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“Feels good.” Feels like it did when I was twenty years younger, but I suspect some of that is mental, and has more todo with the clubhouse atmosphere here in Toledo than anything else. Being surrounded by kids who still love the game. Kids who aren’t disillusioned by the lack of emotion in the game today.
I’m starting to sound like Sutton.
“What’s that face?” Molly asks with a knowing smile before adding, “off the record.”
“Thinking of home.”
“Hmm.” She nods, eyes locked on mine. “There’s a rumor going around that you’re considering retirement. Want to set the record straight?”
“The record can think what it wants.”
“Always nice to talk with you Max. Hopefully the next time we do this, we’ll be in Detroit.”
Molly walks away toward another locker and another player to interview as I drop into the chair in front of ‘my’ locker. Someone turns up the music as a trainer enters the room and looks around until his eyes find me. With a tilt of his head toward the door, I know I’m being summoned to the manager’s office. As we step into the office Amelia Carmichael looks up from the report open in front of her. Amy as most of us know her is a Seattle native, someone I’ve known for years thanks to my friendship with Sutton and Amanda. She’s has been managing here in Toledo for three years and in those three years player development has improved exponentially.
Amelia is a brilliant manager.
I almost wish I could have come up through the league under her leadership.. I give her a lot of credit for the attitude of the team, and the morale of the clubhouse. She runs a tight ship, but makes sure that everyone is having fun while doing it. We need managers like her in the big leagues. Stepping into her office is like stepping back in time.
I remember being in an office similar to this —clean, if a little dated, in a stadium that would have been considered up to date ten years ago — and being told I wasgoing to the show.I wasn’t much older than the kids who backed me up on the field tonight; I can only hope that someday they’ll get to experience that same joy.
“Max,” Amy greets me with a wry smile, “have a seat. The guys up north want you to make one more start with us. I’m sorry I have to be the one to deliver the news.”
That…is not what I was expecting.
I was hoping Toledo would be one and done. Now I have to wait another five games and hope that the powers that be are happy with my pitching again. I know better than to argue, and I’m not going to ask questions.
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Max,” Amy’s brows draw together in concern, “we’ve been friends too long for that kind of formality. You can be honest with me.”
“What did they see that led them to this decision?” I ask, doing my best to tamp down my temper as my frustration starts to simmer. “Because if you look at my line in any scorebook tonight, if you look at my line in the box score, what I think you’ll see is that I threw six no-hit, shutout innings, with eight strikeouts.”
“You won’t get any argument from me, Max, I had a front row seat to the clinic you put on for my pitching staff tonight. I think the Front Office will tell you this is out of an abundance of caution.” Amy sends her training staff out of the office, leaving us alone. “I think you and I both know that’s nonsense. They’re leaving you down here to give your temporary replacement another shot. And don’t get me wrong, the kid is good, but he’s not ready to fill your shoes yet.”
“But he will be. Because you’re the best player development coach in baseball right now.”
“Thank you,” she smiles and it lights up her eyes, “I appreciate that. And I am really sorry that you’re stuck with us a while longer.”
“Don’t worry about it.” In some ways, I’m happy to still be here. In others, I wonder… “Be honest with me, how much longer am I here? In your professional opinion.”
“It sounds like it could be a while.”
That’s what I was afraid of.
After Amy dismisses me, I head out of the stadium and start the slow walk back to my hotel. I pass a park on the way, a lot like the one where I learned to play baseball – an all dirt infield with brown and dying grass in the outfield, a rusted chain link backstop, and splintered wooden benches on either side. I take a seat on one of the benches and close my eyes, breathing in the smell of the dirt and the grass and the long ago memory of being a kid on a field just like this.
When I was seven, I wasn’t a pitcher, I was just a boy reluctantly playing a game his dad signed him up for. I could barely swing the bat, and couldn’t field a position to save my life, but I kept working at it because I wanted to impress my dad. When Elise was old enough to be my throwing partner we played a lot of catch in the backyard. I was sixteen years old the first time a coach put a baseball in my hand and told me to throw from the mound.
The ball felt all wrong in my hand, and my glove didn’t fit right, but the first time I pitched to a batter was exhilarating. My team didn’t win a single game that season, but I kept working on my pitching and I kept playing baseball because I knew my dad would show up at my games.
He came to every single one.
He was with me the night I was drafted.
He was at my first Spring Training start.
But it all started on a fieldlike this one.
