Chapter 14
Casey
“Casey? Did you hear what I said?”
“Huh?”
Brett has been talking incessantly for the past twenty minutes, and I lost track at least ten minutes ago. I have no idea what he just said.
“Of course I did. I’m just not in the mood to talk today.”
“Bullshit. I’m telling you that Andy Jones wants to take you to Vegas and show you how serious he is about his offer, and you just sit there like he’s offering to buy you a coffee. What’s up with you man? You haven’t been the same since you got back from New York.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been more focused than ever. I hit the gym, the weights, met with all the trainers, even the damn therapist the team assigned me. I’ve never been better.”
“Yeah. I guess. But why aren’t you more excited about this deal?”
I shrug and stare out the window.
We’re sitting in the back seat of a cab, heading to the airport to start a three-game series with New York.
“Have you heard anything from the Lions?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t concern myself with them.”
“I’m not asking for advice, I’m asking if you spoke to them.”
He sits up and turns to look at me. “Where is this coming from? I remember a time, not too long ago, when you didn’t want anything to do with New York.”
I fidget under his scrutiny. I never fidget.
Running a hand through my hair, I sigh. “Just forget it.”
Brett sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. “I spoke to New York like you asked, but like I said, they can’t do more than $40 million. Why are you so interested in New York all of a sudden?”
“I just am,” I say, a little annoyed. “It would be a good idea to hear everyone’s best offer.”
“Yeah, sure. But their pockets aren’t as deep as L.A. or Philly’s. And you’ve always been about getting that coin. Am I right?”
Despite the early hour, the highway leading to LAX is already bumper to bumper. The sun is out and I’ve always loved living on the West Coast, but my mind won’t stop thinking about the East Coast.
“Money is important. But it’s not everything.”
Brett shakes his head. “I don’t know what happened in New York, but don’t start getting sentimental on me. Let’s keep our eyes on the prize, and right now the biggest prize is coming out of Philly.”
*
The Jets’ clubhouse is empty except for our trainer and me. He’s making me do the latest exercises he assigned.
“Your mechanics look good,” says Michael. “How does it feel when you throw?”
“It feels good,” I say.
“Are you throwing at 100 percent?”
“Yeah. Pretty close to that.”
“Good. The exercises are working then. Let me put some heat on your shoulder to keep it loose before the game. The last thing we want to do is injure it again.”
I sit on one of the large massage chairs and let Michael apply a heating pad on my shoulder. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
I nod and close my eyes.
I try to envision my pitching, but the first image that comes to mind is of a beautiful blonde with curly long hair. Her smile pulls me closer, and I can’t help but imagine running my fingers through her hair. As I lean closer, I can almost smell the lavender oil she uses on her neck—
“Hey, Tuck!” someone slaps my shoulder and my eyes pop open.
I see red.
“What the fuck, man?” I snarl.
The rookie jumps back. I don’t recall his name, but he’s the one blasting pop music in the locker room before a game.
He puts his hands up. “Whoa. I was just saying hi.”
A few of the other players walk in and I try to settle my nerves, but I’m coming off a shoulder injury, and the kid slaps my fucking shoulder. At least I tell myself that’s what I’m pissed about.
“Next time when you say it, keep your hands to yourself, all right?”
I sit back and close my eyes, but there’s only darkness behind them. She’s gone, and I can’t conjure her back up.
I hear someone say to the rookie, “Pitchers, man. They’re all the same.”
I rub the necklace at my chest and my breathing slows down.
My father gave me this necklace when I was thirteen years old.
I had a coach whose son played the same position on the team as me.
He knew I was better, so he rarely let me play, so I couldn’t show up his son.
I wanted to leave the team, but my father said we made a commitment to the players, and we weren’t going to let them down.
I sat on the bench most games, played whenever his son got injured or needed a break, but I planned my every move.
I watched the pitchers and timed their pitch, so when it was my turn I would be ready.
Every time I was on the field, I made every second count.
I chased every ball, made the most impossible plays possible because I didn’t know when I would get the chance again.
It made me hungry, but it made me angry, too.
I swore I would show that coach that he couldn’t break me.
