sixteen
It’s the top ofthe final inning, and the game is tied, but I’m not concerned.
This is where I thrive. Where all the outside noise of my life goes completely silent. Where I let the young boy who will forever live inside me play out his dreams.
This view, my view from the pitcher’s mound, is a privilege. And it’s one I don’t take for granted.
I swing both of my arms, shaking out the tension that has built up during the game.
We’re on their home turf, and the Los Angeles fans are hungry for a win.
Unfortunately for them, I ain’t gonna let ’em have it.
I see who’s up to bat and internally smile.
There are a lot of good men in this league, many of whom I have had the pleasure of meeting. And some of those men are still in those early stages of their careers, like Velázquez, who’s settling into his batting position as he tries to seem unperturbedby stepping into my line of fire. I’ve had many conversations with Velázquez, mostly about how he looked up to me when he was in little league.
Which first of all… ouch.
At thirty-three, I’ve been playing at a professional level for well over a decade. But my ego could really go without everyone pointing out the age differences between me and the fresh blood coming up the ranks.
Yeah, those are conversations I could go without.
Especially when my mind betrays me and continuously keeps calculating the math between my age and Isabella’s. Eight years.
Fuck off it, man.
I shake my head and settle back into the present as I berate myself for even slipping for a second. If I let Isa infiltrate my head while I’m on the field, then I’m well and truly fucked.
I focus on the man currently set to bat. And on one of our previous chats.
Because I remember very vividly Velázquez speaking of my left-handed fast ball and how it’s a death sentence to players on my turf.
So, with exaggerated movements, I pick up my right glove and drop my left. When I straighten and look at Velázquez, his poker face has shattered into a mixture of annoyance and amusement accompanied by a good natured “estecabrón.”
With only one out left for his team, I allow myself to chuckle and wink at him, confirming that we both know exactly what I’m doing. Well, he may think he knows, because I’ll definitely be throwing a curveball first, just in case he thinks he can throw up a few Hail Marys and pray for a home run.
I get in position, and after two head shakes, Torres knows exactly what the play is. Our kind of connection during a game is what baseball dreams are made of, since you’re only as good asthe team you rely on, and Torres is truly the best catcher in the league.
I close my eyes for a fraction of a moment and take a deep breath.
With my eyes open and pinned on Torres’s glove, I smirk slightly, then rear back and let the ball fly.
“Come on, Martinez, we won! You’ve gotta come out with us again. It could be the start of a team winning streak,” Ace argues. The tattoos adorning his dark skin are on full display as he walks toward me in a designer tank top and probably a couple million dollars of jewelry adorning his neck, ears, and hands. He’s definitely the flashiest on our team, but it somehow suits him. If I ever saw him with anything less than three diamond chains, I would assume he’d been robbed.
“We’ve won the last three games. Not exactly the start of anything, my man.” I walk past him to make my way to the hotel elevators. The guys will probably hit the town tonight since we fly out late in the morning.
We had a small celebration in the locker room, because it always feels nice to win in someone else’s stadium. But after we hit the showers and loaded onto the bus, the adrenaline wore off, and exhaustion seeped in.
Most guys like to party and fuck away the tension radiating off their bodies after a game. But most guys on this team aren’tsingle dads. Not only do I have a responsibility to my daughter to not get caught up in a scandal, but I also, guiltily, enjoy the quiet. The time when I don’t need to worry about anyone’s needs besides my own. And my needs right now are about twelve hours of sleep. But I know I won’t be able to pass out until I hit the gym or go swimming in the hotel pool.
Pitching does a number on my arms and shoulders, and after big games, I usually have our strength and conditioning trainers work me out.
But some days, like today, I don’t really feel like being around people and would much rather cool down my muscles myself.
“I’m hitting the hotel pool. If you guys want to swim some laps, you know where to find me.”
“Ugh, this guy is a machine. Way to make the rest of us look like chumps.” Delgado groans.
