Chapter Three #2
Jake glanced around the store, spotting a display of Capitals merch in the corner. “No worries. I’ll buy you a new one, okay, buddy?” He asked the cashier, “Do you sell Sharpies?”
The mother said, “Oh no, I can’t let you do that!”
Jake smiled. “I insist. It’s my pleasure.”
Once Sunil had picked a new hat, Jake insisted on T-shirts for both kids and signed them on the counter, giving the cashier his credit card before Ryan could argue.
A small crowd had gathered, and Jake was aware of cell phones photographing and probably recording him.
Smiling, he posed for pictures with the kids, and then selfies with a host of other travelers as well.
“Sorry, folks, Jake’s got to get to the ballpark,” Ryan said loudly, guiding him past the magazine stands at the entrance. “Time to get him in a Caps’ uniform, what do you say?”
Now everyone applauded, and Jake waved and smiled, and okay, that felt pretty damn good. He didn’t stop smiling as they reached the parking lot. Ryan enthused about the encounter, tapping his phone. “I got some awesome shots of you and the kids. PR’s gonna love this.”
“Great.” Jake pulled the rest of the chocolate bar from his pocket and savored the sweet peanut-chocolate flavors.
“The guys are psyched to meet you. Everyone’s really excited to have you on the team.”
“Thanks. It’s…yeah, it’s great.”
Don’t be an entitled douche. Find the silver lining.
But as they drove downtown, Jake felt a growing sensation of dread.
After eight seasons on the same team, he was going to be the new guy again.
He was going to have to get used to a new way of doing things; a new stadium and clubhouse and trainers and managers and teammates.
A few of the guys were acquaintances, and he’d known Marco’s little brother a little bit, but that had been a million years ago.
“How do you like the new dome?” Ryan asked, immediately answering his own question with a chipper, “Pretty great, eh?”
The Capital Dome was open in the distance as they approached, and from what Jake recalled, it was a nice ballpark with good facilities. “Yeah. Surprised they found room for it downtown.”
“Had to partner with U of O to get the space, but the city brokered the deal. The owners really wanted the park here in the city and not out in Kanata.”
“How’s attendance?”
“Fantastic. Seats just over thirty-five thousand, and we’ve been near capacity since the first game.
Ottawa’s super loyal to its teams, and a lot of people come over from Quebec too.
Montreal really wanted a team back, but it’s only two hours away.
There are a bunch of bus trips that come for every game. ”
“Cool.” It was definitely overdue for Canada to have another ball club.
Ryan drove into the dome’s underground parking, and Jake took a deep breath, readying himself for a hundred handshakes. He could do this. It was his job, and he’d do it damn well.
His smile stayed in place as he encountered more people from the front office and met Martin Tyson in person.
Tyson shepherded him through the bowels of the stadium.
He was about forty, tall and African American, his suit and tie immaculate on his muscled frame, cuff links gleaming at his wrists.
His legs were almost as long as Jake’s, and they strode quickly through the tunnels.
“Everything is state of the art. Conditioning and physio are vital, and we’ll take care of all your needs.
But if there’s something we’ve overlooked, speak up.
I want you to feel at home here.” Tyson gave Jake’s shoulder a light slap.
“You and Garcia are exactly the shot in the arm we need. Everyone says a club takes years to win, but I’m not a patient man. ” He grinned.
“Garcia?” Jake’s heart thumped a little faster. Which Garcia? “You made another trade?”
“Sorry, thought you would have heard. It came together quickly, just like it did with you. We acquired Diego Garcia from Houston for Johnson and two pitching prospects. We need your leadership behind the plate, and Garcia in the infield. He’s struggled at bat, but I know he can turn it around, and his defense is some of the best in the game.
You two played together in Philly, right? ”
A murky soup of apprehension and regret simmered in Jake’s gut. “Briefly, yeah. Great guy. Great second baseman too. Which you’re well aware of, obviously.”
Tyson laughed, a low rumble. “Still good to hear that you concur.”
He did—Garcia was indeed a great second baseman and person, but Jake had largely avoided him for years. Now that was clearly at an end, and it was one more element he couldn’t control. His skin prickled, armpits growing damp.
As they neared the clubhouse, he spotted the team’s manager in the hallway under the bright fluorescent lights, pacing back and forth with his hands in the back pockets of his uniform pants.
