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That there is a part of me—however small it might be—that worries I’ve done lasting damage to the body I’ve worked so relentlessly to hone?
Those are things I barely allow myself to think. I’m definitely not voicing anything like that out loud. Besides, those are the thoughts of someone who doesn’t believe they’ll be back, and I know I will be.
It’s all that optimism that winds its way through my veins, keeps me looking on the bright side, trusting that everything will work itself out. It’s been my greatest strength, my greatest ally, for as long as I can remember. It’s gotten me through a few smaller injuries. It’s gotten me through my hard days, my tough moments, my breakups. It will get me through this, too, and then I’ll be back.
I know it.
“Well, if it’s just inconvenient,” he says, stressing the last word with a smirk, “maybe I can talk you into helping out with Fall Ball.” Rush pauses, assessing me for a moment. “The team could use a batting coach. If you’re up for it.”
My eyebrows rise, both surprised by the offer and unsure if I should take it.
Rush and I have been friends for years—ever since Little League when we were both scraggly versions of who we are today—so my default desire is, of course, to help him whenever he needs it. He’s the PE teacher at the high school and was just promoted to head coach of the baseball team last year. Last time we talked, he mentioned the workload was a bitch and he needed extra help, but I never imagined I’d be the guy he asked.
“You paying?” I joke with a grin.
He barks out a laugh. “A big ball player like you? Wringing your alma mater dry for giving some batting pointers?”
I laugh, too. “Now who’s full of shit?” I ask, my chest shaking.
Rush shrugs, a huge, stupid smile on his face.
“You know as well as I do that Triple-A guys make nothing.”
“No cushy signing bonus to sit on for a while?”
I snort. “I wish.”
The reality of playing professionally—in any sport, at any level—is that it’s rare for someone fresh out of college to get a massive signing deal. Most newbies get a pretty small bonus. The big money goes to the big players at the top level, and I have some work to put in before I begin truly making a name for myself.
The first step was signing with a team and playing at the minor league level, which I did about a month ago. I signed with the Portland Flame and went up to Salem to play for their Triple-A affiliate, the Kings.
And then I got injured. In my very first game. Broke my wrist and several fingers.
Thankfully, the season was practically over so I just followed the team doc’s orders to get surgery and begin rehabbing, get myself better for next season. I could have stayed in Salem for the winter. I was planning to sus out some side jobs with a few of my new teammates, but it was mostly physical labor, and that’s pretty much out for me at this point.
I thought it would be easier to manage at home with some extra help from my parents, so as soon as I had the surgery, I packed my shit and booked a flight home. I’m sure most 22-year-olds don’t want to move back in with their mom and dad, but I have a pretty awesome family that I actually like to be around. My baby sister, Busy, is still in Los Angeles, going to college, but my older sister, Briar, still lives in town, and my brother, Boyd, is visiting for a while to help open up his brewery. My twin sister, Bellamy, still lives at home, too.
While being back home isn’t my dream scenario, it also isn’t a hardship. Besides, maybe it’ll do us Mitchell kids good to all be together for longer than a few days at a time for once.
Or maybe we’ll annoy the hell out of each other. I guess only time will tell.
“I’m just teasing,” Rush continues, rolling his cardboard coffee cup between his palms and drawing me back to our conversation. “I have a stipend for a part-time coach. I know the kids look up to you and would really benefit from your advice. I’d love to have you on board for the rest of Fall Ball if you have the time, maybe even the regular season if you’re gonna be here in the spring.”
I nod, my mind trying to digest the idea of coaching—even just for a little while—my old high school team.
“Let me think about it,” I finally say, even though I know I’ll probably say yes. “I can let you know in the next few days. But just to put it out there, I’m not sure how long I’ll be in town.”
Rush shrugs and gives me an easy smile. “Hey, if it works out, that’s great. I’ll take you for however long you’re here.”
We settle into other conversation points after that: family updates, childhood bullshit, the usual stuff we talk about when I come home. He doesn’t ask any more about my arm, my recovery, or how long I’ll be in town.
And I can’t ignore the tiny thing inside me that breathes a sigh of relief.
Eventually, Rush heads off to work, and I leave Ugly Mug behind to begin a leisurely stroll down the length of Main Street, heading toward the lake stretched out in the distance.
Downtown Cedar Point is normally pretty calm this early on weekdays, even as we tip into the fall, our busiest tourist season. In an hour or so, there will be plenty of people littering the sidewalks, pushing their way into the shops that boast tchotchkes and “lake life” swag for people to lug home after they’re done with their vacations.
But at 7:45am on a Monday morning, only a handful of stores are open, meaning it’s mostly just locals dropping off dry cleaning or grabbing coffee before heading to work. It’s not surprising that most of the people I see as I walk are faces I recognize: a few parents of old high school friends, one of our neighbors, a couple that hangs out with my mom and dad fairly regularly. I greet everyone with an easy smile, saying hello but continuing with my walk, not wanting to get stopped by anyone. I just want to enjoy the morning and the familiarity of being back in my hometown.
