“Ouch, really? That seems harsh and unlike him. Now I’m curious. What’s the real reason?”
l observe the campus from afar, the different types of students always interesting me. There are the happy students without a worry in the world, the ones who just skate through college on their parents’ dime. Then there are the stressed and neurotic who are about to have a mental breakdown any second—love the nervous ticks in their eyes. And then there are the student athletes who have ice bags Saran-wrapped to every part of their body, looking tired and ready to pass out in their sub-par plate of spaghetti and meatballs. We’re all here for one goal: to earn an education, and yet, our lives and worries are vastly different.
My benching would probably seem menial to someone struggling with student loan debt and trying to earn a piece of the pie in academic scholarships, but like I said, we all have different worries that plague us.
Mine just happens to control the entire outcome of my career.
Biting on my bottom lip, I close my eyes briefly. “I think he’s trying to light a fire under my ass so I get my shit together and start performing.”
“Still in a slump?”
“Let’s just say Gunner’s slugging percentage is better than mine.”
“Oh fuck.” He chuckles, and I don’t blame him. When a pitcher is getting more hits than a middle infielder, there’s something seriously wrong going on. “Dude, Gunner has the ugliest swing ever.”
“Tell me about it, and yet, he’s still able to hit the ball. I might as well step in the batter’s box with a blindfold strapped across my eyes and stick my bat over the plate, hoping for any kind of contact at this point.”
“Dude, I had no idea it was this bad.”
“Because you’re in your own personal hell, trying to make a name for yourself in the minors.”
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t call it hell, but I will say this, the accommodation at Brentwood far exceeds anything I’m sleeping in now. Rich and privileged university to Double-A ball is a rude awakening, that’s for damn sure.”
“You won’t be there for long; you and I both know that. Triple-A is right around the corner for you.”
“If I can keep up with this schedule. I thought college was hard. I would give anything to be back at Brentwood with you right now.”
“Don’t yank my dick. You’re just saying that because you want to see Emory.”
Emory Ealson, the girl of Knox’s dreams and probably one of the chillest girls I’ve ever met. She’s pretty amazing, so I see why Knox is head over heels about her.
“Have you seen her?” he asks softly.
“Here and there, but before I can say anything to her, she gives me a curt smile and sprints in the opposite direction. Something tells me she’s avoiding me.”
“You think?” He sighs heavily. “Sorry, let’s not get off topic here. So, you suck at baseball.”
“Wow, you sure know how to make a guy feel better.” The doors to the dining hall open as Jason, Gunner, and Romeo walk in, pulling the attention of everyone in the vicinity. It’s not a secret that the baseball team runs this campus and the hot ticket in town is a seat at the baseball games on the weekends. Some of the guys soak in the limelight, while others, the grounded individuals who seem to have long-lasting careers in the big leagues, are humble about it, kind, and move on with their days.
Knox is one of them.
I used to be.
Now I’m just an old curmudgeon no one wants to touch with a ten-foot pole. It might be the splotchy facial hair, or the unkept mop on my head, or the ever-so-slight limp in my leg where I swear sometimes I can feel the staples holding my Achilles tendon together scraping my bone—a feeling the doctors quickly debunked.
“I have to take you down with me. Sorry, dude.” He lets out a huge sigh and then says, “Okay, so what do you need to do to get out of this funk?”
“Turn back time and steal Badcock’s jockstrap so he can’t go on the field that day.”
“Hmm, do you know anyone with a time machine?”
“Just murmurs here and there, no concrete promises.” At least I still have a sense of humor with my best friend.
“Yeah, same here. Since we don’t have a time machine, it looks like you might have to bust your ass. Your schedule is light this semester, right? Just easy classes since you pretty much finished your major last year, pulling double duty.” Remember what I said about being magically smart? It’s true. I’m an anomaly and earned a bachelor’s degree in architecture in three years.
“Yeah, trying to finish that minor in early childhood education, because why the hell not. Classes are a breeze.”
“Thanks for not making me feel stupid or anything.”
Knox majored in early childhood education and even though he was a good student and earned good grades, he had to work hard at it.
“Anytime. But yeah, classes are simple right now.”
“So then your ass should be in the cages, in the video room, looking over every swing you’ve made this year and every swing you’ve made last year. Put in the work because you have the time, but even if you didn’t, you would still need to put in the work.”
“Sure, yeah, that makes sense.” I pause and voice my biggest concern, the one that’s been plaguing me for the last month or so, ever since I haven’t been able to put wood on the ball. “Do you think this is a sign?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, that maybe . . . you know, I wasn’t meant to be drafted?”
“Fuck that,” Knox says quickly. “You and I both know that’s a cop-out. You drew a shitty hand from a bad cock. That doesn’t mean you give up. It means you work harder for what you want. Remember what Tom Hanks’s character says in A League of Their Own. ‘If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. It’s the hard that makes it great.’”
“Such a good fucking movie. When he takes a piss in front of all the girls. Fucking classic.”
“And when he pegs Stillwell Angel in the noggin with a glove, I cry laugh every time I watch that part.”
Yeah, A League of Their Own is our favorite baseball movie. What were you expecting? For it to be The Sandlot? Field of Dreams? For Love of the Game? Bull Durham? All greats, but A League of Their Own takes the cake every time. Sliding in skirts? Come on, that shit is real right there.
“Shit, I need to go back to the loft and watch that now.”
“I’m praying it’s on Netflix,” Knox says.
“Good luck.” Jason waves me down and I give him the international sign for one second. “Listen, the boys are here for dinner. I have to go.”
“Sure, just remember what Old Tommy boy said, okay? The hard is what makes it great. Put in the work.”
“I will, thanks, bud.”
“Any time and hey . . . uh, if you happen to see Emory around campus, tell her I said hi.”
“You have her number, dipshit, tell her hi yourself.” With that, I hang up and push off the wall. I’m fucking starving.
Without a doubt, Lakeview is the best dining hall, not just because of its almost 360º view of Lake Michigan, but because of its drop-everything-you’re-doing paninis. They are so fucking good, and I’ve been craving one all day.