve been booed and heckled, cheered, and lauded, but no matter how I’m received, I put my head down and do the work. Like I’ve always done. It keeps me out of trouble. It keeps me safe. And that’s what I’ll do today. That’s what I’ll do for the next six months.
And then my contract is up.
I’ve been playing this game for half my life.
And I’m tired.
This very wellcouldbe my last season with the Olympians. Whether I sign another team in my free agency, or quietly disappear into the post-baseball ether. Which is looking better and better each day. Especially as I stand here in this room and glance across at Sutton, a small smile tugging at her lips when our eyes meet; I think about what it could look like to retire, to stay home and send her off on roadtrips with the team, welcoming her home just like this. Watching games from the stands, seeing her hang on the dugout railing or meeting her hitters at the stairs as they come back from the field. I could be that guy. For her.
When Roger finishes his speech, which I missed the entirety of, he sends us to the dugout to get ready for our introductions and the start of the game. The public address announcer calls out the names of Olympians players with a bland monotone to a smattering of applause, and a few hollers from the handful of fans in Olympians green that I can spot in the stands.
Then it’s time for the fireworks.
Literally.
Pyrotechnics. An Air National Guard flyover at the end of the National Anthem. The umpire calls play ball and the Mustangs take the field. Their starting pitcher, Justin Hernandez, has been in the league as long as I have and has returned to Detroit for his final season. He deserves every honor he received today, and then some. I know that I couldn’t handle that kind of attention. That spotlight.
And then he has the nerve to strike out the side, to the roaring of the crowd.
Walking up the dugout steps, I take a moment to myself. A moment to look around at the gathered crowd, at the familiar faces in the home dugout, the cityscape just past the outfield fences. With a deep breath I bend down and pick up the ball, theleather and laces familiar in my hand and I smile despite myself. After a few warm-up tosses, it’s time to get to work. Nico lays down the sign for the first pitch, and I land a fastball right in the target he sets up, for a called first strike, setting the stage for the rest of the half inning.
And then the wheels fall off the wagon.
“We’ve got another hundred and sixty one games to play,” Roger tells us in the clubhouse when our nine innings are finally up. “Shake this one off.”
We go home from a nine game road trip with exactly zero wins under our belts, and by the blessing – or curse – of the schedule, I find myself starting the home opener. After a late flight, we crawl home after midnight, Loretta meets me and Sutton at the door, and follows Sutton up the stairs to her room, where the door clicks softly shut.
She was quiet for most of the flight, the entire ferry ride to the island, and the drive home. There’s a saying that we’re all our own worst critics, and Sutton is definitely her own worst critic, on a level I’ve never seen before. She takes it personally when the team isn’t hitting well. She feels pressure to be the best at her job, arguably one of the hardest jobs in this league, and more than that I think she feels pressure to prove that she deserves this job.
After changing into sweatpants and a tee shirt, I end up in my kitchen, sitting at the island with a bowl of cereal and the late night re-run ofOn the Field– a baseball-centric talk and analysis show hosted by two of my good friends – playing softly in the background. Of course they talk about the contrast between the end of last season and the start of this season.
“I really wish they’d move on to other things.” I jump at the sound of Sutton’s voice and drop my spoon on the counter in front of me with a loud clang. She bites her lip and gives me a sheepish look. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I try to play it cool as my heart still races from being startled. “I’m surprised you’re still up.”
Grabbing a bowl from the cabinet and a spoon from the drawer, Sutton takes a seat next to me and helps herself to the box of cereal and milk in front of me on the island. After inspecting the box for a list of allergens and finding it safe – as is every bit of food in the house, thanks to the list I sent Elise – she pours herself a serving and takes a bite, closing her eyes as she does, a soft sigh as her shoulders lower ever so slightly. There’s just something about a midnight bowl of cereal.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she finally says after another spoonful of cereal. “I keep replaying the last few games in my head; could I have done anything differently? Should I work on different mechanics? Should I stop ignoringallthe stats they give me? Not that I ignore the stats, Idolook at them, but stats don’t know the hitter the way I know the hitter. You know?”
“I know, Sutton,” a smile tugs at my lips and I cover it with another bite of cereal, using the time it takes to chew and swallow to formulate my response. I’ve heard this rant before and if I don’t stop her, we’ll be here all night. “No one knows your hitters like you do. And it’snotyour fault that they aren’t hitting right now. Roger doesn’t think that, and I don’t think anyone in the clubhouse does, either.”
“Yeah,” she huffs out a humorless laugh, “It’s not Roger and the team that I’m worried about. It’s the front office. No one is irreplaceable Maxwell, especially me.”
“You’re right,” my cereal has gone soggy, and I push the bowl away from me before turning to look at Sutton, dark circles under her eyes and a sad droop in her shoulders. “We’re all replaceable, such is the game of baseball. We’ve hit slumps before. It’s not one person’s fault. It takes a team effort to play bad baseball.”
That elicits a small smile that soon gets overtaken by a yawn.
“I think it’s time for bed, Duckling.” I take Sutton’s bowl after she throws it back and drinks the sweetened milk left behind, and quickly wash both bowls before walking with her upstairs. She stops on the landing and turns to me, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek.
“Goodnight Maxwell.”
