IVORY
You’re a true comedian. What would I do without you?
TAYLOR
Good thing you’ll never know!
Well, looks like I am going on vacation. It could be nice though. There’s nothing for me to do here right now except wait to see what the studios and networks decide to do next. I don’t have a fallback option. Belize, here I come.
CHAPTER TWO
Preston
“This is about as useless as the P in pterodactyl,” I grumble as we stand in the dugout watching our designated hitter in the batter's box.
It’s another perfect day for baseball in Port Charlotte, where the Tampa Tides hold spring training. We’ve been here for a few weeks training and preparing as a team. It’s the official start of the baseball season after a few months' rest. The baseball season is long and taxing—162 games in six months, not including spring training and the playoff run. For us, the spring training games just started, but the pandemic that has been all over the globe officially hit U.S. soil and everyone has been going crazy with how to handle it and what precautions to take.
The NBA and NHL both announced their seasons were suspended this week. We’ve been hearing murmurs that the MLB is going to postpone the start of our season, which brings me back to my prior statement. This game is pointless. But the Commissioner hasn’t made a decision yet, so here we are, playing the game and waiting to hear the news. Ridiculous.
“Ooh good one,” Miller, my best friend and the team’s catcher, says as he sidles up next to me hanging over the railing in the dugout looking out onto the field.
We have a runner on second and our designated hitter is on strike two. If they get this out, we’ll be back on the field for the top of the 9th.
“Wait, wait, I’ve got one. As pointless as the G in gnat.” Miller chuckles, proud of himself.
I roll my eyes but the corner of my mouth lifts in a smirk. My best friend thinks he’s the resident comedian of the team.
“Seriously, dude. This game is a wash either way. Ain’t no way they don’t call it,” he continues.
I grunt my agreement as the batter strikes out and we grab our gloves to head back onto the field. I’ve been in the league for almost ten years and have learned it’s a waste of time to get involved in the politics of the front office. I’m here to play ball, so that is what I’ll do. It’s what I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember.
We’re leading so unless our closer really fucks shit up, this will be a quick half inning. No need for the home team to bat the last half inning when we’ve already won. As we throw the ball around the infield giving the pitcher a few minutes to warm up, I can’t help the sense of peace that I feel being back on the diamond. The smell of the fresh cut grass, the dirt beneath my cleats, the crisp white lines that have been trampled by players running on and off the field. I’ve given my heart and soul to this game for most of my life. I’m here hoping that it continues to be that for me.
Despite my contract, I still have to prove myself every spring. There are a limited number of spots on the active roster. Each year is like a new tryout. Just because I’ve been active in the majors, except for a few rehab assignments, doesn’t mean I’m arrogant. I’ve known plenty of guys who thought they had it in the bag during spring training only to get reassigned to the minors while a younger or higher performer took their place on the active roster. Luckily, I’ve avoided a trade the last few years, but with the Nashville expansion, the league and divisions have shifted. Anything is possible this year.
I remind myself I can only control what I can control, and right now that’s the grounder headed straight for me. I jump in front of it, scooping the ball into my glove and then throwing it to our first baseman. I pump my fist when the first baseman catches the ball to secure the win. Fuck, it feels good to win even without a crowd in attendance today and the season up in the air.
“Tampa wins!” the announcer proclaims over the loud speaker. Slapping my hand into my empty glove, I jog to the mound to meet the team. I give the pitcher his celebratory ass tap and “good game” to everyone else. Miller rushes the mound like we just won a playoff game and slings an arm around my neck shouting about my throw. Bro hugs and handshakes are exchanged as we celebrate together. It may only be spring training but this is the time the team chemistry starts to develop. I love baseball and this team.
The guys from Boston come out to chat with us too. Spring training is always a good chance to catch up with friends from other teams before the true competition of the season starts. When you’re in the same division, you play the same teams a lot, and the baseball community is a small one. I’ve known most of these guys forever. After shooting the shit with some guys from Boston, Miller and I head to the locker room to shower and change.
“Good game, boss,” Miller says as he slaps me on the shoulder. “You’d never know you’re basically a grandpa,” he shouts over his shoulder as he runs down the stairs to the dugout tunnel into the clubhouse.
Asshole. He’s only a year younger than me but he never misses a jab about me being older, especially since I’ll be thirty-two this year. The locker room is busy. I don’t even bother stopping as I peel my jersey off on my way to the showers. Showering with a bunch of naked dudes isn't my idea of a great shower experience but I’ve gotten used to it over the years. We’re not in here staring at each other’s junk. We literally soap up, rinsedown, stand in the spray to ease our muscles, then move on. I’ve just made it to my locker and pulled my briefs on when Coach comes into the locker room from his office.
“Alright men, pipe down,” he says loud enough to be heard over everyone. Mike Crenshaw, the General Manager of the Tampa Tides—also known as Coach—stands in the middle of the locker room waiting on the rest of the guys to stop talking. The surrounding chatter slowly dies as we all turn our attention to him.
Dropping to the chair, my eyes narrow at the sharp tone of Coach’s voice and the look on his face. I already knew it. That game was pointless.
“The Commissioner has announced their decision. Spring training is officially suspended and Opening Day has been pushed back two weeks.”
Frustration works its way through my system, quickly followed by uncertainty. This has never happened before. I don’t know what to do without reporting to the field and training from February to October. Groans and curses fill the space as we all digest this information. We’re just getting warmed up and now we’re in limbo.
“What does that mean, Coach?” one teammate questions.
“For now, it means that games are canceled and Opening Day is not set in stone, but we can still practice. We can still train. You can do that on your own or you can do that at the facility, but I expect you all to stay in shape and be ready when the time comes.”
“Are we having practices or anything?” someone else asks.
