If I don’t make it in three years, I’ve failed him.
Being the smart man that he is, Knox steps to the side, but near the bucket. I take a cut off the tee and when I reach for another ball, Knox puts it on the tee for me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“If you’re doing ten more buckets, then I’m going to help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
I bring my bat up to my shoulder, stare at the ball, and then swing.
“But you need a friend,” Knox says quietly. “I’m not going to let you be alone. Don’t give a shit if you don’t want that. You’re my brother. Not going anywhere.”
I’ve known Knox since we were freshmen in college, and if there’s one thing I know about him, it’s his loyalty. When he says he’s not going anywhere, he isn’t. So instead of fighting him over being here, I say, “Don’t fucking talk.”
“Fine by me. Not like I wanted to talk to your sour ass anyway.”
Normally, that would make me laugh, but I don’t feel anything, not even a hint of a smile. I am completely dead inside.
Milly: How’s Phoenix? I heard it’s gorgeous there. Well, I heard Sedona is nice, which is close, right?
Milly: I saw the picture of you in your Studmuffin jersey. It looks good on you. But is it a requirement that you’re not allowed to smile in your pictures?
Milly: I wish you were here right now—I’m in Baltimore watching Cory play—he has me in some executive suite today with some of his sponsors. They have the best hot dogs up here. Have you ever had sauerkraut? Uh, it’s a delight!
Milly: How are you feeling? Want to talk on the phone tonight?
“Hey Carson, it’s Milly, but you probably know that from the caller ID. I was calling to see how everything was going, if you’re settling in to Phoenix. Let me guess, you’re rooming with Knox. I wish I knew you last year, because just seeing your antics on the field made me want to be friends with the both of you. Anyway, if you get a chance, call or text. I’m here for you.
JULY
“Ooof.” My chest glides across the fresh-raked dirt. I pop up on my cleats and throw the runner out at first.
“Nice, Stone,” Radar, our first baseman says, while pointing his glove at me and then tossing the ball in my direction. I throw the ball to Knox, who then tosses it to our third baseman and back to the pitcher.
Two outs, one more to go, and then back in the cages for me for at least three more buckets of balls. That’s all I can take at this point. My body is aching, but my constant practice is starting to pay off. I’m leading the team in batting and slugging percentage, and teams are starting to intentionally walk me when runners are on. I hate being walked, but it’s also a backhanded compliment. They’re nervous about my bat.
The next batter steps up to the plate and with the first pitch, number twenty hits the ball back to the pitcher, and the game is over. We line up on the field, give each other high-fives, and head to the dugout. Before I can collect my stuff, a reporter with a microphone pulls me aside.
Fuck. I despise interviews.
“Carson Stone, you went four for four today and drove in five runs. What kind of power do you have behind that bat lately?”
Hands on my hips, looking down, I say, “Just been working hard in the cages.”
“Thompson was throwing bullets out there, but it didn’t seem to affect you at all. Do you think you have him numbered?”
“I was just seeing the ball well today.”
“And how do you feel you’re adjusting to the team? Are you getting along with all the guys?”
“Yup.” I nod, tip my hat, and take off, knowing fully well PR will be knocking on my locker tomorrow to talk to me about elaborating more, just like they did last time.
AUGUST
Hey you,
Thought an email would be easier than sending this all to you in a text. I had to share with you, because I’m so excited. I haven’t said anything to you yet, but I’m a partner with my brothers. They said yes. Can you believe it? And today we broke ground on the new facility. Well, we didn’t actually break ground, but we started renovations. I suggested we buy the space next to the building to expand, but after a walk-through, we’ll have plenty of space and if we want to expand one day, the option could still be there, or we could build our own facility.
Seeing it all come to life though, speaking with an architect . . . it seems so surreal. I always envisioned it in my head but was never sure it would happen.
I just wish you could see it, but don’t worry, I attached some pics of the empty space. As the project moves on, I’ll keep you updated.
I’ve been watching your stats online, and you’re killing it. The coaches must be seriously impressed. I was reading that you haven’t had a strikeout for at least twenty-five games? That’s insane. You must be really seeing the ball right now. I always wondered when batters are seeing the ball that well if it seems like a beach ball floating into the strike zone to them. Is that what you see? A beach ball?
Jerry is moving to California—sobs—as he got a job in Silicon Valley. He’s been walking around Chicago with his sunglasses on, telling everyone he’s too tech for Chicago now. So basically, he’s been douche-ing it up lately. That’s been fun.
Shane is working with a start-up here and loving it so far. We’ve been to a few Bobbies games and we always talk about how cool it’s going to be to see you playing on the field one day, because we know it’s going to happen.
Anyway, just wanted to check in. Feel free to write back. I miss you.
Milly
Milly: Hey, I finally got to see some footage of you batting. Killer swing there, slugger. And have you been lifting more? Your forearms are super dreamy.
Milly: Spent the last hour watching your swing and slowing it down. Everything is beautiful, just watch that lead front toe. Make sure it doesn’t turn out before you connect with the ball. It’s the difference between a fly out and a home run.
Milly: How does it feel hitting with a wooden bat? Is it everything you dreamt of?
Milly: I like that you chose a black bat. Derek Jeter always had a black bat, and I thought that was classy for some reason.
Milly: Does anyone ever say, ‘Can I get your autograph, Studmuffin?’ I would totally do that.
Milly: ^^^ That’s a lie, I would never have the guts to say that, but it’s fun to pretend.
Milly: Miss you, Stone.
SEPTEMBER
“Where are you going?” Knox asks, approaching me with his bagful of locker room crap. The season is over, we weren’t called up for the end of the regular season in the majors, so now we go home.
But where’s home?
“Staying here. Extending my rent. Training.”
“Everyone’s leaving. You’ll be alone.”
“So?” I shove three pairs of athletic shorts in my duffel bag.
“You barely talk as it is. If you’re here alone, you’ll go crazy.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” I stand and toss a few rolls of tape into my bag as well.