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One
Hawk
The only time I enjoy Florida is during spring training. It’s not overly hot, muggy, or humid. The temps barely reach the eighties, which is perfect to me. After April, once we’re up north and playing ball, coming down here to play is miserable. There’s nothing like taking a shower, drying off, and putting on damp clothes or climbing between cool, wet sheets due to the humidity. Sure, the humidity in Boston can be a bitch, but it’s nothing like in gator country.
There’s a towel around my neck. It’s one of those frog towels — in pink — and the guys like to tease me about it. One, I don’t care about the color. I’m not ashamed to admit I like pink. Two, it keeps me cool and right now in the training room, I’m sweating like a hog walking toward a fire pit because the air conditioner is on the fritz . . . whatever that’s supposed to mean.
The training room is a happening spot, though, with a group of us here for different ailments. Mine is mostly related to age. Not that I’m old, but you couldn’t tell from my body. The aches, pains, and bones cracking when I get up each morning is a sure sign that I’m falling apart and that scares me. Pitchers don’t have a long shelf life. Over time — and I’m talking a few years, not decades — the strength in our arm starts to subside, our accuracy isn’t as sharp, and we go from being a starter to a reliever, or if we’re lucky, a closer. We just move down the line until retirement. Most of us are too pigheaded to hang it up, thinking we still have some gusto if we just train harder. Joke’s on us. If our agents can’t find us a team, we just wither away into the background. No big send off like teams used to do.
And what really freaks me out is the fact that lately I’ve been feeling tight. It doesn’t matter what I do to loosen up, my body is stiff. My arm is sore, my hips ache, and my fingers feel numb when I wrap my hand around the ball. Probably not the best symptoms to have as we get ready to head into the season and it’s the fear that something’s wrong that keeps me from saying anything to the trainer. One word and I’m sidelined, added to the injured list, and sent down to the minors for rehab once I’m cleared. I’m not the only one who thinks like this. Most of us do. Right now, my primary catcher, Michael Cashman, has a deep thigh bruise which should keep him from playing. He hasn’t said a word and the only reason I know is because we’re sharing a hotel room and I’ve seen him buck naked. Not a sight I wish to see again, that’s for sure. The trainers don’t know because Cashman won’t take his spandex off in the room. If they can’t see it, they can’t treat it and tell Coach that he needs rest. No one wants to start the season on the injured list.
Once therapy is done, the guys and I head out to the field. School’s out for the day which means the fence will be lined with kids looking to meet us. Honestly, it’s one of my favorite parts of the job, meeting the young fans. I can only hope that I’m the type of role model they need as they look forward to their future. I do what I can to stay out of the media, keeping my nose clean and my image about as spotless as I can.
Kids holler our name as we walk down the line. Hawk, Ethan, Travis, Cooper, Bryce . . . it’s always funny when we have a new teammate, especially when they’re a rookie and the young fans haven’t learned their names yet. As they approach, the kids go quiet and wait for the rookies to sign. The rookies eat it up though, and encourage the kids to ask them questions. It’s all part of the media training the Renegades must go through every year, thanks to likes of Ethan Davenport and Travis Kidd.
Baseballs, posters, and ball caps are held out for us to sign. But it’s the kids with their trading card collection that gets most of my attention. I was once that boy, using my allowance to buy pack after pack of Topps Baseball Cards. My mom always scolded me for chewing the pink, chalky stick of gum, saying
it was nothing more than paste and sugar and it was going to rot my teeth out, but I didn’t care. There’s nothing like getting a new pack of cards, sticking a wad of gum in your mouth so big that you could barely chew it, hopping on your bike and speed peddling over to the ballpark to swap with your friends. We never cared about the game until the crowd cheered and then we’d stop what we were doing and do our part as fans. Either hoot and holler because our team got a hit or scored a run or boo the other team for who knows what.
Watching these youngsters, with their notebook of cards, it brings back a lot of memories. I used to keep my cards organized by team and in alphabetical order. Each card slid gently into a sleeve to protect its value. When my mom finally cleaned out my bedroom back home in Montana, she asked me what she should do with the cards. “Keep them,” I told her. “Put them someplace safe because someday they’re going to be worth money.” It’s been awhile since I’ve been back home, and I should probably ask her what she ended up doing with them.
“Wow, my rookie card. I haven’t seen one of these in years,” I say to the young boy on the other side of the fence.
“I found it at a trade show, only five bucks.”
Ouch. Is that all I’m worth — five bucks? I suppose being one of the highest paid pitchers in the majors doesn’t equate to jack shit when it comes to a trading card. “Lucky you.” I sign my name and hand the card back to him, watching as he meticulously puts the card back into the sleeve. “How much is it worth now?”
He looks at me and shrugs. “I’m not sure, but my dad says I robbed the guy blind when I bought it.”
Without a doubt in my mind, I know the grin I’m sporting is wide and beaming. I like this kid’s father. He should be my best friend. “Yeah ya did, buddy.” I give him a fist bump and move down the line, signing everything that’s handed to me. By the time I get to the end, my autograph looks like shit and my hand hurts. I try not to make a scene as I push my thumb into my palm, but it fucking hurts and I know I’m grimacing. I’m thankful my back is to the crowd, because kids or not, they’re all on social media and the last thing I need is for someone to post about the pain they think I’m in.
