“Traffic,” I mutter as I set my bag down.
“I think you’ve forgotten that you’re pitching today, and you need to warm up that arm. Do five sets to stretch before meeting us on the mound.”
“Will do, Coach.”
Valentin Garcia smirks when he walks past me, rotating his shoulder. “See you outside, Tucker.”
My jaw clenches and I fight to release it since my dentist warned me that I would pulverize my back teeth if I didn’t stop this habit.
But Valentin knows how to get under my skin. He’s a veteran pitcher on the team and while I’ve played in the major leagues for years, he never misses an opportunity to tell me when I fall short.
I watch them leave as I swing my arm back and forth. Reaching for the armband, I start my stretches. Despite being late, I won’t risk injury, so it’s at least another ten minutes before I head toward the field. As soon as I open the steel doors, I’m blinded by the sunshine and view of the ballpark. Even after five years in the majors, this view never fails to stop my heart for a second. I imagine voices shouting from the empty stands and players throwing the ball around in the vast field. The energy fills my lungs, and I smile as I jog up to the bullpen.
Neuman eyes me suspiciously. “Did you do all of your warm-ups?”
“Sure did.”
He frowns but doesn’t argue any further. “All right. But take it easy on the first throws until your arm is loose and ready.”
I nod and catch the baseball he tosses to me. Scotty, one of our catchers, punches into his glove and drops down to his haunches. Standing on the pitching mound, I dig the dirt with the top of my shoe, rubbing it until I form a small hole in the ground. Ready, I turn, drive my knee up, and throw the ball toward Scotty. It spikes into the ground in front of him, tossingup dirt, and he uses his chest protector to block the ball from getting behind him.
Valentin snickers beside me. I glare at him as he sets up his pitch and throws a bullet into the catcher’s glove.
“Nice one, Valentin,” says the catcher.
Neuman, who’s standing behind the catchers, eyes me but holds back any comment. Not one to back down from a challenge, I set up for the next pitch, raise my knee, and throw the ball as hard as I can toward Scotty.
“Strike,” he shouts from the other end of the bullpen.
But I don’t celebrate. Instead, I rub a sore spot that suddenly appears at the top of my arm. Rounding my shoulders, I forget about the tinge of pain and set up again. Zeroing in on the strike zone, I raise my leg, grasp the baseball between my fingers in a four-seam fast ball position, and release it.
“Strike again.” Scotty punches his glove, and I see his eyes dance through the mask. Everyone is aware of the rivalry between me and Valentin. It started off friendly at first, but slowly, the tension increased.
My shoulder burns, but there’s no pain, so I throw again.
“Looking good, Tucker,” says Neuman, and I nod to hide my grin. No matter how old I am or how many years I play, validation always feels good.
Scotty and I practice a few more pitches before the hum of the crowd grows louder. The stands are nearly half full now with less than twenty minutes before game time.
“All right, boys, pack it up,” says Neuman. “Time to head back to the clubhouse and prepare to run out with the team.”
The locker room is brimming with baseball players in full uniform: light blue jerseys and hats paired with gleaming white pants.
My college coach used to say, ‘If your uniform is white at the end of the game, you didn’t try hard enough.’ The dirtier the jersey, the better the player.
It’s almost game time, but I realize I forgot to call my dad. He left me a message earlier and I didn’t call him back. Walking to a quiet corner, I dial his number. “Hey Dad, it’s me.”
“Casey, how are you feeling, son?”
“Good. Just about to hit the field but wanted to call you back. Is everything all right? Is Mom ok?”
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that. Yes, everything is fine. I just wanted to wish you luck.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ve got to go but I’ll call you soon.”
“Love you, son.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
