“It’s okay,” I say, honestly. “I’ve learned the dos and don’ts of what to post on social media, how words can be misconstrued, and to always enunciate my words when giving an interview.”
“That’s good. I’ve spoken to your professor, and he’s assured me that he’s taught you everything from the course, so tonight after the game you can speak to the media if they ask for you.”
I can’t hide the grin that I know is plastered all over my face. I stand and shake his hand, elated that he has enough faith in me to not screw up. I hope that I don’t make a fool out of myself when given the opportunity and that I do something tonight that will be newsworthy.
“I heard about your secret project,” Stone says, causing me to sit back down.
I run my free hand through my hair, trying to decipher if I’m in trouble or not.
“It’s a nice thing to do – to help out like that.”
I nod and say thank you, hoping that what I’ve done doesn’t cause upset or fall on deaf ears. Frankly, I’m out of options. Stone dismisses me, but not before telling me that his wife’s parents are in attendance tonight. Why he felt the need to say this is beyond me, but he loves taking every jab he can to remind me of who he’s married to and where they sit.
I opt not to work-out, but to start changing for the game. The routine is the same: Socks, cup, jock strap, Under Armor and finally my pants, but not my jersey. I’ll change into that later. I leave my cleats untied and sit on my stool, waiting. My thoughts return to what Stone said, about how it’s nice to help out. I don’t know if what I’ve done is a good thing or not, but it’s the only thing I can think of to get Daisy’s attention. If it’s successful, I owe the ladies in the main office lunch, roses and a day of pampering.
The clubhouse opens for the media and I find myself sitting tall and proud. As soon as the reporter from NESN comes over to me, I know I’m ready.
“Ethan, care to chat today?” That has been their standard question every day since I joined the team. I nod eagerly like a damn buffoon.
“Great. Your batting average is one of the highest in the league and there’s chatter that you’ll be a shoo-in for the batting title. This is only your second season, are you surpassing your personal expectations?”
What the fuck is this noise? Why didn’t media training train me on how to answer these types of questions instead of worrying about my relationship status on Facebook?
I pretend that there’s something fascinating on the floor and bend sideways to pick it up before answering. This sly move gives me only seconds of a reprieve before the microphone is being thrust into my face.
“Each day that I go out there, it’s to win for Boston and my teammates.” The reporter smiles and thanks me for my time. I close my eyes and mentally kick my ass for being so fucking dumb when it comes to this shit. It makes me want to call my college coach and tell him to mandate that a class like this be taken.
As soon as it’s time, I’m out of the clubhouse and onto the field. I find myself looking for Daisy every chance I get, only to find her seat empty. When we start stretching out in centerfield, I angle myself so I can spot her when she starts descending the stairs. My stalking levels know no bounds right now and I’m ashamed of myself.