Now, running is a sanctuary, physical activity to make the constant whirring of my brain quiet to a gentle hum and, with my apartment just off Prospect Park, I have a place to escape to that nearly silences the city that never sleeps.
I jog down the stairs and groan at the Open House sign in the main entry of the two-family brownstone that I own the top two floors of, making a mental note to barricade myself in my upstairs unit when I get back to avoid the influx of people desperate to move into this neighborhood. They need to bewilling to hear me pacing the floor of my apartment all hours of the day, though, because even when I’m home, I’m working.
The air is brisk when I make it outside and I switch my Apple Watch to a workout and choose a run. After a quick tap, I set a brisk pace down the block before crossing over Ocean Avenue. I head straight into the winding paths shaded by trees bedecked with orange, red and yellow leaves; their fallen brethren crunching steadily and satisfyingly beneath my feet.
And there it is, the silence I needed to focus my mind and keep it from spinning out of control.
Okay, so the plan for next week.
I wanted to pitch Stew my Nakamura strategy, but that got foiled by Charlie Avery’s audacity to make today the day he decided retirement wasn’t for him. I’m still not sure what his deal is. He’s a multimillionaire and not an idiot, so he was probably smart with his money. He definitely doesn’t need a job in the sense that most people, including me, need their jobs. So why is he doing this?
Everyone always thought he’d be a great manager after he retired. His people skills are generally good, our relationship notwithstanding, but getting back into the grind of a major league season is a lot for someone who did it for two decades and called it quits.
He’s old in baseball years, but young for, you know, life. Not even forty. He could have an entire existence doing something else, anything else, if he chose.
Then again, what’s better than a life in baseball?
I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.
Maybe we have that in common?
Maybe it’s the only thing we have in common?
Except . . . that kiss.
I drove home that night my lips tingling. Well, every part of me tingling. No one had ever kissed me like that, not even my ex.Or, at least, I’d neverfelta kiss that way, like he was trying to see into my soul. Desperation and passion and skill.
It was the skill that stunned me more than anything. There was never not a gaggle of female fans hanging out in every ballpark and hotel bar, ready to shoot their shot, in the time I’d known him, and that was toward the end. It was probably even worse at the beginning of his career.
So, the fact that, despite not having to work for the attention, he took the time to be really, really good at kissing . . . it said something about him, something unquantifiable and, therefore, incredibly confusing.
I don’t like things that don’t add up.
I’m circling past the dog beach, the little alcove where dogs roam on the rocks near the smaller of the park’s two lakes. Turning around, I grin, knowing that on my right will be the Long Meadow Ballfields, seven baseball and softball diamonds nestled into the park, empty aside for a few retired men’s slow-pitch softball games, the only thing that can be scheduled for the middle of a weekday afternoon in the fall.
The men on the field closest to me look to be in their late sixties, or even older, strapped up with braces on their knees and ankles, some looking more likely to fall over than stay upright. But there they are, in their sixth or seventh decade of life still out there, still playing the game they’ve loved their entire lives.
The same game I’ve loved since I was a little girl, nestled in my dad’s lap to watch Mike Piazza and the Dodgers power their way to a division title, hooking me for life.
Okay, that’s enough sentimentality.
I’m barely two or three strides into the jog home when my eyes catch two men waving from the field.
I don’t get recognized often, but I live just a few blocks from the ballpark and there are some fans dialed in enough to know who I am and what I do. New Yorkers, even the ones who canpick me out of a lineup, mostly leave me alone, though there are moments when they want to chat.
Normally, I don’t mind, but right now I really need to get back.
The two men aren’t wearing uniforms, aren’t geared up for a game, but my eyes aren’t strong enough to make out anything other than their business casual clothes and their general frames. Large, athletic, one fair skinned, one darker and, as I squint in their direction, I’m able to focus just enough to make out Charlie Avery’s grimace and the broad grin plastered across Javy Vasquez’s face.
I should have known.
Those two were inseparable during their playing days. Why would it be any different now?
Javy lives around here somewhere. His wife’s business is in New York – fashion design, if I’m remembering correctly. I’ve run into them on occasion. He does some spots onMLBNetwork and he was at the ballpark for a few games last season with his kids.
As they draw closer and I take a few steps in their direction, a realization passes over me and I know without even having to ask exactly why they’re wandering the baseball fields of Prospect Park.
If Avery’s agreed to be our manager, there’s no one else he’d want to be his pitching coach.
