Chapter 3 #2
He barks out a laugh. He claps me on the shoulder, and it takes everything in me not to flinch. I am so on edge right now. God, I need another run. Except my legs are like Jell-O.
“Don’t feel too bad about it, Stone. I was born running. It was my main mode of transportation growing up. It’s hard to compete with a decade of conditioning.”
He throws his towel over his shoulder and strolls off, a fucking pep in his step. While I’m still dying on the floor.
It’s not until his shoulders disappear through the gym door that his words register.
I was born running. It was my main mode of transportation growing up. It’s hard to compete with a decade of conditioning.
What does that mean?
My heart pounds in my ears, my weight on the balls of my feet. Every part of me is honed in on the batter. I shift almost imperceptibly. I can’t stay still. The minute you still, your reflexes slow, and that can cost you precious milliseconds. Cost you a play. A win.
Our pitcher winds up and lets one fly. Swing and miss.
Damn, that was a pretty slider. No shade on our minor league pitchers, but I love getting a few at-bats against big league arms during Spring Training.
The jump from Triple-A to The Show is real.
Faster velocity, tighter movement, sharper command.
I shuffle side to side, keeping loose and syncing myself with the pitcher’s motion. The next pitch fires in—crack!
My body moves on instinct, perfectly in line with my brain instantly registering the placement of the ball.
It’s going to my right. I have mere seconds to make sure it doesn’t get past me, yet time somehow seems to slow when you make a play.
My cleats bite into the grass, thighs on fire, and I launch into a lateral dive, body extended to the point it feels like my shoulder is about to rip from its socket.
But the most glorious thing happens. The thwack of leather swallowing a ball fills my ears.
Then the ground hits me. But the adrenaline doesn’t allow for pain. Every wild heartbeat pumps away the impact of hurling myself into hard earth. I’ll feel it later. But right now? I made the fucking out.
Every muscle in my body goes taut, and I tip my head back, barely keeping myself from letting out a roar to the heavens.
Fuck, I needed that. Right now, I’m swinging a hot bat, and my defense is sharp—when I don’t need to throw the ball.
But it’s fine. Everything is fine. Just rusty.
Which I knew was going to happen. You can rehab as thoroughly as possible, but it’ll never replace live games.
It’ll never replace the demand of playing nearly every day for six months straight.
I lob the ball back to our pitcher and reset.
It’ll come back. We’re only two weeks into Spring Training.
I have plenty of time. It would help if a certain ever-smiling green shortstop wasn’t doing so fucking good.
I don’t need the threat of being replaced on top of what’s going on with me—which I’m not going to admit is going on with me.
Everything. Is. Fucking. Fine.
The crack of wood hitting ball echoes through the park.
A soft chopper straight my way. I sprint in, scoop it up, and whip it to our first baseman, Roche.
An easy out, a routine play—except it flies over Roche’s head.
He pivots and scrambles after it. My gut sinks even as he sends a missile to second.
It’s not even close to in time. What should have been automatic out—the end of the fucking inning—turned into a runner in scoring position because of my error.
I glance over to our dugout, and my heart joins my stomach at my feet. Our coaches are talking behind their clipboards, faces grim.
I wish I could say that was the first time that’s happened since the Grapefruit League started, but I can count on one hand the number of outs I’ve made throwing to first in the first two weeks of Spring Training exhibition games.
We finish out the inning, luckily leaving my error stranded, and I jog to the dugout. The skipper taps me on the shoulder and jerks his head toward the locker room.
I’m done for the day.
It’s not unusual. This is exactly how Spring Training goes. We rotate through the early games, no one starting two days in a row as we get back into the grind of playing every day. I was the starter today, and I’m not surprised to get pulled.
But we just wrapped up the third inning. It’s a bit early; usually it’s not until at least the fourth. And I know it’s because of my arm.
I try to stop myself from looking, but I can’t help it. My gaze seeks them out—those impossibly blue eyes that always dance with a secret joke. That blinding smile that makes his double-dimples pop. My replacement.
Our gazes clash, and my frustration catches fire. His smile turns lop-sided. Sympathetic. “Rough luck on that last throw.”
He blows a bubble, and I want to fucking fist it and pop the damn thing. I clench my teeth to prevent myself from saying something I’ll regret. I turn on my heel and head for the locker room.
As soon as I reach my cubby in the locker room, I slam my hand into the wall beside it. The sound thuds off the paneling. My head follows, forehead resting against the cool wood. A word whispers through my mind, haunting and horrifying. Yips.
I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm the way everything is moving too fast, working too hard. Breathe, Jed.
Sometimes players lose their ability to perform a basic skill—and they’re said to have a case of the yips.
It’s all mental. We’re still capable, but our minds trick us into thinking we can’t.
Yogi Berra wasn’t joking when he said that baseball is ninety percent mental.
There was a pitcher a few years back who got it so bad he couldn’t pitch anymore.
He became an outfielder. For some, it can be career ending.
That’s how much your mind can turn on you.
Cold sweat prickles over my neck. I count my breaths. Slow. Measured. That won’t be me. I just need to learn to trust my arm again. I’ll get over this.
I just wish a certain up-and-comer with beach-blown blond curls and an easy smile wasn’t doing so damn good.
That’s got to be it. It’s the extra pressure getting to me, throwing me off.
The kid is fucking impressive. Something I’d normally appreciate—you know, if he wasn’t threatening everything I hold dear in this life.
Everything I have left.
“Stone!”
My head whips up, and my attention falls on Stephan, the Jetties’ head athletic trainer, standing in the doorway of the locker room.
“When you’ve got a minute, I want you on my table. Let’s take a look at that arm.”
I give him a nod, and he disappears. The coaches clearly spoke to him. Which means they’re worried I’ve re-aggravated my UCL. I push off the wall and make my way out of the locker room and down the hall to the athletic training room next door. My arm—my elbow—is fine.
It’s my head that isn’t.
Unfortunately, the mind is a lot more difficult to treat.