Chapter 2
CREW
“Strikers! Strikers! Strikers!”
“Alright. Everyone, settle down. You played well. Don’t go expecting a cold beer and pat on the back waiting for you.
We’ve got a long ways to go, and if last season was any indicator of how downhill things can turn, a shit ton of brutal training hours are in your near future.
So, save the cheers for the wins that count,” Coach Leggins announces through the Strikers’ clubhouse.
“Way to be a buzzkill, Coach. We’ve dominated this spring training. That counts for something,” Kingston, our team’s starting shortstop, contributes. Truthfully, I’m surprised he spoke up. Kingston is the one who mediates and avoids confrontation with jokes and inappropriate commentary.
He’s the peacekeeper.
I, for one, try to keep to myself unless spoken to. It’s easier that way. As much as I love the game and I’m stoked for the Major League season to start, being away from my little girl never gets easier.
In fact, this year seems to be the hardest of them all.
“I say it like it is,” Coach responds to King, eyes swinging across the clubhouse while we decompress from our final spring training win.
“I expect the very best. I’ve been too lenient.
That stops today.” A look of pain and somberness strikes his features.
Coach Jack Leggins is the OG Atlanta Striker.
He’s been around Makers Park longer than most of us can say.
The majority of the team—aside from a few—have been drafted through multiple teams before signing with Atlanta.
Leggins also happens to be going through the hardest season in life right now, an event that, unfortunately, was predicted, but no less difficult to face. It makes sense for him to be short-tempered and quick to retaliate. He’s a shell of what he used to be and refuses to talk to anyone about it.
He’s got all of us worried.
I miss the Coach who once went for beers with the guys after a loss and invited us back to his place to binge UFC fights. Most of the team knows the reason he’s changed, and that’s why we don’t say shit about it. But Kingston must be feeling some type of way today.
August “Gus” Graves, our third baseman and my closest buddy, speaks up, “Respect, Coach. We’ll do better this season. This team means everything to us. We’ll pull through for you.”
Coach nods, and the room falls silent. I spin my phone in my hand, my mind anticipating an important phone call from my daughter’s mother while also taking the time to search out my teammates.
It’s been four years since I returned to the Major Leagues from a short hiatus.
After my daughter, Adeline, was born, the only thing that mattered to me was being a present father.
I spent most of my time off being a stay-at-home dad, grateful for my previous playing salary to support me through it. Not only that, I finally got to fulfill my lifelong dream of opening up a restaurant. Aside from Addie, Boone Urban Bar + Restaurant is my pride and joy.
I’ve always been a people person and was fascinated with the idea of being a place strangers came to unwind. Good food. Good atmosphere. And even better company. That’s why I’m picky about who I hire and what comes out of my kitchen.
I built it from the ground up, Addie’s stick-figure character drawings at two years old etched into the concrete foundation.
Those two years off from baseball gave me the opportunity to find myself.
Discover the new me as a father and new business owner.
I’m proud of the growth I made during that time.
Getting back to the game was only a matter of when.
How has it already been four years? Addie is now six with a sass, pushing sixteen.
Gone are the days when we went to the park in the mornings before nap and ate endless bowls of macaroni and cheese tossed in BBQ sauce. Taught her that combination myself.
She’s all grown up. Or at least it feels that way.
Which is likely what leaves me with far more time than I’d appreciate to dwell on what I’m actually doing with my life.
Who would have ever known the life of a first grader would be so busy?
Not me. Hell, her schedule is more crammed than mine—dance recitals, tutoring, school performances, and book club.
Yes, my six-year-old is in her very own book club.
Times are changing, which only makes me feel like I’m missing out on everything. There are too many eggs in my already small basket to juggle.
Especially with season-opener weekend just two weeks away, I can’t help but ask myself what my “why” is.
Why do I play ball, only to be away from home more often than not?
Why do I want to retire early from the best game in the world?
Why am I still single after all these years?
Why can’t I seem to meet the right person for me?
That’s the million-dollar question.
I’m thirty-six and feel every year of it, down to my aching joints. But fuck if I’ll ever let aging stop me from trying.
