What saved me was trying to find a connection with Dad again through the game. I resented it for the longesttime, which doesn’t even make sense. It’s not like baseball had anything to do with losing him. Maybe it was because it served as a constant reminder of what fate had stolen from me. My therapist worked with me to reframe that way of thinking:
I won’t ever play with Dad. But I can play for him.
It took years of therapy, but I’m finally moving forward. I’m not sinking any longer. I’m treading water, still a long way from steady ground, but healing, I guess. I settle my hand on the cool metal, and a shiver slides up my arm.
I don’t know if he’s out there watching me. I don’t know what to believe when it comes to that shit—heaven, God, faith. But it helps to believe insomething, that he’s out there somewhere, inside me. I’ll always carry him with me. So, I sit here and talk to him every day. Talk strategy, vent out frustrations, whisper my deepest fears.
Will my arm ever be the same?
Do I still have what it takes?
I moved up to Triple-A in my first full season. Then it was just a matter of waiting for my moment, for the shortstop position to open for me. The dreaded “when will he retire” had started popping up in sports articles two years ago for our current Jetties’ short. I was ready.
Until I wasn’t.
I toe the dirt beneath my cleat, but it’s not the dugout dirt that’s clouding my vision. I’ll never forget that game. The ball took a weird bounce, and to get it, I ended up with my back to first. But I was getting that out. I spun on my jump throw and whipped my arm across my body. There was a small pop, but there wasn’t any pain. I got the out. My arm was tight, but strains happen. I was fine, right?
Except during the next inning out on the field, my first throw just…didn’t go where I threw it.
Partial tear to my UCL. I was on the operating table a week later for Tommy John surgery. Can you hear it? The adage?
You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.
I’d been the one trying to throw baseball away with my reckless behavior years earlier. Baseball and I had finally called a truce. And life decided it was going to take it from me.
I was fucking livid.
Does that make me a hypocrite? I can ruin my own life but fuck fate for being the one to do it? My therapist says it makes me human. The best we can do is learn and grow from our mistakes.
I’m not making that mistake again.
I’m not taking baseball for granted.
I’m going out there and proving to the Jetties’ organization that giving up a 40-man spot to protect an injured player from the Rule 5 Draft was worth it.
This is my fucking year.
Nothing is standing in my way.
“Noooo.You’re Jed Stone Junior?”
I glance up and am immediately blinded by a smile too bright to be real. It’s like looking at fresh snow on a sunny day. I blink rapidly, trying to pull the man in front of me into focus. He’s got blond curls peeking out from beneath his baseball cap. I don’t think I’ve seen him before, not that that’s out of character for me. I stick to myself mostly.
He’s gotta be a more recent draftee—maybe first time at big league camp. Most minor leaguers go to the facility next door for Spring Training. The big guys—our Jetties—and the rest of us on the 40-man, plus some non-roster invitees, will train at big league camp. Around sixty to start,gradually whittled down to the final twenty-six-man major league roster.
“I mean, obviously, you are. I knew you played for the team.” He lets out a chuckle and sticks out his hand.
I reach out automatically to shake it.
“I’m Shane Michaels. Shit…is it weird to ask for your autograph?”
My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been asked for an autograph—though it is the first time I’ve been asked by ateammate.
He takes off his cap, and the sun glints on the shell bracelet he’s wearing—one of many: shell, yarn, and woven bands are stacked along his wrist. He runs a hand through his curls, his smile turning lop-sided. “Sorry. That’s totally weird. But damn. You’re a legend. Your father, man? He was my favorite player growing up.”
I smile tightly—or try to.Mine too, kid. Mine fucking too.“He was a hell of a ballplayer.”
He straightens his cap back on his head and snaps the gum he’s chewing. “Damn straight. Sorry to hear about your arm. I’ve got big shoes to fill if I want any shot at short.” His gaze sweeps over me and halts at my feet. “Dude, literally.” His blue eyes ping back to mine. “How big are your feet? You’ve gotta be at least a size fourteen?”
