“I was talking to a sweet old man in the airport, and when I got in line for our flight, he was talking to you. He called you ‘coach.’ Can I ask what you do?”
“I’m the manager—head coach—of a minor league baseball team in South Carolina.” I take off my light blue ball cap and gesture to the mullet fish … wearing a mullet. “The Mullet Ridge Mudflaps.”
She wrinkles that little nose and chuckles. “Isn’t a mudflap another name for a mullet?”
“Yup.”
“So you’re like the Mullet Mullets?”
“Mullet Ridge,” I correct her, though I know she’s joking. “Mullets are a type of fish.”
“Something tells me no one outside of Mullet Ridge actually knows that.”
“Believe me: half the peopleinMullet Ridge don’t know that.”
Her chuckle turns into a laugh. “Are you from Rochester, or is that just where your brother lives?”
“I’m from there. My whole family is still there.”
“And you live in South Carolina? Do you miss your family being so far away?”
“Let’s just say there’s a reason I only come home for holidays.”
She nods, not just like she heard me. Like she gets me. And maybe it’s that glimpse of understanding that makes me continue.
“I love my family,” I add. “They’re just … different. Not weird, but different than they used to be.”
“What changed?” Poppy asks.
My thoughts turn bleak as I think about Evan. His attack.
The career-ending, life-altering TBI that changed everything.
“My brother. He was bound for Major League Baseball, just like me, but it got derailed. Baseball is literally the family business—Fletcher Baseball Academy. My grandpa almost played in the majors before the Vietnam War. My dad was pro material until he got injured. Then it was my turn.” I say with a huff. “I was already playing Triple-A when Evan was … injured. I got called up when he was still doing rehab, and my whole family was losing it. Evan was too angry to talk, and his recovery took a long time. But my dad and granddad were calling daily, makingsure I knew the whole future of the family was riding on me. The past, too. It was like if I could make it, it would heal our legacy.”
I rotate my left wrist, feeling it crack. “But I was too eager when I made the pros. Too stressed to prove myself. I crowded the plate and took a ball right off the wrist.”
“So the curse remains?” she asks.
I’m annoyed she’s harping on a single word choice. “I know it’s not an actual curse. But, yeah, pretty much.”
She’s shaking her head, like nothing I’m saying is computing. “But youdidmake it. You signed a contract. You played in the majors.”
“Not really,” I argue, but she holds up a hand.
“Yes, really,” she says. “If your whole thing is being good enough to play professionally but to never get to, then boom. You made it. Or is there more to it? Did your great-grandpa make a deal with the Baseball Gods that one of his ancestors would have to play for twelve seasons, or the curse would continue?”
It’s so absurd, I snort.
“You literallymadeit! How many major league teams are there?”
“Thirty.”
“And how many guys play on each team?”
“Forty-man rosters during the regular season.”
“So when you were called up, you were one of the 1200 best baseball playersin the whole world.You were better than, what, 99.999 percent of the entire population? And what did the rental car agent say? You signed a two-million-dollar signing bonus? Were you a first round pick?”
