Dennis has really come along in the three years I’ve been working with him and he’s joined a travel ball team. Still an outfielder, he’s grown into his clothes and can really put power behind the ball. And he’s quick, really freaking quick. We’ve been working on his left-handed batting, turning him into a little bit of an Ichiro with a slight slap and run to his hitting. Apparently, his opposing teams don’t quite know what to do with him yet.
Rian and Sean have also been training him, putting him through quick burst-like exercises to increase his speed, and it shows. He’s a hard worker and by far my favorite student.
I know I shouldn’t have favorites, but I can’t help it.
“Hey, you ready?” Shane asks, walking up to my cage. He’s been patiently waiting for me to finish before we go to dinner.
It’s my treat this go-around, so he can wait.
“Yeah, let me store my stuff quickly and then I’m ready.”
I gather my coaching equipment, lock it up in my special closet so the other coaches can’t get their grabby hands on it, and meet Shane at the front, who’s wearing a finely tailored suit and a smile on his face.
When I reach him, he drapes his arm over my shoulder and presses a kiss to my head. “How was your day?”
“It was good.” We walk out to his car and I hop in, familiar with the fresh leather scent. “I had a new student come in looking for help.”
“Yeah? How did the assessment go?”
I chuckle and say, “Let’s just say he won’t be working with me.”
Shane laughs out loud. “Seriously? Was he a dick?”
“Little punk wouldn’t listen to me. I could tell he was pissed I had boobs.”
“A teenage boy should never be pissed about boobs.”
“Not true, a boy who might be gay would be pissed about them.”
Shane points at me. “You got me there, but seriously, was he pissed that you were a girl coach?”
“Totally. He wasn’t taking direction well and when I was giving him slight adjustments, he half-heartedly put effort into listening. He was obnoxious. His dad was eager to see if I would take him on, so I told him I would let him know, but it’s going to be a big fat no.”
“Oh shit, that dad is going to be so pissed, because I’m sure he came to you knowing you’re changing the swings around Chicago.”
I shrug. “Not my fault his kid’s a punk. Don’t take me seriously, I won’t work with you.” It’s true, in the past year and a half, the influx of students who’ve come flocking to me has been incredible. I have a full roster right now, but I’m always willing to take a look at a new batter.
“That’s what I love about you, Mills, you don’t take shit from anyone.”
I smile and look out the window. “I have to have standards.”
“So how was the training camp last weekend?”
Our third training camp with Brentwood increased our business by tenfold. We can barely keep up, so much that we’re already considering a third facility. Crazy, I know, but with the addition of Brentwood coming in for their community service, it’s changed everything.
And it was weird how it happened.
I finished up a training session with one of my regulars when Coach Disik came into the facility. I paused, stunned for a second seeing the coaching legend in our building, but when he spotted me and made a direct beeline to talk to me, I froze. It was mildly embarrassing as I stumbled through my words, explaining to him how our training facility and process works. He asked if we have a progression timeline for training or plan on offering baseball camps. I gave him pamphlets and smiled way too fanatically. From there, he’s worked closely with us, impressed with not only our mission, but with my teaching techniques, even picking up on some of my video studies. I never thought I’d see the day when Coach Disik actually learned from me, especially given I watched all his instructional videos growing up.
“It was amazing, our biggest to date. We’re doing another one in the summer and then in the fall when the players are back from break. We’re thinking since the fall one will be so big, we’ll do it at the stadium.”
“That’s awesome. The kids will love that.”
“Yeah, all my students go to the camps and afterward, they’re star-struck and in awe, and their performance picks up too. It’s like they’re reinvigorated.”
“It’s impressive what you’ve been able to build in such a short amount of time.”
“Very unexpected,” I say as we pull up to the bagel sandwich shop Shane and I are obsessed with.
We put in our order, the same thing we get every time: turkey, apple, cheddar, bacon bagel sandwich with Dijon on toasted pumpernickel. I order the fruit bowl and Shane gets the chips. We split both.
Food in front of us, Shane picks up his enormous bagel—it’s why we love this place so much because they don’t skimp on the bagel size—and takes an impressive bite. The first bite for him is always the largest and he struggles chewing every time. He’ll never learn. After swallowing, he asks, “So, given any thought to opening day?”
I was waiting for him to ask. I’ve put him off every time the question comes my way and now that we’re a week and a half from the Bobbies home opener and first game of the season, I know he’s chomping at the bit to find out if he should sell his tickets or not.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly, still on the fence of my decision.
I would be lying if I said I haven’t kept an eye on Carson’s career. I haven’t been following it religiously, but every once in a while, I’ll check out of sheer curiosity. After he sent me his single text message, where he told me to get a hint, I was crushed.
No, crushed is not a good enough word . . . demolished. Utterly devastated.
The pain, the heartbreak, it was excruciating. For a week, I didn’t leave my apartment, I couldn’t. I’d put all this energy and hope and time into letting Carson know he’s not alone, and then he tells me, in no uncertain way, to get lost. It was the biggest slap to the face, the biggest crack to my heart. I couldn’t believe a man I’d loved so deeply was capable of such venom.
I quickly deleted his number from my phone and told myself never again. He’s out of my life. I mentally wished him luck in his pursuit to the big leagues and hope he finds peace, but I was done after that.
A few months later, I got a text from a random number. I had an inkling it was Carson and in a weak moment, I answered, just curious.
But when I didn’t get a text back, I shifted my thinking again . . . away from him. That was until the talk of the town is that the Brentwood-turned-Bobbie second baseman is rising through the ranks and claiming a starting position on the roster.
His handsome and matured face has been plastered across every promo piece in the city, commercials with his deep, excited voice asking fans to buy season tickets come on sporadically, and of course, all my students love talking about him. It’s as if he’s personally talking to them, especially Dennis. The kid won’t shut up about Carson Stone, and I really like Dennis—favorite student, remember—but every time he mentions Carson’s name, it makes me want to punt the little fucker in the jockstrap.