Strike up the violins, because a sob story is coming your way.
I was ushered off the field and straight to the state-of-the-art training room where, after an excruciating physical exam, I had an ultrasound. It was then confirmed I’d be out of commission for the season. I underwent surgery, had the stupid thing stitched back together—let’s take a moment to be physically ill over the thought of that—and then put through an extensive rehab, missing my chance to be drafted.
You read that right, I was not drafted. My best friends were . . . I was not.
Because no one wants an injured player, even if he has tons of promise.
Even if he was the best second baseman in the country.
Even if he was supposed to be drafted in the first round.
Not one single team wanted to take the gamble to see if I could make a full recovery.
Isn’t that just peachy?
So needless to say, Kirk BADcock stays as far away from me as possible.
As for me, I’d like to say I’m not a bitter man with a chip on his shoulder, but that would be a massive lie.
I have the biggest fucking chip on my shoulder, so big that I named him Aloysius and I high-five him every morning, agreeing that we’re going to try to make at least one person’s life miserable that day.
My suggestion, if you see me around campus? Steer clear, run away, duck and hide, because I’m a polluted motherfucker with an equally rotten Aloysius on my shoulder ready to raise hell in your life.
Carson Stone is out for vengeance thanks to one moronic bad cock.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
MILLY
“Fuck.”
Bat and helmet are tossed to the ground as the opposing team jogs off the field.
Yikes, that can’t be a reaction the coaching staff looks for from their players.
“Stone, get your ass in the dugout,” Coach Disik yells across the field, hands propped at his hips, a look to kill plastered on his face. Yup, doesn’t seem like they like that reaction at all.
“Oooo,” Jerry, one of my best friends, says next to me. “Someone’s in trouble.”
“Yeah, Disik is not going to like that,” Shane, my other best friend adds, just as he stuffs a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“Stone is having one shitty season.” Jerry leans over and grabs a scoop of popcorn for himself but instead of unhinging his jaw and taking down a fistful of food like Shane, he pops in one piece at a time like a civilized human being.
“It’s only the start of the season,” I say, feeling bad for the guy. Once the lead-off hitter who led the country in hits, steals, and RBIs as well as fielding percentage, he’s fallen from grace after his injury last year and can’t seem to get it together his senior year.
Muffled yelling springs from the dugout, but since we’re sitting directly behind it, we can’t quite hear or see what’s going on, but once Brentwood takes the field and Carson is not standing at second, we understand completely.
“Damn, Disik is heartless. Took out Stone and replaced him with Babcock. That’s just savage.”
I wince, watching the sophomore, who took Carson out at practice, field some grounders from Romeo at first base.
Rumor on campus is Babcock was out to get Carson from the beginning, and he took the one chance he had to take out the All-American second baseman and send him to the DL. And the infamous dirty slide, which has been heard around Chicago, was not an accident, but intentional.
Babcock was jealous of Carson’s talent and stats, wanted the limelight, wanted everything Carson had. Some conspiracy theorists even go as far to say that Babcock reviewed tapes for hours on the way Carson would sweep across second base when turning so he knew exactly where to strike.
At least, that’s the word on the street.
You know how people love to gossip about tragedy.
I don’t believe a word of it.
I’ve seen Kirk around campus; he’s a klutz and doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body. If you want to know the truth, I think he was an idiot freshman trying to prove his place on the team and got overzealous, taking out the wrong person.
That’s me just giving the guy the benefit of the doubt.
“I don’t blame Disik. Look how Stone’s been playing, he deserves to be benched.”
I pick up my cup from my drink holder and suck down a large gulp of Sprite before saying, “Carson’s been playing a great second base. There hasn’t been any issues there; it’s his bat that’s suffering.”
“And a player without a bat is a nobody,” Shane says, as popcorn flies out of his mouth while he speaks.
It’s true. You can be the best infielder or outfielder in the world, but if you’re not swinging the bat, you’re worthless. The only player on the team who can get away with a .200 batting average is a pitcher, not a former All-American second baseman.
“You should give him batting advice,” Jerry says, nudging my shoulder.
“Yeah, okay,” I scoff. “Let me just step into the dugout and offer my help. I’m sure they’ll welcome me with open arms.” I roll my eyes. “They have the best college baseball coaching staff in the country, so the last thing they need is a kinesiology major butting her head into the dugout, offering suggestions.”
“From the looks of it, Carson Stone should take any help he can get.” Jerry brushes off his hands. “Come on, we have to get to the field.”
I check my watch. Crap, we’re going to be late if we don’t start moving.
Standing together, we vacate our seats and head out to the parking lot where Shane’s blue Corolla is parked in a money spot. The Brentwood baseball stadium is enormous, has a rooftop for rainy days, and costs far too much money to even think about. If I ever wonder where my tuition is going, I only have to look at the seats I was just sitting in.
“Google Maps says we’re going to get there a minute early, so we better book it,” Jerry says. “Do your best work, Shane.”
Two hands on the steering wheel and a determined look in his eyes, Shane revs the engine to his sensible sedan and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll get us to the church on time.”
Five minutes late doesn’t look good to parents who are trusting three college students to coach their eight-year-olds.
Shane blamed it on the red lights, but Jerry and I know the truth; he drives like an old man who’s lost his glasses. Head perched forward, chin nearly kissing the steering wheel, and hands constantly on ten and two, he drove the streets like the wheels were trying to trudge through quicksand.
It will be the last time we let Shane be in charge of driving.
“Hustle up,” Jerry calls out as the kids run from foul pole to foul pole and then back to home plate.
Turning to my co-coaches, I say, “So I’m working with the boys on the tee. Shane, you’re doing soft toss into the net; Jerry, you’re pitching from behind the screen.”
Jerry stretches his arm over his head. “Yup, I’m ready to strike some suckers out.” A former pitcher in high school, Jerry has a hard time toning it down sometimes when pitching to the kids. He calls it his turbo arm, but I call it his death arm.
Reinstating the rules, I place my hand on his shoulder and say, “Remember, they are eight, so turbo arm needs to stay on lockdown. We don’t need parents coming at us with a lawsuit because you can’t control yourself.”