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The middle-aged pitching coach doesn’t hesitate, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Corey, but our team is in need of a leader.”
I have noticed, but I don’t like where I think this conversation is going.
“Isn’t that what the team manager is for?” Coach Hawk is a well-respected man in the MLB. He’s paid to lead the team.
“We need a leader in the locker room, in the dugout, behind the plate, and on the mound,” he says with earnest. “This team could be great, Johnson, but only if we have someone great to help show them how to get there.”
“And you think that someone should be me?”
“I do.”
I tilt my head back and look at the water spot on the ceiling. What Coach Vaughn is saying should be a compliment, but it’s not one I’m sure I deserve.
“Why?” I ask him.
“Why not?” he counters.
I lower my gaze and give him a pointed look. “We both know what people in the league are saying about me. Specifically, what the Loons are saying.”
“We do,” Vaughn agrees. “And Hawk and the other coaches agree that it’s all bullshit. Throughout your career, you’ve never demonstrated anything less than professionalism and a determination to win. You never would’ve let discontent rob yourself of winning a championship ring.”
I take a deep breath. That’s the first time one of the Lonestars coaches has confirmed they don’t believe the allegation I threw the World Series. I didn’t know how freeing it would feel to hear that. It fills in a little of the chip on my shoulder, carved by the Loons and their insulting decision to trade me.
“I appreciate that, Coach Vaughn. Really, I do.” I’m unable to keep the emotion from my voice.
Understanding crosses the pitching coach’s face. “You’re one hell of a pitcher, Johnson. Not just because you’re skilled, but because of your dedication. The team needs someone like you to look up to. They need someone to aspire to be.”
The last thing any of these men need to be is like me.
“Coach.” I run a hand over my head. “I’m hardly a role model. I have plenty of shit that I’m dealing with.”
“We all do, Johnson. But from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re handling your shit just fine.”
I don’t know what to say to convince him he’s wrong.
I can tell him about my deadbeat dad.
Or maybe I should tell him how shitty it felt to dedicate my professional career to one team, only to have them throw meaway like a piece of trailer trash that I spent my whole life trying not to be?
Or I can admit how I struggle to make connections with people because I don’t want to get attached to someone who might disappear when they realize how messed up I am. It took me years to trust Kendrick, and that guy is about as trustworthy as they come.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something—anything—to convince Vaughn he’s got it wrong. I’m no leader.
But then he says, “Let me be straight with you, Johnson, the Lonestars ownership has given the coaching staff an ultimatum. If we don’t get this team to playoffs this season, they’re going to do an entire organization rehaul. That includes coaching staff and players.”
I digest the information, then sigh. “Let me guess, I’m on the shortlist to be replaced.”
Vaughn doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. His face says it all.
“Just think about what I’ve said,” he replies. “The team could use a leader with your experience and work ethic.”
“Sure. I’ll think about it,” I say, even though it sounds like I don’t have a choice.
Either I step up and get the Lonestars to the playoffs, or I’ll be off the team and my career will be over.
No pressure.
15