Skip Jankowski’s jaw worked his trademark bubblegum like one of the stitching machines at the luggage factory Jake’s dad had toiled in.
Skip’s hair was mostly gray under his Capitals hat, and he was a compact man, built like a barrel now as he aged. He’d been one of the best shortstops in his day, wiry and tough. He spotted Jake and Tyson approaching and strode over, his hand extended.
“Good to have you on board, Fitz.” He pumped Jake’s hand as vigorously as he chewed his gum. “Call me Skip.”
Jake wasn’t actually sure what the man’s given name was; he’d been known as “Skip” or “Skipper” since his player days for the way he could fire a ball while in motion, his feet barely touching the ground like a stone on the surface of a pond.
The name had transitioned perfectly into his leadership role. “Great to be here, Skip.”
“The guys are doing BP, so come see your new home in the meantime.”
Home. There was that word again. Jake pasted on a smile, hoping the team was in no rush to wrap up batting practice. He was used to meeting new people but wished there was some way to avoid the endless handshakes, at least for the day.
He followed Skip and Tyson through double frosted-glass doors into the multiroom clubhouse. They walked down a hallway through to the locker room, an open rectangle of a space, carpeted in navy with the Caps name and maple leaf logo emblazoned in red across the open part of the floor.
The players’ wide, open-design lockers lined three walls, names and numbers on a plaque above each. High cubbies held bats and equipment, while cleats were below. Spare shirts and pants hung on a rod, and a spotless uniform and hat for that night’s game were displayed on a hanger.
In front of each locker sat a padded, black leather office chair on wheels with the logo stitched on the backrest in red and white. The middle of the room contained a ping-pong table and leather couches, with several flat-screen TVs high up on the walls.
There wasn’t a speck of the green that dominated San Francisco’s clubhouse, and when Skip stopped in front of a locker, Jake read his own name and number from the plaque. He smiled weakly. “That was fast.”
Skip clapped his shoulder. “Wanted to make you feel right at home. I know it can be a punch in the nuts getting traded. I’ve been there.”
It took a second for Jake to realize his number, 19, was the same as it had been in San Francisco. His smile broadened. “Thanks for the number.”
“Our pleasure,” Tyson said. “Like Skip mentioned, we want you to feel comfortable. In the clubhouse and on the field.”
“Speaking of which, we’ll play you as DH tomorrow and behind the plate Friday,” Skip said. “Carter’s a knuckleballer, and he and Baldoni have a good thing going, so we’re keeping Baldoni as his primary.”
“Absolutely.” It wasn’t uncommon to pair certain pitchers with catchers they connected with, even if the catcher wasn’t the usual starter.
“I’m excited to get out there in a Caps uniform.
” His gut tightened at the thought, but he grinned through it.
As designated hitter, the pressure was on to have a good night at the plate.
It was a long season, but he’d been having a decent year so far—.
273 batting average with seventeen RBIs and a handful of homers.
Definitely wanted to get his RBI number up—batting in runs was vital.
His on-base percentage was strong, well up over three hundred since he had the patience to draw his fair share of walks.
As much as he hadn’t wanted to play for Ottawa, he wanted to do a good job.
Skip continued. “So that’ll give you and the starter time to drill and coordinate signs for Friday and get your ducks in a row with the relievers too.
We’ve got scouting reports on Baltimore’s hitters for you to call the game.
I trust your judgment on which pitches should be thrown.
I know we’re in good hands with you taking the lead on the field. ”
The confidence sent a warm flush through Jake.
He’d clashed in Philly with a manager who liked to micromanage, wanting Jake to look to him for signs before every pitch like it was college ball.
But most major league managers trusted their catcher to call the game, and he was relieved Skip was one of them.
Jake asked, “Who’s starting Friday?” They’d have two days to get familiar with each other, and he’d have to spend time with the other pitchers too.
“Agresta.” Skip’s lips quirked into a smile, and he blew a forceful bubble with his gum.
“The kid’s got a hell of an arm, but you’ll have your hands full keeping him in check.
He’s got a temper, and when he gets rattled it can go to shit in a soup can real quick.
He needs discipline. Patience. Needs to calm the hell down when he gets behind in the count.
Obviously you’ll talk with our pitching coach, Loyola.
He’s got lots of thoughts on the matter.
He’ll brief you on the rest of the starters and bullpen too. ”