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I could only imagine what the announcers were saying about me right now. A first-pitch fast-ball at only ninety miles an hour? Send this kid back to the minor leagues. Doing something I rarely fucking do, I stole a look toward where the players’ wives sit and locked eyes with mine. Then I tipped my hat twice, my sign for my girl, and I could see the outline of her smile spread across her face.
Looking at her gave me the extra strength I needed to get through this. Then I remembered the necklace, and gave it a squeeze through my jersey. Taking a deep breath, I squinted toward the catcher. He flashed two fingers before tapping the inside of his thigh. I prayed my curve ball was still dirty as I fumbled with the seams of the ball to find my fingering. I lifted my knee into the air and hurled the ball toward the waiting batter, who swung and hit it right past me. My body arced out of the way of the incoming ball, the memory of being hit in the hand still fresh in my mind.
I kicked the dirt, and cursed in my head. Six weeks ago, that guy couldn’t have hit my curve ball with a fucking Chevy. Now he hit it like I served it up on a platter for him. His timing was fucking perfect and mine was off.
The rest of the five innings I pitched were more of the same. I struck out four guys, and got most of the rest to ground out. But I was frustrated. I battled with myself, happy that I hit all my spots and threw a decent game, but angry that I couldn’t throw faster. I tried and pushed myself as hard as I could, but I never threw over ninety-one.
When Coach pulled me, he patted me on the back and told me not to worry about it. But I worried. In this sport, you always worry. Nothing was set in stone; you could always be replaced.
After the game, I walked through the familiar doors and into the hallway where Cassie waited for me. My girl calmed me. Her presence made everything okay. I could win any battle with her by my side. I’d go to fucking war if I knew I got to come home to her.
She leaned up on her toes and planted a wet kiss on my lips. “You did great. How do you feel?”
“Thanks, Kitten. I feel okay. I know I can do better. ”
“It’s your first game back. You’ll get stronger every outing. ”
“Every outing? Aw, you sound like a ball player already,” I teased, throwing my arm around her back.
“But really, I mean it. No one expects you to be perfect right off the bat. ”
I knew she only tried to help, but I questioned her words. My coach, the team’s manager, they did all expect that. Whether they said it to my face or not, they expected it, and they talked about it behind closed doors.
“Feed me, woman. I’m starving,” I said to change the subject, and kissed the side of her head as we headed out of Shea.
The next month was more of the same as far as ball was concerned. I pitched every few games on rotation, but couldn’t gain any speed or velocity in my pitches. Everyone kept talking about all the time I needed to get my full strength back, but I could see the disappointment in their eyes. And even though my teammates never admitted it to my face, they were all happy this wasn’t happening to them. I couldn’t blame them, though. If the situation were reversed, I’d be feeling the same way. Thankful it wasn’t me.
From the outside, people probably thought of baseball as a simple sport. The general public thought that any athlete who made a living playing a sport should never have any cause for complaints. How lucky would we all be if we got paid a ton of money to play a game every day?
But life was rarely as simple as people imagined it was. Baseball was so much more than that. It was a business. And it was ugly sometimes. One of the most frustrating things to a player was when the business side of baseball came into play and messed with your desire to simply play the game.
All of us ball players just wanted to play the game. None of us wanted to be involved in the business side of it, that was why we had agents and managers. We were desperate for them to handle all of that so we could simply concentrate on playing our game.
But that wasn’t how baseball worked. You played on their terms. You were a fucking pinball that could be hit, bumped around, knocked into a holding pen, good for some extra points, or go down the gutter when the flippers couldn’t reach you. But you were still just a tiny ball on their playing field.
“Jimmy wants to see you,” Coach told me after I’d showered. Nerves shot through me; it wasn’t good if our team manager wanted to talk to me. I knew my game wasn’t the same as it used to be, but I’d just gotten back. I wasn’t a hundred percent yet and they knew that. I needed more time.
“Close the door, Jack,” Jimmy’s gruff voice demanded.
My stomach in knots, I closed the door and stood in front of it.
He waved me forward. “Come sit. ”
I shook my head. “I’d rather stand. If you’re going to give me bad news, I’d rather not be sitting. ” I reached for my pitching hand and stretched my fingers back.
Jimmy nodded and looked me straight in the eye, his voice all business, no emotion. “Fine. Jack, look, we’re going to be trading you. Two teams are asking for you and I wanted to ask your preference. ” He sat back and watched me, obviously waiting for a response.
Did he just say they were trading me?
My first instinct was to fight, but this wasn’t the kind of thing you fight. It didn’t work like that. Being traded wasn’t a negotiation with your agent or your family or anyone. It was purely a team-to-team deal and you were usually left out of it. There was no contract to write up, since whatever team got you, also got your current contract. Usually players had no say in the matter. It was the rare case that they asked your opinion at all.
Like this one.
I wanted to fight, but I was too shocked to respond at first. The word “traded” kept banging around inside my head.
“But I love New York. And this team,” I said, sounding so much like a child I immediately wanted to kick myself as soon as the words were out.
“We know you do, kid. But your pitches have lost something and it’s in the team’s best interest to make a trade. ”
