Page 11 of The Art of Catching Feelings
Maybe it was better if he just got out in front of it. He wasn’tashamed of crying, per se, but he hated the fact that everyone was talking about it, weighing in on why he might’ve been upset and whether he had any right to be. He knew he had some control over the narrative—he could share more about what had been going through his head in that moment, stop the speculation, and give people the answers they clearly felt entitled to. But then everyone would be talking aboutthat, which would be even worse.
He thought again of his father’s text.Call me.He already knew without speaking to the man that he’d want Chris to stay quiet.Keep your head down, keep playing ball, and for the love of god, swingthrough.You have a hitch that’s holding you back, you have to swingthrough.
We can use this, his agent would say, and she’d have a lot of strategic ideas about how. Ideas that would probably help his career, bolster his reputation, maybe even secure him some niche sponsorship deal. He didn’t want to hear any of that, either.
C: My older brother died by suicide a few months ago.
He’d typed the sentence and clicked send before he could take it back. It was the first time he’d laid it out so plainly for someone who didn’t already know, someone who wasn’t a friend of the family or involved in his day-to-day life. He hadn’t even told the Battery’s manager, Marv, or his teammates—not because he didn’t expect them to be supportive, but maybe even because he was afraid they would be. He didn’t know if he could handle it, having people ask how he was doing or offer to let him take time off.
There was absolutely zero reason for him to share such a personal detail with this random stranger, but maybe that was part of the appeal. The anonymity of it.
Although, shit—nothing on the internet was anonymous, was it? He quickly typed a follow-up message.
C: That’s not really public information. I’d appreciate if you didn’t share it anywhere.
It was also a pretty heavy thing to just dump on someone. She’d felt bad about sharing the unethical working conditions for animals in a movie filmed decades ago, and he’d hit her withthis? Via a social messaging app? Atmidnight? He wished there was a way to erase all of it, but theSeenstamp had already appeared below his texts.
D: I’m so sorry about your brother. “Sorry”—god, such an inadequate word. You must be devastated.
D: Of course I won’t tell anyone.
D: Do you want to talk about it?
Did he want to talk about it? That was the big question. He kept thinking it was the last thing he wanted. And yet here he was, pouring his heart out to a stranger. Clearly his feelings were complicated.
C: It used to be that everything tunneled when I played baseball. It was just me and the ball, the field, my team…like in a photo where the crowd is all blurred, but I was crisp and clear in the center of the frame. That’s how it felt. But now it’s flipped. I’m the blur. And everything that used to be background is turned up so loud, I can’t tune it out.
C: I don’t know if any of that made sense.
He rubbed his hand over his face, surprised at the sting he felt at the outer corners of his eyes. This was another problem he’d been having lately. This urge to cry came over him at the oddest, most random moments. He’d sat in his condo alone only a few nights ago,tryingto cry, willing himself to get it all out. It would be cathartic, he figured. But eventually he’d gone to bed, his eyes dry. Then, a couple days later, one throwaway Winnie the Pooh reference and it had hit him like a wave. He supposed he should just be thankful he’d managed to get himself back under control relatively quickly, that he’d finished his at-bat and the postgame interview without any further incident.
D: It makes perfect sense. Something like that would crater your entire world.
D: Is there anyone you can talk to—your coach or a team doctor…? (I don’t know anything about baseball, sorry.)
That made him smile a little. Yeah, he’d figured. The Battery’s manager, Marvin Gordon, was a legend. Now in his seventies, he’d had a Hall of Fame–worthy career as a player before taking on leadership roles after he retired. He was one of only five Black managers to have ever managed a World Series team, back when he was in Atlanta. Marv was a great guy, but old-school—Chris could no more imagine talking to him about taking bereavement leave than he could imagine talking to him about pitching in the next game.
C: Maybe.
C: Sorry to lay all that on you. I’m just tired.
D: There’s no need to apologize. You can talk more about it if you want to. If you were here I’d make you some tea.
D: (Metaphorically. Not like you’d actually be here, but you know what I mean.)
Around him, guys were starting to shift in their seats, pack up stuff they’d had out for the trip. There must’ve been an announcement that they were landing soon, but he’d missed it. This had been the fastest cross-country flight of his life.
C: I appreciate the offer (metaphorical or otherwise). Are you having a cup now?
D: Yeah, although I shouldn’t. It’s a black tea with apricot and currant. It’ll keep me up all night. I just like the ritual of it—putting the kettle on the stove, steeping it for the exact right amount of time, adding honey, that kind of thing.
C: Rituals are good.
D: They are. What’s one of yours?
Chris had to think about that one for a minute. He had somany in baseball, some he’d done for years, since his days playing in high school. The order in which he did certain stretches before a game, for example, or if he had a good game the way he’d try to replicate certain conditions the next day, as though searching for the magical variable that had made the difference.
But he tried to think of something he did outside of the sport, something that brought him comfort, like making a hot cup of tea. The problem was that he was so rarely home, and the routines he had at his condo or whatever hotel he was at for the night felt less like rituals and more like part of the daily grind.
