I hate Colorado.
There, I said it. Everyone waxes poetic about the state like it’s the best place on earth to live, and I think they’re full of shit. Traffic is ridiculous, no one knows how to drive in any kind of precipitation, and it might snow at any point in the year. One hundred degrees one day and snowing the next? I’m not saying it’ll never happen, but if it does, it’ll be somewhere in Colorado.
Not only was I unceremoniously traded here over halfway through last season, but I didn’t want to go anywhere. I was happy with the Bridge Point Bears. I thought I’d retire with the team I’d spent the majority of my career with. But now I’m in fucking Colorado, with thinner air, too many Subarus, and so much beer.
“Callahan, you done with batting practice?” Coach shouts. When I nod, he adds, “Media training in the conference room. Go.”
“Aw, come on,” I whine, close to stomping my foot like a petulant child. “I don’t even have social media, and no one wants to interview me anyway.”
Coach Brady Dunn raises an eyebrow at me. “And why would that be, Callahan?”
“I don’t remember,” I mutter, dropping my gaze to study the floor at my feet.
Coach chuckles, the sound deep and raspy as he types on his phone. Lounging back in a chair at the edge of the bullpen, he props a foot up on the wall. He exudes masculine energy, and it’s been that way since the day I met him during my first year in the League.
Brady Dunn was a force on the field. While we never played on the same team, everyone knew who Brady was. We’d often chat at events and celebrity outings, although Brady always got more attention than I did. An excellent catcher, he made a seamless transition from player to coach when a torn ACL and MCL ended his career. Getting to be coached by Brady Dunn was one of the very few reasons I wasn’ttoounhappy about the trade.
I’d spent almost my entire career in the Bridge Point Bears system. As a Southern California native, getting to stay with a California team was an absolute dream. So when I was traded out of the blue last year, it hit a nerve. I didn’t want to leave my friends there. I could get a nonstop flight from San Francisco to San Diego easily if my parents needed anything. Now I’m one thousand miles farther away, where the weather flips between sweltering and frozen tundra like it’s a game, and I can’t seem to find my rhythm here.
Probably doesn’t help that I’ve become the Clubhouse grump, choosing to sit alone and refusing invitations to anything outside of work. I’d told my old teammates I didn’t mind the trade to Colorado because I’d visited a couple of times. Boy, didn’t that sentiment turn out to be wrong. And then there was the “incident” with the reporter, pushing me off the interview list.
“How did you know her shoe would get stuck in the ceiling tile?” Coach muses.
“I didn’t.” It wasn’t my finest hour. This snot from one of the local affiliates was interviewing me, and she couldn’t stop tapping her stilettos against the tile floor.Tap-tap-tap-tap. It infuriated me. It was all I could hear, and I couldn’t focus on the questions sheasked. I’d politely asked her to stop, and she looked right at me as she tapped her shoe again. So I slipped it off her foot and threw it at the ceiling.
That’s how I found out how much Christian Louboutin heels cost. Not that it’s a big deal, because my contract is a couple mil a year, but the principle of it was frustrating. Coach and our GM made me apologize, then buy her new shoes.
Needless to say, I haven’t been asked for an interview since then. The shoe incident happened at the end of last season, when I’d only been here for a couple of months. Now it’s March, and we’re pushing into the start of baseball season.
I fell in love with baseball when I was only three. My dad and uncle bought me a tiny mitt, and we’d throw the ball around in our front yard. It’s one of my favorite childhood memories. To make it to the Major Leagues, you have to have a passion for the sport, but you also need to have drive, determination, grit, and just sheer talent. I’ve always been fortunate to have all of those traits.
“Oh, Callahan,” Coach shouts as he’s exiting the bullpen. “Also, go talk to the nutritionist about what food you want for the first two away trips. She told me you haven’t filled out the questionnaire for her yet.”
And I won’t be meeting with her now. “Nah, I’m good. I’m fine handling my own meals, Coach.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a request.”
“I’m perfectly capable of ordering food for myself,” I say defensively.
“You eat like a fourteen-year-old boy who has been left alone at home for the first time, Callahan. Don’t even argue with me about it. I’ve seen what you eat, and none of it is healthy.”
Okay, he has a point. I know I’m not the healthiest guy out there when it comes to food. That’s why I make up for it with exercise. I love food, but mostly the full-fat, fried-in-oil, full-of-preservatives kind. “How about I promise to start eating better without involving the nutritionist?”
“No. She plans your meals, or you don’t play.”
“Come on, Coach,” I whine, throwing my head back in frustration.
“I said what I said. Handle it,” he replies as he leaves the bullpen.
God dammit.
Trudging into the locker room, I slam down on the bench by my locker. I don’t want to deal withher. The girl who looks like she just graduated from high school, and has yet to see the evil in the world. All sparkles, happiness, and innocence.
The exact opposite of me.
Layla Holmes was hired as the team nutritionist four months ago. We’d had a team chef, but he quit toward the end of the season. None of us were sad to see him go. He treated our away schedule as an opportunity to mass-produce his favorite foods. There’s only so much fettuccini Alfredo we can eat.
Then Layla rolls in, ready to plan custom meals for each of us. We had to fill out forms about our likes and dislikes, allergies, any autoimmune disorders, and any medical conditions we had. She wanted us to take pictures of our fridges and give her an itemized list of the foods we eat each week. I didn’t make a list, but I did take pictures of my pantry, fridge, and freezer, and emailed them to her. The response I got back said, “Oh, are we living in a frat house?”
