25. Jake
TWENTY-FIVE
JAKE
The small white clearance slip from the team physician is crumpled in my left fist, the ink barely dry, but the lineup card taped to the dugout wall doesn’t care about medical miracles.
McKinney, J. — Bullpen
The medical staff officially gave me the green light an hour ago.
My right shoulder feels totally restored.
Better, in fact. I’m nearly bionic. My arm feels alive, loose, and ready to snap throws down to second base.
But because I’ve been sidelined for nearly three weeks, Coach isn’t taking any chances with the weekend home opener against Little Rock.
It’s one of the biggest series of the season, the stands directly behind home plate packed with scouts holding radar guns and clipboards, and decision-makers from Texas are looking to pull guys up for a final push.
And I am stuck out in the fucking bullpen, destined to catch warm-up pitches.
A wave of dejection keeps hitting me square in the chest. It’s a bitter reality check, the reminder that the game keeps going whether you’re healthy or not.
I stare at the back of my dad’s jersey as he straps on his chest protector, the familiar number 44 mocking me.
For a fleeting second, resentment claws at my throat.
I want to stare at the ground, find a corner of the bench, and let it fester.
Instead, I take a deep breath, roll my shoulders, and step right up to the top rail of the dugout.
“Hey, Luis!” I shout out to our starting pitcher, slamming my left hand against the padding of the rail. “Establish the inner third early! They were diving into the plate last time we faced them! Let’s get it!”
Luis gives me a nod, then jogs out to the mound.
I look over at my dad. He’s adjusting his shin guards, but the second my voice rings out, his head snaps up.
Our eyes lock briefly, and I push myself to mask any disappointment I’m feeling with a grin.
It feels fake on my face, and I’m sure it looks half-assed.
He doesn’t say a word, simply lowers his mask and heads up the dugout steps.
“Let’s go,” I say, slapping the back of one of our young relievers as I follow him out of the dugout to join the rest of the relief crew out to the bullpen. I’m determined to be the loudest jackass on the roster today.
We take the field first, and Luis manages to escape the top of the first inning unscathed, working around a walk to keep it scoreless.
In the bottom of the frame, our leadoff guy strikes out, but Jayden manages to work his way into a full-count walk.
That brings my dad up to the plate with one out and a runner on first. This is exactly where he likes to be.
The number of homers I’ve watched him hit in the first with a runner on is too many to count, and my gut says he’s about to do it again.
I lean against the bullpen fence and zero in on his form.
“Come on, Dad,” I whisper to myself.
He digs his back foot into the dirt, and the Little Rock ace winds up and fires a heavy, ninety-two-mile-an-hour fastball right at the outside corner.
My dad shifts his weight, keeping his hips centered, just like he tells me to every time we hit together, and cracks a stinging single into shallow right field.
“Yeah, old man!” I yell from the bullpen, rattling the chain-link fence with my left hand. “Way to stay back!”
I chuckle, hoping he can hear me and is amused by my imitation. Jayden rounds second and slides safely into third as my dad hits first base at a standard, heavy-legged veteran trot. But the exact microsecond his cleat clips the bag, the entire game grinds to a halt.
My father’s body bends in half, his left hand instantly snapping to the back of his right thigh.
He hunches over, then lowers himself to sit on the grass, his head shaking as he grabs his hamstring.
The trainer jogs out and kneels beside him, helping him stretch before getting him back on his feet to test out a jog.
My dad takes two halting steps into foul territory and drops to one knee, groaning out what sounds like an F-bomb loud enough to be heard all the way out here.
Coach hovers over him, and the two of them talk while the trainer holds his chin in his palm and nods.
The whole conversation lasts less than thirty seconds.
Roddy is shaking his head, barking words I can’t distinguish, but the trainer refuses to let him stay.
Clearly frustrated, my father allows himself to be slowly helped off the field, his arm slung over the trainer’s shoulder as he ambles his way down the dugout steps and into the back room.
My bullpen radio clicks on my hip, the coach’s voice crackling through.
“Jake. Get your armor on. You’re subbing in at first.”
My heart does a flip against my ribs. I don’t even think.
I simply hand off the radio to one of our pitchers and jet out the bullpen gate, sprinting across the grass.
Brooks tosses me a helmet I’m not even sure is mine, and I get my orders from the first base coach as I take my place at first. When I get the steal sign from the third-base coach, I practically barf.
I’m not exactly built for speed, though I am an upgrade from my old man in that department.
I push my helmet down tighter, then work my way off the base, taking a risky lead and trusting my instincts.
He’s not going to pick. He’s throwing an inside fastball.
I’ve memorized the Little Rock starter’s sequence after studying his last four games. He rarely picks to first, and he’s slow with his wind-up, which means if I take off right . . . about . . . now . . . I might just make it.
My feet dig into the dirt as I pound my way toward second, sliding in with a puff of dust and standing up almost a full second before the ball makes it to the shortstop for a tag.
