Chapter 2 #2
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that. Yes, everything is fine. I just wanted to wish you luck.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ve got to go but I’ll call you soon.”
“Love you, son.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
I jog back to where the players are gathered just as a gruff voice beckons everyone’s attention.
“Bring it in, gentlemen.” Raymond Gainsboro, the head coach, puts his hands on his hips and takes a moment to look each player in the eye.
“I don’t have to tell you how important this game is.
We must set the tone that the L.A. Jets are the World Series Champions and no one, not the New York Lions or any other team, will take it from us.
They are the biggest contenders this season, so let’s shut it down and show them who will win again this year.
” Then, in a louder, angrier voice, he says, “The World Series match up starts today. Understand?”
“Yes, Coach!” the team shouts back.
“Good. Now, go give those Lions fans something to boo at.”
I smile, as I receive my fair share of angry fans from opposing teams, but in New York, I know there’s always a group that cheers for me, too.
My brother Austin, his wife Jane, my nephew Anthony, Charlotte, and her son Charlie will all be in a private box rooting for me while wearing their Lions jerseys. I don’t take it personally because I know they’ll always have my back. And I would do the same if I still lived in New York.
But L.A. has been my home for almost five years. I haven’t been back to the Falls in more than ten—not since I signed with my college team right after high school.
As we walk onto the field and line up for the national anthem, I inhale deeply and take in every ounce of energy cascading from the crowd in the stands. With my hat to my heart, I mouth the words to the Stars Spangled Banner and chills rush up my back when the vocalist sings the last bar.
Here we go! I think as the song ends and the fans applaud.
As the closing pitcher, I don’t start the game, but I will make sure to finish it with no runs added. I have the lowest ERA in the majors this season, and before I moved into the closer role, I threw a no-hitter. Baseball is my life and I’m damn good at it.
As I walk toward the dugout, I look up into the box seats and spot Anthony and Charlie waving at me.
I tip my hat to them, and it only incites more shouting and arm waving.
I remember being their age and waving at my favorite player.
Only, I never caught his eye. I’m glad I can do that differently for these boys.
I sit on the bench and wait for my teammates to do their job before I can do mine.
Cena, our second baseman, offers me some sunflower seeds and I grab a handful and toss them into my mouth. I don’t get nervous when I’m on the mound, but watching is a different story.
After four innings, the New York Lions have rocked our starting pitcher, earning four runs. Fortunately, our guys rallied back and tied the game in the sixth inning.
“Get Valentin ready,” says Neuman on the phone with the bullpen. “He’s up next inning.”
I suck on a salty seed as Valentin walks up to the mound in the seventh inning. He throws a few warm-up pitches before the next batter steps up to the plate.
I spit out seed after seed from my lips as he strikes out the next two players. The third Lions player that Valentin faces hits a fly ball out into center field, and the entire stadium holds its breath praying it carries far enough for a homerun.
Our bench stands up as we watch the ball soar—back, back it flies while our centerfielder runs to catch up to it. He turns, leaps off the wall and makes a spectacular catch. The dugout exhales a sigh of relief as the fans in the stands groan.
The top of our order is up to bat next and our biggest hitter, Jackson, is on deck. Grabbing another handful of sunflower seeds, I throw a bunch into my mouth.
“Tucker, time to warm up.”
I spit out the seeds and grab my blue glove. I got it custom made last year to match the light blue uniform.
While the backup catcher helps me warm up in the bullpen, the game continues.
Just as I’m about to throw my next warm-up pitch, the familiar crack of the bat makes me stop.
The entire stadium is holding its breath.
One fan in front of me puts a hand over her mouth as she stares into the outfield.
I can’t see the field from the bullpen, so I watch the play on the jumbotron.
From the trajectory, I know that ball is gone.
Seconds later, Jackson smiles as he jogs the bases, and I quietly celebrate the homerun with him.
“You ready, Tucker?” says the catcher. “This is now your game to lose.”
His words don’t bother me. In fact, they stir my competitiveness and adrenaline pumps wildly in my veins. “We’re not going to lose this game.”
He taps my shoulder with his glove, and I walk out of the bullpen and on to the field.
Being in New York, the crowd doesn’t cheer as I jog to the mound, but my eye catches a sign from the private box. Anthony waves it back and forth with a smile. “You got this, Uncle Casey,” it reads.
I smile, then focus on Scotty’s glove as he sets a target for the strike zone. I throw some easy pitches, nothing too fast, to warm up. The umpire signals it’s time to start and I nod.
The Lions have their best hitters up, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I don’t need Valentin saying that I had it easy when I earned the save.
Scotty signals for a curve ball and I curl my fingers and pitch it.
Swing and a miss.
My excitement grows and I take a deep breath to settle it down.
The next pitch is a knuckleball, and I rarely throw it, but Scotty calls for it and I’m happy to oblige.
