Chapter 22 Maxford
MAXFORD
“Elbow up, Hutch,” Kevin Spalding, the Seafarer’s hitting coach, calls from a few feet away as I position myself to the right of home plate.
It’s been three days of batting practice and reading hops.
And throwing. So much throwing. From third base to first base, from third base to second, to the pitcher’s mound, to the plate, and to the outfield for kicks and giggles.
My arm is the good sore that lets you know you’re alive and doing the thing you love.
It’s come back easy and stronger than ever.
Batting, on the other hand, is how I lost my job in the first place and for all my prep the last couple of months, it’s still giving me trouble.
“Too high,” he tells me. I lower my right arm just so. “There you go.”
The pitching machine releases the next ball right down the center and I swing.
The crack of the ball meeting the bat echoes throughout the empty stadium as I watch the ball go deep into left field.
Rolling out my shoulders, I ready myself for the next pitch and send that one foul.
This goes on for a few more minutes until the bench coach flips off the machine.
Spalding comes to me and pats me on the back. “Your swing is getting stronger.”
“It’s not where I want it to be.” I run my hand along the side of my face, staring at where I sent the last ball.
He pulls the hat off his head and rubs a bead of sweat from his sideburns.
It’s seventy-five, but for those of us who arrived in Peoria from winter conditions, we might as well be walking on the sun.
“Nobody expects you to go out and hit a home run your first at-bat. You were brought in for your fielding skills. That’s where you need to focus right now and let the younger guys do the heavy lifting here. ”
I appreciate how he’s trying to let me off easy, making me trust I’ll improve if I keep showing up and doing the work.
‘Hitting a home run is just around the corner, Hutch.’ We both know I’ll be the deadweight of the batting lineup, with my purpose to drive in a guy to third or pop a sacrifice fly.
The kids who will start arriving tonight are young; they’re full of fire and willing to do whatever it takes to play the game a long time.
Their bodies haven’t been broken down by the game and poor choices yet, and I’m working hard not to let that eat away at my confidence.
When Nola, Emma, and Stella dropped me off at the airport, they were so proud of me. The same enthusiasm wafted off them for me that I’d felt for Nola only the night before, looking at her painting. I couldn’t have asked for a better fan club send off.
When Stella was still in Palm Springs, I always visited her right before spring training started. She’d always taken me to the airport, dressed in the brightest kaftans from her collection, and would hand me a fresh $100 bill.
Yesterday was no different. Stella insisted on coming in one of her bright floral frocks, despite the freezing temperatures, because ‘tradition.’ She gave me a quick hug, tipped up on her toes to give me a kiss on the cheek, and delivered her same line from years past while handing over the cash.
“This is in case you need snacks, Maxford.” If there was one person on this planet who respected the need to repeat a yearly superstition before sending me to conquer my sport, it was her.
As for Emma, she had still been a little unsure about how much she trusted that I’d see her again. She’d handed me a Costco-sized container of peanut butter M I’m no longer having to focus on what every single move should be. I’m back.