All heads hang low in the clubhouse, nothing but the sounds of quiet breathing echoing between us. “You need anything from us in the meantime, Coach? You know we got your back,” Kingston asks, and hums of agreement follow.
Coach shakes his head. “Not at the moment,” he murmurs steadily.
“But I’ll let you know if that changes. First game is two weeks from Friday.
You’ve got the weekend off to be with your families, then it’s back to the grind come Tuesday morning.
Be ready to put in the work, boys. Let this be our comeback season. ”
Letting two World Series Championships slip through our fingers has not done well for the team’s ego.
We’ve got a damn good dynamic going, some of the best infield players in the league—along with our outfield.
I was ranked number one centerfielder last season.
An honor and one I don’t take lightly. However, I’ve busted my tail to be the best.
The outfield is often a position in baseball most people consider to be like second string. They couldn’t be more wrong. We hold the game together.
When you’re playing with big-time athletes who hit dingers with their morning breakfast, you’ve gotta be quick on your feet with an accurate arm.
I’ve got that.
Add the pressure of making this World Series win happen for Leggins to my list of stresses.
I tap my foot repeatedly against the wood-grain floors, wondering what’s so important that Hilary needs to call me so urgently.
She never bothers me to talk on game days, not that I’d mind, considering we co-parent together, but still. Her text scared the shit out of me.
Come on, Hil. Get me out of this meeting and my worried mind.
“What’s the plan for the fundraiser at the end of the year? We supposed to show up solo, or can we bring our families?” Callaway, our starting pitcher, quickly changes the subject.
Almost forgot about that.
Coach seems to appreciate the new direction. “You can. Everything is currently in motion. Tenley has already begun the marketing process to make sure the turnout is worth it for the amount of funds Makers Park is contributing. The auction is estimated to sell out in minutes.”
“God, she’s sexy when she party plans,” Gus adds, complimenting the mother of his child and now wife. Long gone are his playboy ways. The man is a whipped motherfucker and proud of it.
“Pretty cool we get to be a part of it,” Bodhi deadpans, finally deciding to chip in his thoughts.
“I know it’s a ways out, but Navy and I will be there.
” Hard to believe there was a day I dated Bodhi’s wife, Navy.
Mind you, he still had his grumpy head in his ass, but now, I’ve never seen him happier.
He’s a damn good catcher, too.
“Us too,” resounds over and over again in what seems to be a team consensus. “You comin’, Briggs?” Gus turns toward me in the corner of the room. It’s now that I realize most of my thoughts have been in my head and not actually voiced out loud. “Bringing Doodle?”
I nod, a grin escaping my lips just thinking about teaching Addie to roller skate for the first time. “That’s the plan. I’m sure she’ll have me dressed to the nines for it.”
The fundraiser is at a local roller rink, all proceeds benefiting the local mental health foundation, Headspeed, in order to support teens battling stability and working through mental health struggles.
Bodhi and Callaway have both been huge advocates for the mental health community in Atlanta over the years, so when the opportunity to give back as a team and city was suggested, it was a no-brainer for human resources here at Makers Park.
I have yet to tell my daughter about it because, well, we’re still working on learning the concept of time, and it’s not until the end of the season. To Adeline Briggs, nine months from now means tomorrow, no matter how much I try to explain it. Better off just saving the fun for the week of.
Not to my surprise, however, Addie has the entire team and staff wrapped around her little finger.
She has that effect on most people, luring you in with her bright blue eyes and curly brown ringlets.
Especially Gus. I like to think they do it because they know I’m a single parent and want to give my little girl all the extra love she can get.
That may be so, but she really is incredibly easy to love.
Anytime we’re home for the week, we make sure to plan a dinner playdate for Addie and Apollo, Gus and Tenley’s four-year-old son.
They’re best friends, whether Apollo wants to believe it or not. He may or may not be forced against his will to wear princess dresses and attend Addie’s choreographed tea parties. Eventually, he’ll learn that when a woman says jump, you ask how fucking high, Queen.
“I heard the plan is to auction off some of us. That true, Coach?” Kingston says curiously, and everyone falls into laughter.