Then again, neither of us were foolish enough to believe that’d happen. Seattle had a weak outfield and the Mavericks needed strength in the batting order. That’s why we’d said our own goodbyes last night after we all went out for one last dinner together.
“I hear the weather’s always nice in Seattle,” Eric said as he emptied his locker. He was the type of guy who never let anything get to him, yet he looked about ready to break down. When he glanced up at me, his eyes were dull and rimmed with dark circles. He shrugged as he rifled through his bag. “Maybe this will be a good move for me. It’ll be nice to not worry that Ackerman’s going to tell me to pack my shit every time I see him walk down the hall.”
He was trying to put on a brave face, but I imagined he saw the announcement that he was no longer a Maverick as a sign of his inability to perform up to standards. Like myself, he’d grown up watching the Mavericks play and dreamed of stepping onto the field as a player someday.
When he’d gotten the call from his agent telling him he was going to be a Maverick, it only took him a few days to buy a house right on Lake Michigan. He’d hoped to stay in Milwaukee until he decided to hang it up. Unfortunately, ball players understand from the time they sign their first contract that there are times when their best may not be enough. Without notice, the club has the right to trade them to another team without even asking if they’re interested in the deal.
It’s all part of the game. Players are assets, not people with lives and roots.
Eric sat on the bench running down the center of the aisle, slumped forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’d worn the Mavericks’ gray and blue uniform for the last time. I wanted to give him some reassurance that this was a good career move for him. Seattle had different strengths and he’d be more of an asset to their team.
I sat next to him and draped my arm over his shoulder. He scanned the room to make sure we were alone before leaning into my touch. I shook my head and let out a long breath, trying to figure out what to say.
“This is one of the few things I hate about the game,” I grumbled. “You’re a great guy and an even better player. It’s going to suck not having you around.”
Not having Eric jogging to catch up to me as we walked to the dugout at the end of the inning was only one reason I was going to miss him. When Eric first joined the team, I’d been the only player who didn’t have a roommate on the road. We developed a friendship that wound up reaping great benefits for both of us once we got to know one another well enough.
Unlike most of the guys, we weren’t free to troll the nightclubs looking for packs of groupies eager to spend a night sweaty and naked with a major league baseball player. That wasn’t a bad thing because we also didn’t worry about girls sneaking compromising pictures to share with a thousand of their closest friends on social media. We needed to be much more discreet because loose lips would spell the end of a gay athlete’s career if it was a giddy fanboy snapping selfies.
Muffled voices in the distance warned us that our time alone was almost up. When I hugged Eric goodbye, I buried my face in his neck, inhaling his scent to commit every possible detail to memory. I wasn’t in love with Eric, but I suppose my feelings for him were somewhat akin to love on some level.
He was one of very few people I trusted with my secrets and we worked well together in every aspect of our lives. Looking back, I wondered why we never tried to have more than a casual relationship. I suppose it was at least partly because a day like today was probable.
“Don’t be a stranger,” I whispered as I pressed my lips to his neck. I pulled away from him a split-second before the door opened. I had to get out of the locker room and into the bullpen before I lost the tentative hold I had on my emotions.
Jason Klein followed me to the bullpen and I almost felt bad for the guy. With the mood I was in, he’d either be chasing balls when they fell short of the plate or he’d have a bruised hand from the force behind my arm. In the seven years I’d been in Milwaukee, I’d never been this bitter over having to say goodbye to a friend.
I appreciated that he knew me well enough to realize today was a day I neededhimin the bullpen with me, not one of our other catchers. We needed the time to get in sync with one another before facing the Bulldogs on the field.
Get it together,I scolded myself as I tapped the chain link three times before stepping up to the pitching rubber for warm-up.
I had less than an hour to leave my personal feelings behind and pitch as if my life depended on it. And just like every other day, it did, because Eric’s hasty departure was a reminder that none of us had job security.
I rolled the ball around in my hands as I struggled to push everything but this pitch out of my mind. My shoulder ached as I released the first pitch, so I took a step back and stretched a bit more. Angel Johnson, the pitching coach, watched me closely, more than likely nervous that I’d strained something and wouldn’t be able to make the start.
“You okay, Tucker?” he asked, never getting too close to me. He knew my little quirks better than anyone, and short of me lying on the ground clutching my throwing arm, I needed people to stay out of my personal space before the game.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him as I got back into position. I stuffed in my earbuds, cranking up volume to block out the fans in the first row hollering back and forth about which bar to hit after the game, Angel’s commentary, everything.
The next few pitches were better, but nothing to write home about. I felt more like a prospect on the opening day of my first spring training than the team’s leading starter. And given the scowl on Angel’s face, I looked about the same.
It’s okay, you still have time,I reminded myself. Not much time, but some.
There were forty-three minutes until the first pitch. I closed my eyes and tried to count the stitches as I slid my fingers across the horseshoe, blocking out everything but the next pitch. Jason smiled for the first time since we’d started warming up as he threw the ball back to me.
The pitches never got pretty, but by the time we stopped for the “National Anthem,” I had reached a point where I wasn’t worried I was about to have one of the worst outings of my career. Jason patted my shoulder as the final notes echoed through the park and we said a quick prayer before making our way to the infield.
I wasn’t a particularly religious man, but Jason was, and this was part ofhispre-game routine. Given all the shit he put up with, it wasn’t a hardship for me to bow my head with him. And today, I needed all the help I could get, even from the Man upstairs.
I hated playing games on the road. If this were a home game, I’d be up there on the mound and everything but the next pitch would cease to exist. Instead, I was stuck in the dugout, my leg bouncing so fast it shook the entire bench.
By the time the Bulldogs’ Sully Monroe threw a beautiful fastball over the plate to strike out Ricky White, we were up by two. That allowed me to breathe a bit easier as we took the field for the bottom of the first.
The start of the inning was a total nightmare. Cooper Townsend sent my second pitch of the afternoon sailing over the wall into the bleachers behind left field, cutting our lead to one. The next two batters wound up on base with a combined eight pitches and only three strikes between them.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and adjusted my cap as Jason jogged out to the mound. It was never a good thing when the catcher had to come out for a pep talk this early.
“Man, I get that it’s a rough day, but you have to leave it behind,” he told me. “Don’t let the first three define you. You’re better than this and we both know it.”
