He’s not wrong.
But baseball is a mind game as much as a physical one, and over the last year, I’ve learned to home in on the mental preparation. Knowing what’s coming. Studying the opposition. Religiously, relentlessly, committing their strategies to memory.
That’s the thing about athletes.
We love routine. We might think we like to change it up, surprise the opponent. But most of the time, we are servants to the familiar.
That is never truer than with pitchers.
Xavier kicks his leg, goes into the windup, and unleashes a fireball. I swear there’s smoke coming off the ball as it careens toward home plate.
I swing the bat, but when the ball dips just out of the strike zone, I check the motion just in time. I swung at his sinker twice already and missed.
Not doing it again.
“Ball,” the umpire barks, making the count three-two.
This is it.
My jaw tightens, then I take a deep breath. I step away from the plate, adjust my glove, return to my stance, and lift the bat again.
I narrow in on Xavier on the mound. He peers at the catcher. Shakes his head. Normally, I’d expect Xavier to go with the sinker once more, since he snuck that fucker past me two times in this at bat.
But I’m betting on the cut fastball, since he loves to serve those up when there’s a full count.
That’s what I get. Rocket fuel down the middle. I shift my weight to my back foot, rotate my hips, and swing with precision and force.
Thwack.
The crack of the bat is the most satisfying sound.
The ball soars.
Head down, I run like hell along the baseline as that little white orb keeps on flying, soaring gloriously over the fence in my hometown.
I punch the air.
A rush of satisfaction races through my bones as I round the bases, high-fiving the third base coach, then the two teammates I sent home who are waiting for me at the plate.
No time to bask in the glory, though, because we’ve got a job to do—shut them down in the bottom of the ninth inning.
That’s what Shane Walker, our rookie closer, does—he seals the win for us, putting a fork in the series against Seattle, the team I grew up rooting for.
High-fives abound in the locker room as I congratulate Shane. He’s a Brit with a baseball pedigree—an English mom and an American dad who played for years in the majors before he went into the Hall of Fame. Shane’s one of only a handful of British players ever, but he’s already making a name for himself with his fearless style of nailing saves.
“Keep up that good shit and we’ll have to give you a nickname other than bloke,” I tell him, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Iceman, please,” he says.
“You don’t get to pick your nickname. We do,” I say, gesturing from me to our center fielder, whose locker is next to Shane’s.
“Rules. Gotta follow ’em,” Antonio calls out as the pitcher grabs his leather jacket. “Hey! Leatherman! How about that?”
I scoff. “Antonio, we are not naming him after a tool.”
“But he’s got so many wicked pitches; he’s like a Leatherman.”
I turn to Shane, hold up my hands like I’m framing him, then ask, “Leatherman?”
Shane’s expressionless, but I bet that poker face is saying, Please don’t nickname me Leatherman.
“Flamethrower!” Antonio shouts.
I shake my head. “Fireman could work though.”
Shane gives a small smile. “That’s not bad.”
“Shush,” Antonio says, then he snaps his fingers as he stares at Shane’s black jacket. “The British Bad Boy of Baseball.”
I screw up the corner of my lips. “A little long, don’t you think?”
“That’s what she said,” Antonio quips with a wiggle of his brows.
I roll my eyes, then turn back to Shane. “We’ll let you know when it’s official.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”
“What the hell is ‘bated breath’? Does anyone know?” Antonio holds his arms out wide in question.
“I believe it’s from Shakespeare. That’s what my mom told me once. She teaches English,” I offer. “But I don’t remember which play.”
“The Merchant of Venice,” Shane says. “‘Shall I bend low, and in a bondman’s key, With bated breath and whispering humbleness.’”
Antonio blinks, then a wicked glint crosses his eyes. He whips his gaze to me. “I do believe we have a nickname.”
I grin, clapping Shane on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club, Shakespeare.”
Shane laughs, then shrugs. “I could do worse. Thanks. . . mates,” he says, then takes off.
After a shower, I change into jeans and a Henley, then make my way out of the locker room, when Antonio stops me, hand on my arm. “We’re hitting a bar on Capitol Hill. Should be a good time. Carson has a bunch of friends who are bringing some friends, if you know what I mean.”
He winks, but I know exactly what he means without it—babes will abound.
“Nah,” I say, tipping my forehead to the exit. “The ’rents are here.”
He rolls his eyes. “Always an excuse with you.”
He’s not wrong.
I don’t party. I don’t cruise the bars. I do like to go out with my teammates, but I’m usually the guy nursing an iced tea, making sure the others don’t make stupid decisions.
Well, as much as I can control that, which is not much. Success at an early age often means you make a lot of stupid decisions.
Besides, that scene can lead to distractions.
I don’t need any.
This last year has been all about baseball. The focus has paid off.
My batting average plus on-base percentage is a thing of beauty. I’m racking up RBIs. And our team has a winning record.
One more year like this at the major league minimum, and I can lock in a hefty raise in arbitration next year—a raise that’ll likely go a long way to making my family secure for life.
I glance down at the ink on my forearm as I leave.
Taking care of my family—that’s how I keep my eye on the prize.
My parents wait for me in the ballpark corridor, my dad looking every bit the teacher with his horn-rimmed glasses, trim beard, and cardigan. My mom, on the other hand, dresses like a fangirl in her Holden Kingsley jersey, an LA Bandits ball cap, and a foam finger. It’s embarrassingly adorable.
She waves the giant blue finger at me.
“Be careful with that weapon,” I tease. I hug my mom, then my dad, then my sixteen-year-old brothers.
“I see you brought these two troublemakers along.” I pat the twins on their blond heads because it drives them batty, and I believe in driving my brothers batty, especially because both of them are five inches shorter than my six foot two.
“Kids. You can’t leave them behind all the time,” my dad quips.
“Hey, what happened to you in the first inning when you struck out looking?” Cody asks.
“Aww, did I ruin your fantasy baseball stats, sparky?”
He scoffs. “As if I play fantasy baseball.” Sports aren’t his thing. He prefers building skyscrapers out of toothpicks. A good habit to have if you want to be an architect, and he does.