We walk toward the dugout. Some of the guys are horsing around, a few are on the phone or texting, and some — like me — are lost in their own thoughts. I’m past the point of wondering if there’s something wrong and on the verge of going to see a doctor. The thing is, I don’t know what type of doctor to call and if I ask any of the trainers in the clubhouse . . . well that just can’t happen. With Max Tadashi day-to-day, we’re already a man down in our rotation. The team can’t afford for me to be out, spring training or not.
As soon as I step into the dugout, Cole Fisk is coming toward me. He tosses a ball and thankfully I’m able to catch it. “You’re up.”
“For what?” I ask, playing stupid. It’s not my day to pitch.
“Floyd is throwing like garbage. Wilson wants to change it up.”
“Alright.” The last thing I want to do is pitch, not with the way I’m feeling right now. Not that one more day of rest is going to change anything; I’ve felt like this for months, long before training started, and I’ve ignored it, thinking that whatever it is would go away with time.
I make my way toward the bullpen. The guys are throwing and horsing around. The fake smile is plastered on my face when I step through the gate being held open by Cashman. “Fucker,” I mutter because I’m pissed he won’t be catching for me tonight.
He laughs and pats me on the back. “I’ll be back before the season starts.”
“Should’ve taken care of that shit long before preseason.” Who the hell am I to talk? I head over the mound and start my warmup with catcher, Jose Gonzalez. We toss back and forth until my arm starts to warm, and then my throws become harder. Right now, his chest is my target and he barely moves his glove to snag the ball.
“I’m ready,” I tell him as he crouches down. We go through my arsenal of pitches. Fastball, cutter, breaking ball, slider, curve and the one that gets me every time I’m up to bat against a National League team: the knuckle ball. It’s not my favorite to throw either, and the catcher has to be ready for the possibility of a wild pitch but I have it, just in case. It’s something I taught myself while playing catch in the backyard of the ranch I grew up on. My high school coach made me use it primarily because no one could hit it. Made sense at the time and it’s probably why we won a few championships. Still doesn’t mean I like it.
Gonzalez stands and comes over to me. His mask rests on top of his head. Normally, you can see his dark hair, but today he’s wearing a red do rag to keep the sweat from his eyes. “You doing okay?” he asks with his glove covering his mouth. The fact that he suspects anything is wrong and is trying to keep it on the down low says a lot about his character.
“I’m good.”
“You sure? Because your fastball seems to be about eighty. Want me to turn on the clock?”
I shake my head. “Nah, just saving the heat for later.”
He taps me on the shoulder and jogs back to the plate with his leg guards clanking together. I go through the motions again, this time adding what little strength I have left.
“Better, man.” He tosses the ball back.
Right, better. Never mind the pain. I can get through whatever it is I’m battling. I just need to double up on the ibuprofen because it’s probably just inflammation, and I know I can treat that.
We’re signaled to make our way to the dugout for the start of the game. The stands are filled, and people line the fence in their portable chairs, their buckets of popcorn in their laps. You’d think after years of playing baseball I’d hate the smell of hot dogs and popcorn, but I don’t. I love it. It’s a sign of spring and summer and a rite of passage for any baseball fan. Any sports fan for that matter. That’s how you know the game is about to begin.
The starting line-ups are announced, and the national anthem sung. As I head out to the mound, I tell myself I can do this. And I can. I can be the best. I threw three days ago and was fine. No issues.
After my five warmup pitches, I’m good. I’m loose. I’m feeling great. I step to the rubber after the first batter enters the box. Gonzalez gives me the pitch, fast ball, right corner. I think about shaking him off but know what he’s doing. I have to trust him. I start my motion, kick my leg up and cock my arm back, and follow through my pitch, watching Gonzalez barely move his mitt to catch my fastball.
“Strike,” the ump hollers, although it sounds more like he’s grunting.
Pitch after pitch.
Batter after batter.
My arm is on fire.
And I don’t mean the good kind even though we have a three to nothing lead. My shoulder burns, my fingers are numb, but I’m in the zone. In between innings, I sit in the dugout and root on my teammates. I wear my coat, even though it’s warm out, and when it’s my turn to bat, I approach the plate with confidence.
It’s nothing more than a façade. I’m in so much pain, I want to quit.
But I won’t.
Two
Bellamy
The stop sign mocks me. I’ve come to a full and complete stop, and yet I’m still sitting here, waiting to make a right turn into our subdivision. I’m trying to hold it together, to not cry in front of my son, but it’s difficult. The move to Montana from Spokane has been hard on my son. He’s struggled to fit in, and whether it’s been two years or two days, seeing him so sad has made me wonder many times if I made the right choice when I uprooted us and moved here. I thought it would be better for him with my mother being here and all, but the only person to benefit has been me.
My little guy has his head resting against the backseat window. His eyes are puffy and red from the heartache he feels after being told he didn’t make the baseball team. I wish I could take his pain away and tell him that everything will be okay, but I don’t know that it’s true. How do I tell my son to keep trying, to keep working, if all he hears is that he
’s not good enough? Even I want him to give up and try something different, and I shouldn’t feel that way. I should be the one encouraging him to follow his dreams, telling him he can be anything he wants to be, and yet I just want to wrap him in my arms to keep him safe from this big, scary world.
“Hey, bud, I see Brady. Maybe you guys can ride your bikes today.”
Chase sighs heavily. “Brady made the team.”
