CHAPTER 3 Archer Bradley
Outsider
I force myself not to get emotional. It’s pretty easy to keep my emotions in check most of the time.
But this? This is different.
Two more outs until I’m sitting in the stands—not even the dugout—for the next forty games.
Fuck.
It’s beyond frustrating that this is happening, and it feels like it’s happening at the peak of my career.
Like things will never be the same when I come back from this.
Like my reputation is ruined. People won’t want to work with me.
Teammates won’t trust me. It’s already starting.
The clubhouse is quiet. Nobody approaches me.
I used to prefer it that way—but that was back when I had Tatum waiting for me at home, and I could unload some of the shit from the day onto her rather than onto my teammates.
Maybe that’s why she left, but I was able to open up to her in ways I’ve never opened up to anyone else.
I’ve known her since I was a freshman in high school, and when relationships span that far back, those become the people we can trust the most.
But she’s gone now, and I’ll head back to Vegas to a quiet house too big for one person.
I leave for my trip tomorrow.
It all happens in two outs.
I’ve never wanted to make a game last a little longer before. Not like this. Usually I’m busting my ass to ensure we get those last two outs, but I want this inning to stretch on a little longer.
The batter hits a grounder to the right side, and Eric Griffin on second base sprints to grab it and flip it to Danny Brewer on first.
One more out.
It’s mostly our A-team out here right now. It’s our last game before the regular season, and Troy has been rotating in starters throughout the game so everyone can have that last bit of practice before the games that count begin.
But I won’t be there. Not for the first forty.
He let me stay out here a few more innings than I usually play in spring training games. He knows how much this game means to me. He knows I won’t have anything left for a while starting in one more out. At least he gave me that gift.
I spit into the grass, a leftover habit from the days when I used to chew sunflower seeds in the outfield.
Another batter steps to the plate, and he fouls the first pitch to the stands not far from me.
His timing is off, so I drop into the ready position and wait for the next one.
A swing and a miss. Two strikes. One more and he’s out.
One more and the game is over. One more and I’m off for the next forty games—which is nearly a month and a half, for the record.
With our schedule, we only get four or five days “off” most months, and they’re usually spent traveling.
I hear the sharp sound of the bat as it connects with the ball, that sound I love so damn much, and I watch as the ball sails toward me. I keep my eye on it as I run toward the back wall, never breaking my focus on it until I hear it slap into my glove.
I caught the final out. The game is over. We won.
I should be celebrating with my team. Instead, I feel like an outsider.
It’s been a common theme my entire life.
I felt like an outsider in my football family when my four brothers chose to play a sport different from the one I chose.
I could’ve played football. I was a wide receiver my sophomore year of high school, and I was a damn good one.
Good enough that I played varsity on a competitive team as a tenth grader.
Good enough that colleges were interested.
But I didn’t love football the way I loved baseball.
Maybe it was the slower pace of the game.
There are clear times for offense and times for defense in both sports, but football is constant running and action on the field.
I preferred the longer season, fewer practices, and more games.
And to be totally honest, I liked having my own identity separate from my brothers.
I liked having something that was just for me.
I liked having something that set me apart.
My high school coaches helped me fall in love with the game.
They helped me perfect my skills. I wouldn’t be where I am today without them.
To each their own. I love both sports. But I love baseball in a way where it’s the very fiber of my being.
I never felt that same connection to football, not the way my brothers always did.
And now it’s being taken from me because of one goddamn signature on one piece of paper.
I head to the clubhouse, take a quick shower, and change.
I pack my bags and head to the team bus set to drive us back to Vegas.
I’m the first one on the bus, and I choose a seat by myself toward the back.
I slip in my earbuds and turn my attention toward the window to attempt to ward off anyone from coming near me, but it’s a big failure.
Johnny Prater slides into the seat beside me. I suppose he’s my closest friend on the team, but it’s more out of necessity than anything else. He’s at center, I’m at left. We’re often running toward the same ball, and we’ve found a trust with each other, knowing if I can’t get to it, he will.
“You were on fire out there, man. Sucks about the league’s decision,” he says.
“Yeah,” I mutter, slipping out my earbud since it appears he doesn’t want to allow me any peace on the six-hour road trip ahead of us.
“What are your plans?” he asks.
“Troy told me to lay low and get out of town, so I booked a trip,” I admit.
He raises his brows. “Where to?”
“The Bahamas.”
He nods and grins. “Nice. Perfect place to crash bachelorette parties and late spring breakers. Mm, college chicks.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and I force a laugh for his benefit when the truth is that he might be into dating younger women, but I’m still burned from losing the only girl I ever loved.
“I think this trip will be more about recovery for me, but thanks for the suggestion.”
“We’ve got a two-day break after we play in Miami, so maybe I’ll hop a plane down and pay you a little visit.”
“Jesus, no,” I mutter. “Leave a guy alone.”
He laughs. “Right.”
As if they sense that I don’t really want to talk to anybody at all and prefer to act totally against my wishes anyway, Cooper Noah and Danny Brewer take the seat in front of me, and AJ Winters sits behind me, smacking the back of my head in jest. Duke Owens slips in beside him, and two of our pitchers, Rush Ross and Kyle Ortega, take the seat across the small aisle from mine.
That’s seven of my teammates surrounding me.
“It’s just forty games, man,” Cooper says quietly.
He’s a leader on this team, handpicked by Troy Bodine to play third when this team was added to the league.
Cooper is the kind of guy who is respected by everyone he’s ever played with, and he’s been in this game for a long, long time.
He’s thirty-six now, married with two kids at home, and he still plays the game like he’s in his early twenties.
I remember watching him play in the early days of his career back when I was a teenager, and he was a hero to me.
To play on the same team with him is a real honor and a privilege I don’t take lightly.
“It’s a slap in the face,” I say.
“Look, everyone here knows the truth. We all believe in you,” Cooper says, and the other guys surrounding us are nodding in agreement.
“You’re a man of few words, but we all know you’ve been through some tough shit.
The offseason was brutal for you, but in two months, you’ll be back with us.
Just because you’re not on that field with us right now doesn’t mean you aren’t still a huge part of this team.
Don’t forget that. We’ll be counting down the days until we get you back. ”
“Especially me,” Johnny says beside me. “I’m going to be covering both center and left with Troy pulling up Cade Barrett.”
We all see Cade, the minor leaguer getting called up to play in my absence, as he walks onto the bus and sits up toward the front, and a little ripple of laughter fills the back of the bus from all of us.
He’s a trained right fielder, but he’s on the forty-man roster, and he’s a good kid, a hard worker, and a hell of a batter.
He’ll need to make some tweaks to take over left, but Johnny’s not exactly wrong.
He’s going to have to pick up a bit of slack as he and Cade work on finding a rhythm together.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, and the final players board the bus as the driver starts it up and we head back toward home.
We all slip into our own zones, some of us watching movies, others talking quietly, and others playing on their phones or texting loved ones.
As for me, I put my music back on and stare out the window as I think about how this conversation made me feel an awful lot like I’m not as much of an outsider with my teammates as I thought.