“I think someone is trying to get your attention.” Easton Bennett, phenomenal short-stop for my beloved Renegades, motions toward the stands. He’s standing next to me as we take practice grounders while our closer, Kenjiro Tomita, warms-up.
“Eh, she’s just another fan,” I say, shrugging it off as if she’s no big deal. In the grand scheme of things, she’s not. I shouldn’t care about what happened this morning, but I do. I had hoped she and I could have a good time together. That’s what I get for thinking.
“Hit it and quit it already?” He bends to field the ball and does some twisty shit to get it back to first basemen, Kayden Cross.
“Not even close.” I field the ball and send it back to first. “I think I came on too strong and scared her away.”
“I’d say she probably wants a second chance.” Bennett walks over to his spot on the field and pushes the dirt around where he’s going to stand. I’m tempted to look over at her, but it’s not worth the aggravation.
I want to get this game finished and get on the plane. Three days in Florida will be welcome reprieve from the cold weather. I’m ready for the sun, the sand and plenty of women. I think that’s what I need, someone to get my mind off the little mind fuckery I was trying to play on it last night and this morning. Thinking that I could get to know a fan was a momentary lapse of judgment and something I’ll never do again. I’m better at the no name ladies that like to pay attention to me. It’s better that way. They know what they want and how to get it – and most don’t ask a lot of questions. Plus, I’m usually drunker than shit.
The top of the ninth gets underway and just like that; Tomita has two batters already sitting down. I raise two fingers in the air for the outfielders even though all they have to do is turn around and look at the scoreboard to see the outs. It’s a practice from little league through high school and college. It makes me feel better knowing I told my teammates, just in case.
There’s one batter left and then we’re on the road for six days. After Tampa Bay, we’re heading to Baltimore to face the Orioles again. Hopefully we fair better than the two and two we did for this home stand. A sweep would be nice.
The last pitch is sent toward home; it’s a swing and miss, with another broken bat. I feel his frustration. We meet at the pitcher’s mound, raise our hats and start tapping each other’s in a sign of solidarity in our win. Most of us wave to the crowd, as I usually do after the game, but not today, especially not toward my favorite side of the field.
I’m the first one off the field and quickly make my way to the clubhouse. As usual, the reporters call my name but after today’s performance, even if I were allowed to talk, I’d have nothing to say. I played like shit. I let a chick get in my head and distract me from my game and that can’t happen. Even back when Sarah and I broke up, I was focused. I have to be focused at all times because at any given moment my name could be on the waiver wire. I don’t want to give General Manager Stone any reason to trade me.
As soon as I’m in the clubhouse, my gear is coming off. My hat and glove are the first, followed by my dirt filled cleats. My mother used to make me undress in the garage when I was younger, saying her house isn’t a locker room. I never understood it until I got to high school and had a locker room to change in. After the first time I took off my cleats and dirt piled up in front of my door, I was thankful I didn’t have to clean up the mess.