Walker’s voice is even, but anyone would be a dumbass not to hear the promised aggression underneath.
The guys shrug it off, a few of them nervously laughing, but no one challenges him.
I wasn’t around long enough last year to really get to know the guy, the Callahan golden child who grew up and made good on his family’s real baseball dreams. He was one of the only players in the league who had ever come from a family connected to professional baseball, and the only one who went on to play for his father, who was the owner.
While a lot of people would discount him for that, think he was some spoiled rich kid given all the best in life in order to easily succeed, I don’t get that vibe when I watch Walker. He’s a leader in this clubhouse, even now, after the whole scandal went down. It’s clear that the guys respect him, and from the short month we played together before the Pistons missed the playoffs, he seemed like a hard worker and all-around great teammate.
It didn’t mean I trusted him, though.
“You let men go around speaking about women like that?” He sits down next to me; our lockers butt up against each other.
This fucker is calling me out, and dammit if he didn’t hit the nail on the head. That’s the thing, I don’t let other guys go around talking about women like that. Not in the clubhouse, not outside the stadium. I’ve been known to lecture about this when guys start intimidating female reporters, and I even restrained a rowdy, drunk asshole at an LA bar a couple years back for getting handsy with a woman who was clearly trying to shrug off his advances.
But there is something about the Callahans that makes me skittish. “I don’t know your cousin.”
“You mean, your general manager. The woman advocating for this team and trying to win us a championship. Someone who works extremely hard and has for years. Don’t pretend to sit there and agree with the way they were talking about her. On a basic human level, putting aside your obvious opinion about my family, it’s not right to allow men to speak about women like they just were.”
Damn, I didn’t think he was going to hand me my ass. His cousin simply towed the party line when I threw accusations in her face, but clearly Walker isn’t going to do that. My own behavior makes me cringe, and I turn to him.
“You’re right. I should have backed you up. You’re going to make it hard to dislike you until I can hightail it out of here at the end of the season, aren’t you?”
He gives me a shit-eating grin. “I’ll grow on you. Don’t count this team out yet, Swindell. We’re going to build something here, something pure. Back to baseball basics. Colleen is going to spearhead it. You’ll see.”
“That’s some poetic shit. All I want to do is bat over five hundred and make some good plays at first.” I roll my eyes.
“Let me take you out for the best steak dinner in Packton after this. Man date.” Walker beats in his glove, then slides it on his hand, flexing it.
I snort. “That’s like saying you’re taking me for pizza at Chuck E. Cheese.”
“If we win, I’ll buy you dinner. My treat.” He raises an eyebrow.
This guy is annoying, but seems genuine. “Fine. Just get out of my space. I need to focus.”
He chuckles as he pushes up, knowing he won, and walks off.
Two hours later, we’re in the bottom of the sixth, tied two to two, and I’m up at the plate.
The game, the afternoon, has been … interesting. A lot of the veteran players and old-timers they asked to come out and be featured in the opening ceremonies, well, they declined. Or just didn’t show up. It was a gaggle of men who stood out on that field next to our current team, being majorly booed by the fans. As if any of us did anything wrong.
People have been turning around to flip up their middle fingers or wash down the windows of the owner’s suite with warm, foamy beer all game. I hope, even though I resent hoping it, that Colleen is safely tucked away somewhere, because this could get ugly quick.
Fortunately, once game play started, the unrest settled a bit. The Pistons fans were tuning in, even cheering for our two runs, even if the away fans were booing us.
And even if they are, at least I’m playing ball. There are lot of guys who play this sport because they’re talented, or because of the money, or because of the fame that comes with it. Me? I play baseball because I don’t love anything as much as I love this game. From the minute I stepped up to the plate in T-ball, my love affair began. The smell of the dirt in the diamond, the cheers in the stands, the feel of my hand in a glove, the crack of the bat when it connects with the ball.
Right now, I’m staring down Donny Desmond, one of the best left-handed pitchers in the league. Donny and I have met on several occasions, and some of those he’s struck me out, but others I’ve nailed his ass with homers. The pitch count is one, two, and there is no way I want this fucker to walk me.
I want a run, I can taste it, and Walker is on first. I see my teammate leading on his right foot out of the corner of my eye, halfway to second in what a lot would call a risky move. But that’s what I’ve heard about Walker, he’s a cocky son of a bitch when it comes to base running.
Donny shakes off a pitch, and then another, before settling on one. I see his whole body tense on the mound, his adrenaline winding up inside him. He stands tall, and I brace myself, digging my cleats into the dirt.
There is an instinct in this game, one you’re born with or can hone over the years. Not all have it, and not even legendary players had it. But if you do, you just know things sometimes, inexplainable feelings or inklings. I have it, and I’m not sure how, but it’s what tips me off to the fact that Donny is going to serve me a breaking ball.
I readjust my hands on the bat at the last split second, so that I can attack it in the way I’ve trained for. It comes hurdling toward the plate, and I can tell with a slow motion view that it’s not too far to the left or right, up or down. If I time this perfectly, I can smack this leather ball to kingdom come.
Waiting, waiting, waiting until the blood whooshes in my ears, I finally swing, the motion smooth and powerful. I don’t see it when the ball connects with my bat; I feel it. The vibration reverberates down my arms, through my body, to my toes. Without even waiting to see where it went, I drop the bat at the completion of the swing and sprint for first. It’s not until I’m there that I allow myself to look, to watch as it disappears into the upper decks of the outfield.
The crowd is going wild, and Walker is running around the bases clapping his hands as he whoops in my direction. I nod at their appreciation, and my chest swells because at least I could give these fans one positive thing for the day. And well, damn, doesn’t it just feel good to be playing the game again?
The inning ends after Jimenez goes down swinging for the third out, and the game moves pretty quickly from there. The other team scores a run, but still trail us by one going into the ninth, and then our closer comes in and does his job.
As we celebrate our first game, our first win of the season, cheering and high-fiving on the way back to the locker room, Walker’s hand closes over my shoulder.
Fuck, guess this means I have to go to dinner with a Callahan tonight.
And the minute that pops into my head, why is it Colleen’s face I see, and not her male cousin who is also my teammate?