I give my catcher a sharp nod. I admire our head coach, Tony Stirling, a hell of a lot. My game has improved since he joined the Vancouver Tridents the season after I did, no question. But he’s a hard-ass, as most coaches are. And this first week of spring training, when all the focus is on the pitcher-catcher duos, is always when we feel the pressure from him the most.
“Dude needs to get laid,” I quip, rolling my shoulders. “C’mon. Let’s fucking do this.”
Monty and I bump our gloves together before he heads back to his position, squatting behind home plate. I take a slow breath in, then out, shutting out everything else around me but the feel of the four seams stitched around the white composite leather. I spin it slowly in my hand, finding my preferred grip. My focus is lasered in on Monty’s outstretched glove.
I wind up.
And let the ball fly.
Seconds later, it thumps into Monty’s glove.
“Ninety-three-point-four. Damn, son, there it is.”
I spare Coach the briefest of glances and a nod of my head before jogging over to the dugout where I snatch up the closest cup of sports drink and chug it back. The rest of the team arrives today, and I can’t fucking wait to see everyone. My brothers, my friends, and most importantly, the guys that’ll take some of the heat of Coach Stirling off my back.
Monty joins me a second or two later, stripping out of his catcher’s gear before dropping down onto the bench. “You almost took my arm off with that last one. Nicely done.” He picks up his own drink and downs it. “Is it just me or does Stirling seem extra…I dunno, justextrathese days? Like he’s getting even more than his usual sadistic pleasure out of torturing us. And smiling the whole time. It’s creepy.”
I bark out a laugh and sit down beside him. “Like I said, he needs to get laid.”
Monty shudders. “I don’t need to be thinking about our coach naked.”
A rookie catcher and one of the relief pitchers walk through the door that comes from the locker room. Monty gives them a salute as they pass by, on their way to the field, and I call out a warning.
“Heads up, he’s in fine form today. You throw under ninety-two and he’ll have you running suicides.”
The rookie stumbles on the top step, but Tucker, the pitcher, turns and shoots us a mock glare over his shoulder. “I haven’t thrown under ninety-two since the minors. I’m comin’ for you, Yami, watch out.”
Maybe someone else would be worried by his supposed threat, but I’m Kai Yamaki. I left college early to join the minors at twenty, and five years ago, I got called up to the majors when the star pitcher of the Vancouver Tridents at the time, Rafe Montego, retired.
I’m one year into my second contract with the Tridents, a seriously nice six-year deal, and there’s no stopping me.
Because even now, at almost twenty-eight years old, my body is a goddamn machine. I’ll see all six, and retire a happy, and wealthy, man. Tuck is just gonna have to wait his turn.
“I’m gonna hit the ice bath, then get a nap before the guys arrive. You in?”
Monty nods before standing up. “Damn right I am. I swear, it doesn’t matter how much I let Lark torture me in the offseason, first week is never easy.” He’s referring to his wife, who’s one of the team trainers, his best friend and the mother of his adorable little girl who was born just this past fall.
We make our way to the empty locker room. This time tomorrow, it’ll be filled with our teammates. But for now, less than a third of the cubbies are occupied. Changing quickly from our practice uniforms into swim trunks, we head to the rehab area, where the ice baths await. It’s weird, but I fucking love ice baths. The release of all those hormones and endorphins, the energy I feel after, it’s invigorating.
Monty, not so much. He grunts and whimpers like a fucking baby as he slowly eases himself into the frigid water.
“It’s a lot easier if you get in faster,” I comment calmly, already submerged up to my neck. He shoots me a glower.
“You and my wife can shut the hell up, you’re both insane for actually enjoying this,” he says before finally sitting down all the way in the tub. “Goddamn, that’s cold.”
“No shit, it’s an ice bath.”
“Yes sir, boys! Let’s get this party started!” I let out awhoopas we make our way onto the field the next morning. It feels good to have my guys with me. I love the offseason and giving my body a break from the grueling pace and physical demands of playing major league baseball, but fuck, do I miss these assholes.
Granted, the guys I’m closest with all live locally, so I see their ugly faces year-round. But the brotherhood of this team is never stronger than during the season.
Ronan Sinclair, otherwise known as Sin and the unofficial team captain, gets everyone organized into rows of five. It’s the full 40-man roster here today, and those of us who’ve been around a while know the drill. The first thing we have to do every morning is two full laps round the field. It’s not much of a warm-up for athletes like us, but a few years ago, the coaching staff hired a motivation expert or something who said learning to move as a unit would help us as a team.
So now we play army men and jog around the field in rows of five
We round the outer corners of the field as a group before coming to a stop in front of Coach Stirling, the rest of the coaching staff by his side. This morning, we’ll all run drills together, then this afternoon, we’ll start splitting off to run position specific drills before preseason games start in another week.
When we’re all gathered and quiet, Coach gives us his usual spring training pep talk about hard work, perseverance, howthis is our year, blah, blah, blah. I shouldn’t tune him out, but honestly? I’ve heard it all before. Several times, in fact. And I’ve always worked my ass off. Baseball is the one thing in life I give one hundred percent. Well, baseball and my family. Nothing else is more important.