“Fuck, he’s so slow,” the Little Rock shortstop complains. I shrug and snicker, which seems to piss him off a little. I’m not sure if he means his catcher or the guy on the mound. I bite my tongue and keep myself from asking. I don’t need him gunning for me all day.
Despite my effort, I’m stranded at second when our next two hitters strike out. I gear up to catch Luis, and the moment I squat behind the dish, the world narrows to the small white ball and the leather of my glove. I have a point to prove, and I have exactly eight innings to do it.
In the top of the third, Little Rock’s baserunner tests my freshly cleared arm, taking an aggressive secondary lead off first. The pitch from Luis comes in low and dirty—a breaking ball in the dirt.
I smother it, dropping to both knees, and transition the ball to my right hand in one motion.
I unleash a bullet straight to second base, and the throw cuts through the air like a wire, hitting Brooks’s glove perfectly before the runner even drops his back foot.
Out.
By the bottom of the ninth, the game is deadlocked at 3-3.
There are two outs, and Jayden is standing on second after a wild pitch.
Little Rock’s closer tries to crowd me, throwing an inside fastball meant to back me off the plate.
But I don’t flinch. I stay back, letting the ball travel, and explode through the zone, driving an absolute screamer deep over the right fielder’s head.
The ball ricochets off the wall as Jayden rounds third, crossing home plate standing up.
A walk-off.
My first game back!
The dugout erupts, the guys swarming the field, slamming my helmet and pounding my back in a joyous mob. I’m partly afraid I’m dreaming, but my legs are tired, and my back is drenched with sweat and Gatorade, so I know this is real.
Before I can make it to the dugout steps, tonight’s in-game host, a hyper-energetic girl named Mia, flags me down right along the first-base line.
She’s holding a wireless microphone in one hand and adjusting a heavy set of headphones with the other, our stadium cameraman tracking her every move as the Jumbotron above us flashes my face in a giant, pixelated form.
“I’m here with the man of the hour, Jake McKinney!” Mia shouts into the mic, her voice booming over the stadium loudspeakers. My Aunt Winnie’s whistle booms over every other sound in this place, and I scan the seats in search of her, to no avail.
“Jake, first game back from the injured list, you throw out a runner at second, and then you drive in the walk-off game-winner in the ninth. Take us through that final at-bat!”
I wipe a streak of sweat and infield dirt from my forehead with the back of my left hand, trying to catch my breath as the remaining fans in the stands cheer loudly.
“Honestly, I was just trying to stay centered,” I say, leaning into the mic. “Their closer has great stuff, but he left a fastball up over the plate, and I didn’t miss it. It feels incredible to be back out here helping the team grit out a tough win.”
She fires off one more quick question about my shoulder before letting me go, but the second I step off the grass, a small huddle of regional sports reporters and local media beats me to the tunnel.
Mics and phones are shoved toward my face as they press for details on the injury and the sudden lineup change.
“You did not expect to be in the lineup today, am I right?” one reporter asks.
“No, I was back in the bullpen,” I reply, keeping my tone professional.
“I guess Roddy felt a tweak in his hamstring after that single in the first, so I had to get ready pretty quick. You never want to see a teammate go down, especially a veteran like him, but our job is to stay ready for whatever the game throws at us.”
“Does it matter that it’s your dad?” she follows up.
I chuckle, wondering how I would have answered this a couple months ago.
“Yeah, it does. Old man promised to help me move this weekend.”
Everyone left lingering around laughs, and I field two more questions about the upcoming road trip, giving them the standard team-first answers before offering a polite nod and finally slipping past them into the quiet sanctuary of the stadium tunnel.
Once the initial rush settles and the clubhouse begins to clear out, I walk along the quiet concourse toward the physical therapy room to grab a bag of ice for my shoulder.
It doesn’t hurt, but I’m never taking feeling good for granted again.
I throw as much as the pitching staff does.
More, actually. Arm care first, dinner at Earl’s after.
The training door is cracked open about an inch, a sliver of fluorescent light cutting across the dark hallway floor. I push it fully open, and the hinges creak.
My dad is standing inside by the stainless-steel counters.
He isn’t lying on the training table, and he’s definitely not packed in ice or bandages.
In fact, there isn’t a trainer in sight.
He’s standing perfectly straight, completely unbothered, casually popping the cap off a cold electrolyte drink without even a remote hint of a limp, a cramp, or a tight muscle.
He stiffens, the bottle halfway to his mouth, as he catches my reflection in the glass cabinet. He turns around slowly and our eyes lock across the small, sterile room.
Neither of us says a word. The silence is thick, heavy with years of unspoken words, but the old tension is entirely gone.
In the quiet space between us, a shared secret passes from father to son.
He didn’t pull his hamstring. He didn’t tighten up.
The old man faked the entire injury the exact moment he saw the scouts in the stands, intentionally stepping off the stage so I could have the spotlight all to myself.
He gave me the game. He gave me my moment.
He takes a long sip of his drink, his face completely expressionless, though the very corner of his mouth twitches up in a barely perceptible signal.
I nod back, a simple, silent acknowledgment of the gift. The bridge between us just may finally, officially, be rebuilt.