*
The Jets’ clubhouse is empty except for our trainer and me. He’s making me do the latest exercises he assigned.
“Your mechanics look good,” says Michael. “How does it feel when you throw?”
“It feels good,” I say.
“Are you throwing at 100 percent?”
“Yeah. Pretty close to that.”
“Good. The exercises are working then. Let me put some heat on your shoulder to keep it loose before the game. The last thing we want to do is injure it again.”
I sit on one of the large massage chairs and let Michael apply a heating pad on my shoulder. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
I nod and close my eyes.
I try to envision my pitching, but the first image that comes to mind is of a beautiful blonde with curly long hair. Her smile pulls me closer, and I can’t help but imagine running my fingers through her hair. As I lean closer, I can almost smell the lavender oil she uses on her neck—
“Hey, Tuck!” someone slaps my shoulder and my eyes pop open.
I see red.
“What the fuck, man?” I snarl.
The rookie jumps back. I don’t recall his name, but he’s the one blasting pop music in the locker room before a game.
He puts his hands up. “Whoa. I was just saying hi.”
A few of the other players walk in and I try to settle my nerves, but I’m coming off a shoulder injury, and the kid slaps my fucking shoulder. At least I tell myself that’s what I’m pissed about.
“Next time when you say it, keep your hands to yourself, all right?”
I sit back and close my eyes, but there’s only darkness behind them. She’s gone, and I can’t conjure her back up.
I hear someone say to the rookie, “Pitchers, man. They’re all the same.”
I rub the necklace at my chest and my breathing slows down. My father gave me this necklace when I was thirteen years old. I had a coach whose son played the same position on the team as me. He knew I was better, so he rarely let me play, so I couldn’t show up his son. I wanted to leave the team, but my father saidwe made a commitment to the players, and we weren’t going to let them down. I sat on the bench most games, played whenever his son got injured or needed a break, but I planned my every move. I watched the pitchers and timed their pitch, so when it was my turn I would be ready. Every time I was on the field, I made every second count. I chased every ball, made the most impossible plays possible because I didn’t know when I would get the chance again. It made me hungry, but it made me angry, too.
I swore I would show that coach that he couldn’t break me. I would show him that I was the best player on the team, but I was also strong mentally. Thinking back to that time, I realize that coach made me the player I am today. Resilient. Hard. Not letting someone else stand in my way to achieving my dreams. Some people could make the road harder, but my father taught me you can’t let them stand in your way. At the end of the summer, my father gave me this necklace with my number on it. Number 19. He said I was a true baller now, and that I made him proud.
I wipe the moisture from my eyes and put the necklace back safely underneath my jersey. There isn’t a little league coach standing in my way now, but the road is harder. There’s always a new pitcher looking to take my spot in the rotation. And with all these offers coming in and Brett talking me up, I have to deliver more than ever. I can’t just be good. I have to be great. I can’t just throw like the rest of them. I need to be better. It’s one thing to be the rising star, and another to bethestar. It’s not just hype. It’s the expectation, and for the first time, it’s weighing heavy on my shoulders.
“Are you ready, Tucker?”
I open my eyes and Gavin Neuman, my pitching coach, is standing in front of me.
“I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
“That’s my boy.” He smacks my shoulder and I grimace. A scathing remark like the one I gave the rookie is on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to swallow it. I must remember that emotions have no place in baseball. Emotions can get in the way and make you lose more than just a game.
As I step into the dugout, I take in the crowd around us. More than forty thousand fans have come to watch their New York Lions take on the Los Angeles Jets. It’s a sea of white and red as most fans wear their Lions jerseys. My eyes move toward the two hundred club level where I spot a handful of fans that I know may have on Lions Jerseys but they also cheer for me.
I see Charlie and Anthony first. They’re wearing these large foam hands, waving them from side to side. I love seeing the joy on my nephew’s face. It was great throwing with him when I was back home.
I spot Jane and Austin in the seats behind them. Austin has his arm over Jane and is whispering something in her ear. Cassandra is most likely back home with my parents as usual since she claims to hate baseball.
I search the seats beside and behind them, scouring the VIP room, but there’s no one else. My mom rarely comes to a game. She says it makes her too nervous, and my dad has always preferred to watch it on TV. He says the view is much better than the clubhouse level. I told him I’d get him seats behind the plate, but he insists the most comfortable seat is in his living room.
