Page 81 of Perfect Game

On a dreary Fridaynight in September, I throw the last pitch of my career.

As I climb the dugout steps for the last time, I looked around at the stadium, and the city behind it, that I used to only visit but has since become home. I’ve seen this city be rebuilt over my last twenty years in the league. I’ve seen sellout crowds here and small crowds of few but faithful fans. It’s been an honor to be welcomed to this city and to spend time with this team. The crowd cheers as I approach the mound and pick up the baseball, testing its weight in my hand.

Running my fingers over the smooth leather of the ball, the familiar scrape of the laces against my callused fingers, there’s a new weight added to the five ounces of rubber and yarn and leather that I hold in my hand. It holds the weight of twenty years of baseball. Of strikeouts and walks and wild pitches. Twenty years of joy and heartache. I gave my life to this game, and tonight that all comes to an end.

It’s the bottom of the sixth inning and I’m quickly approaching the pitch limit I’ve been working under since coming back from Toledo. And if I’m being honest, I’mtired.

And I’m looking forward to going home.

Tonight.

As soon as this game ends and I wrap up my last press conference, I’ve been cleared to go home, which means on Sunday I get to be in the stands for the Olympians last game of the season. I get to surprise my girl. But I still have a job to do tonight.

As Weston Taylor steps to the plate for the Kansas City Kings, I have no doubt in my mind that he’ll be the last batter I face tonight. He’s known around the league for being something of a hothead; a utility player that’s been bounced around by trades and free agency for the last few years and has landed with the Kings for now. He goes down in the count for two strikes before calling timeout and stepping out of the batter’s box, giving me a moment to breathe. To take in the crowd and my surroundings one more time.

On the next pitch, Weston launches the ball toward center field, where I’ve got Luca backing me up. I turn and watch as he tracks the ball and catches it just shy of the warning track. When I turn back around, Roy Chambers is climbing the dugout steps and my infield gathers around.

This is it.

“Max.” Roy nods, his voice gruff and filled with emotion. “What a career you’ve had. It’s been an honor to have you with us.”

I shake my manager’s outstretched hand before walking off the mound and tipping my cap to the Detroit faithful. Ideally, I would have walked off like this in Seattle, but I’m thankful for this team – and these fans – who welcomed me, and gave me a place to call home. It’s bittersweet to know that this is the end. Choosing to retire was easy. But walking off that field tonight is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

When the game ends, I’m the last guy in the clubhouse,taking my time to shower and change clothes before giving my last post-game interview.

“Maxwell Harrison,” the familiar voice of the Mustang’s beat writer calls from behind me as I pack up my locker. “Great start tonight. A fitting end to an outstanding career.”

“Is there a question in there?” I ask, and am met with Molly’s usual smirk.

“Not tonight. Just the praise of a grateful baseball fan.” Molly tucks her notepad into the bag slung across her body and holds out her hand for me to shake. “It’s been a joy to watch you play all these years.”

“Thank you, Molly.” I’m unexpectedly choked up as I shake her hand, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “It’s been a joy to play all these years. You can use that as my statement.”

“Goodnight, Max.”

As the clubhouse starts to clear out, I sit in front of my locker one last time, watching the guys pack up and leave until it’s just me in a silent, empty clubhouse. My first time in a big league clubhouse I was a twenty four year old, called up from the minors for the first time. I’d spent five years bouncing up and down in the minor league clubs before finally getting the call I’d always dreamed of, and my start was awful. Two innings and four batters in the third. More runs than you should ever give up in that amount of time, and bruised knuckles from slamming my fist against the wall of the tunnel after the game.

I was hot headed and angry, and deserved to be sent back to the minors on the next bus out of town, but my team and my manager took a chance on me. The chance of a lifetime.

“Don’t you have a flight to catch?” Luca calls from the door of the clubhouse, pulling me out of my reflection. “It’s a Friday night, the airport is going to be a madhouse. We should probably go.”

I nod and push myself out of my chair. The last thing I take with me is the nameplate from above my locker. A reminder of the last few months, and in some ways a reminder of the journey I took to get to this place. After tucking it into my bag, I find Luca watching me, a small smirk toying at the corner of his mouth.

“Time to go, Old Man.” His voice breaks, and I meet him at the clubhouse door, dropping my bags as I pull him in for a hug.

“Luca. I’m going to miss you. And the humor you use to deflect from facing your emotions.”

“Shut up.” He wraps his arms around me and returns the hug. “I’m going to miss you, too.”

“You’ve always got a place if you need it, you know that right?”

“I know. And I can never thank you enough for that.”

“I love you, Luca and you’ve been a pain in my butt for a lot of years. But it’s been a real honor to be your teammate.”

“Let’s get you to the airport.”

After sleeping for most of the flight, I grab my carry-on from the overhead and groggily follow the line of people off the plane and up the jetway. The airport in Seattle is a maze but I eventually find my way to passenger pickup where Sam is waiting for me.

---