The batter gets a piece of the ball but sends it foul.
Strike two.
One more, baby.
Scotty signals for a fast ball. I adjust my hat and place my fingers around the ball into position. With all my strength I throw it towards Scotty’s glove.
“Strike three!”
Scotty punches his glove and smiles, but a sharp pain in my shoulder stops me. I roll it a few times and don’t feel it anymore, so I settle back down.
The next batter steps up to the plate and I wait for Scotty’s signal. He asks for a change-up.
Rolling the ball between my fingers, I map out the strike zone. I let the world fade as I stare down the batter.
I throw the next pitch, and it doesn’t hit its mark.
“Ball one.”
Shaking it off, I rub my hand against my pants to dry up the sweat. I never miss that pitch, but I was thinking about my shoulder.
Scotty calls for a fast ball and I shake it off. If I miss the mark and throw it straight down the middle, that batter is smacking that ball into the stands, and it’ll be game over.
But Scotty signals for the fast ball again. He’s adamant that it’s the one he wants me to throw. I could shake it off and call him up for a chat, but a movement to my left reminds me that there’s a player on first and I throw the ball to the first baseman.
“Safe!” shouts the first base umpire.
Focusing back to the hitter, I take a deep breath when Scotty signs for the fastball and I relax my muscles.
Don’t be afraid to throw it. Just do it!
Hitching up my leg, I pull back my shoulder and let the ball fly through my fingers.
Snap!
A loud pop rings in my ears, and I don’t know if it was my shoulder or the ball’s contact with the bat. Either way, it’s not a good sound.
Scotty stands up to watch the ball, but pain burns through my arm, tingling down to my fingers. The crowd is on its feet, but I close my eyes, and I try to make a fist, but my muscles are too tight, and the pain is so unbearable that it brings tears to my eyes.
The stadium erupts into cheers, and everyone is jumping and waving their fists in the air. Fireworks go off behind me, celebrating the Lions walk-off win and our loss.
Scotty shuffles toward the mound, taking his mask off as he approaches. “Left too much of it on the plate, Tuck. Better luck next time.”
Then, he bumps me on the shoulder with his glove, and it feels as though he hit me with a scalding hot pot. “Ow!”
Tears brim around my eyes and I close them.
“What the fuck? Are you all right, man?”
My shoulder feels as though a million electrical currents run through it. “No. It’s my arm. I can barely move it.”
Scotty signals to the bench and Neuman leaves the dugout, followed by Gainsboro.
When they’re just a few feet away, Scotty turns to them and says, “I think there’s a problem.”
“What’s wrong?” asks Neuman.
“My arm,” I say through gritted teeth. “It hurts like fuck.”
“Let’s have Lee take a look at it. Maybe it just needs a rub down.”
I’ve pulled muscles before, so I know this isn’t a pull.
But I follow Neuman off the field and into the training room. Gainsboro says nothing the whole walk back. He just rubs his mouth and stares straight ahead.
It makes me nervous, but I can’t worry about him right now.
Neuman talks to our physiotherapist Michael Lee and explains the situation to him.
“When did it start hurting?” he asks.
“After I threw the first fastball.”
“You didn’t feel anything before that?”
I recall the twinges while I was in the bullpen, but I shake my head.
“How long did you warm up before the game? Did you do those stretches I gave you?”
“Same as usual and yeah, I did them.”
He purses his lips as he presses his fingers into my shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Does that hurt?”
I stare him down, but he doesn’t flinch; instead he pokes his fingers into my bicep. “Does it hurt here?”
“It’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt like my shoulder does.”
“We need to do an ultrasound and check for any muscle tears or tendon injuries. There’s a clinic nearby and I’m friends with the doctors there.”
“Okay, give me the address and I’ll meet you there after I shower.”
“There’s no time. The sooner we take care of this the better your chances of recovery.”
“Recovery?” The word shocks me, and my mind wants to play this down. “It’s just a twinge.”
“I don’t think it is, but I won’t know for sure without seeing the images.”
“Look, I’m not leaving like this. I just need—”
“Tucker, you’re going now,” says Neuman. “We’ll have a car waiting for you outside. I’ll get your things from the locker.”
Neuman’s face is etched with worry while Gainsboro still hasn’t said a word. A knot forms at the pit of my stomach, and I have the hardest time taking a deep breath.
“I’ll meet you out front.”
As I exit the locker room, I catch a glimpse of familiar faces in the crowd. “Uncle Casey!” Anthony shouts, waving his hand.
I turn to greet him, but Neuman’s voice stops my trajectory. “There’s no time to meet with fans. Aren’t you the least bit worried about your arm?”
I consider explaining that those aren’t fans but family, but I don’t think Neuman would care at this moment. And his words have the effect he intended.
For the first time in my career—in my life—I am worried and I’m not sure what’s going to happen next.