PROLOGUE
GABE
As soon as I walk in the door, Stephanie, my wife of almost twenty years stops me.
“We need to talk.”
“Okay,” I answer, worn out from the day. The tone of her voice tells me something is wrong. Seriously wrong.
We head into the living room. The house is quiet. The kids must be at their friends’ house.
I’m barely settled onto the couch when Stephanie utters the words I never wanted to hear. “I want a divorce.”
“Are you sure about this?” I’m trying not to let my emotions get the best of me. I’m shocked and feel numb at the same time.
“Yes,” she whispers so quietly, I barely hear her.
“Okay,” I answer, gulping to quench the rising emotions welling from deep within me. My life crumbles as I say those words. It feels like I took a line drive to the solar plexus. Oof. My life, as I know it, is over. We’ve spent years together. And not having her in my life any longer? It’ll be a complete change.
Stephanie gets up and leaves, the snick of the front door the last sound I hear before the house gets silent as a tomb. Sitting there, I pour myself a drink. It hurts to admit it, but things hadn’t been going well between us for a long time. After traveling nine months out of the year for my entire career as a professional baseball player, it’s no surprise our marriage failed. Looking back, I'm surprised it lasted as long as it did. It was no one’s fault; we were destined to fail. But hey, I did get two amazing kids out of the deal. My son Deacon, who’s the oldest, is my spitting image. He also loves baseball. I’m tickled pink that he wants to be a professional baseball player. Like father, like son. My youngest, Kyra, is a daddy’s girl and wants to be the next president. And she probably will be, with her tenacity and wit. She looks so much like her mother, it hurts. The kids will stay with their mom, no doubt. I’ll visit when I’m in town. That’s the part I’ve hated the most–not seeing them and missing important milestones in their lives. We’ll just have to text and FaceTime like we have been. I’ll never stop loving my kids. Even if it is from thousands of miles away.
Six Months Later
When my marriage ended, I focused on the game. Then, one fateful day I’m called into the manager’s office.
“Gabe, have a seat.”
Doing so, I wait. Getting called into the manager’s office is never a good thing.
“Gabe, you’ve been an exceptional player. You need to know this decision wasn’t made lightly. But you know how this works. It’s just business.”
Past tense. Oh, shit.
“You’ve been DFA’d.”
I think I’m going to throw up. Take deep breaths. Don’t puke.
I’m being designated for assignment (DFA), which means I’m being cut from the team. The absolute worst news a baseball player can hear. It’s the proverbial nail in the coffin of any Major League Baseball (MLB) player’s career. But I’m not surprised. At forty years old, I’m an old man. A grandpa in baseball years. No one wants a player whose knees have seen better days. Thinking I’m done with baseball, I go back to my apartment to mourn the life of my playing career–the only life I’ve known for the last twenty years. Not sure what I’m going to do, I do what anyone would do—I get drunk until I pass out. I’ll be the first to admit it’s not my finest hour.
Word must have spread quickly, as my exile from baseball didn’t last long. Not long after, MLB teams are contacting me out of left field. Not to be a player, though. Nope. This time, they want me as manager. Me, someone who has never coached a day in his life. I’d never given it much thought, instead always focusing on playing the greatest game on Earth instead of coaching it. Since they’re willing to take a chance on me, why the hell not? It’s my ticket to the big game. I can’t say “no”; I accept the job offer to be the manager of the Blue Valley Vipers.
CHAPTER 1
GABE
ONE YEAR LATER
Bottom of the ninth, and we’re down a run. Runners on second and third base. One out. It’s down to the wire now.
I smack my bubble gum, practically gnawing at it. “Chris!” I yell, loud enough so he can hear me at third base over the crowd noise coming from the stands. Quickly, I tap my palm against my nose, then my chest, then my left shoulder, then my right shoulder, sending a sign for a sacrifice bunt. Chris nods and relays to the batter, who nods before stepping into the batter’s box. Sign, read, and received. Game on.
Kyle readies himself for the pitch and lays down the sacrifice bunt perfectly. It’s so perfect, I couldn’t have done it better myself.
“Go! Go! Go!” I yell from the dugout. The pitcher scoops up the ball and throws the ball to first and throws Kyle out.
Chris is on third. He hauls ass home and scores a run. Safe.
Tony’s on second and runs to third. Safe.