I would show him that I was the best player on the team, but I was also strong mentally.
Thinking back to that time, I realize that coach made me the player I am today.
Resilient. Hard. Not letting someone else stand in my way to achieving my dreams. Some people could make the road harder, but my father taught me you can’t let them stand in your way.
At the end of the summer, my father gave me this necklace with my number on it.
Number 19. He said I was a true baller now, and that I made him proud.
I wipe the moisture from my eyes and put the necklace back safely underneath my jersey.
There isn’t a little league coach standing in my way now, but the road is harder.
There’s always a new pitcher looking to take my spot in the rotation.
And with all these offers coming in and Brett talking me up, I have to deliver more than ever.
I can’t just be good. I have to be great.
I can’t just throw like the rest of them.
I need to be better. It’s one thing to be the rising star, and another to be the star.
It’s not just hype. It’s the expectation, and for the first time, it’s weighing heavy on my shoulders.
“Are you ready, Tucker?”
I open my eyes and Gavin Neuman, my pitching coach, is standing in front of me.
“I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
“That’s my boy.” He smacks my shoulder and I grimace. A scathing remark like the one I gave the rookie is on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to swallow it. I must remember that emotions have no place in baseball. Emotions can get in the way and make you lose more than just a game.
As I step into the dugout, I take in the crowd around us.
More than forty thousand fans have come to watch their New York Lions take on the Los Angeles Jets.
It’s a sea of white and red as most fans wear their Lions jerseys.
My eyes move toward the two hundred club level where I spot a handful of fans that I know may have on Lions Jerseys but they also cheer for me.
I see Charlie and Anthony first. They’re wearing these large foam hands, waving them from side to side. I love seeing the joy on my nephew’s face. It was great throwing with him when I was back home.
I spot Jane and Austin in the seats behind them. Austin has his arm over Jane and is whispering something in her ear. Cassandra is most likely back home with my parents as usual since she claims to hate baseball.
I search the seats beside and behind them, scouring the VIP room, but there’s no one else.
My mom rarely comes to a game. She says it makes her too nervous, and my dad has always preferred to watch it on TV.
He says the view is much better than the clubhouse level.
I told him I’d get him seats behind the plate, but he insists the most comfortable seat is in his living room.
It doesn’t bother me. They came to all my games when I needed them most. So, I’d rather they be comfortable.
But there was one face I was hoping to see and it hurts that she didn’t come.
Don’t be an idiot, Casey.
Sage has no reason to come watch me play. She doesn’t owe me anything.
I was just hoping to see her.
I turn back to the dugout and tune out all the noise.
It’s time to get into the zone. Time to focus.
Time to prove once again who I am. It’s not enough that I made the All-Star team or won a Cy Young Award.
Fans, managers, coaches, they only care about what you can do right now, in this game, this inning, this pitch.
And now, I have to get my head in the game.
Pitchers don’t sit with the team unless they’re the starting pitcher.
But now I’m a closer and a damn good one.
So, I make my way to the bullpen where Gavin and a couple of our relievers are sitting on chairs.
The bullpen in this stadium is open to fans above us.
A few chirp at me. “Hey, Tucker. How’s that shoulder?
Hope it isn’t going to fuck up your game.
” The fan laughs loudly with his friends.
It’s all good. A fan trying to get under my skin is just part of the game. I take no offense to it.
“Hey, Tucker.”
“Hey, Jason.”
I sit next to my teammate, and we watch our first batter come up to the plate.
He hits a ground ball and is called out at first. I sit back and cross my arms in the chair.
My gaze scans the crowd and lands on the two hundred level again.
I think I spot someone with blonde hair, but it’s straight, and Sage never straightens her hair. At least, I don’t think so.
When the woman picks up a baby boy next to her, I realize that it definitely isn’t Sage.
I pop some gum in my mouth and grip a ball between my fingers, squeezing it tight. My forearm muscles tense up, but there’s no pain.
By the fifth inning, the game is tied and the coach tells Jason it’s time for him to warm up. “You’re going in the next inning.”
I watch Jason warm up and he looks good. He throws side-arm, and it always amazes me how he gets such speed with those mechanics. It never worked for me.