Page 1 of Totally Fanatic

Chapter one

TIM

Nothing screams desperate forattention more than posting a shirtless selfie, yet here I am doing just that. I hold the phone up a little higher, trying to angle it just right so that my abs and the bowl of yogurt and granola are in the shot. It takes three attempts to get a good enough picture, and I add a quick caption,Fueling up for a great start to the season,and hit post.

I don’t know when I started caring about what everyone online thinks of me; only that I do. And I fucking hate that I do. Because while everyone else is oblivious to the opinions of others, I’m here, scrolling down a rabbit hole of past posts, checking the comments for praise, for questions, shit, even for criticism.

My friends tell me I should stop, that my obsession with other people’s opinions is not good for my mental health, and they are right. So much so that I have been seeing, or rather, speaking with my therapist, Dr Hamlyn, for the last few months to work on it. I’ve got some emotional wellbeing exercises that I do with her over the phone during our sessions and we’reimplementing tools to help, too, like avoiding any posts by or interacting with the Banana-Ramas—a group of fans that are super invested in everything about the league—and limiting my social media time to only while I’m eating.

Sure, I might have increased from three to seven meals a day, which was probably not what she intended. But they are mostly light snacks, totally needed to fuel my body for the gym sessions and batting practice I’ve kept up during the break.

The little red dot appears under notifications and my heart picks up a little before I click it.BBall01234 likes your post.Yes. BBall01234 has liked every post for the last week within minutes. They usually comment, too. And just like that, the red dot appears again, and I click through to see what they have posted.

Looking fit AF.I smile and like the comment just as another appears below it. It’s from another frequent contributor, Kittyball100.So excited to see you kill it again this year.I didn’t exactly kill it last year, but the fact they think I did brings that dopamine hit my brain is searching for. A few more comments come, and I finish breakfast in a better mood than I started. It’s vain, I know it, but I also know that last year, when I was playing shit and there was talk of team cuts, it was the comments from fans online that kept me from spiraling.

My parents were always good at that. Keeping me grounded or, as they would put it, keeping my head on straight. I would normally head back to Aus in the break, but when it became clear I was making my home out here in Savannah, my parents decided to sell the house I grew up in and start being one of those retired cruising couples. They’re somewhere in the Mediterranean right now, sipping drinks on the lido deck and playing bingo five nights a week. So, basically, they’re in heaven.

I’m happy for them. Really, I am. I’m just wondering when I will meet my forever person, too. They were already togetherand knocked up with me at my age. It’s not that I don’t date. I do. Or I try to. But being on tour for eight months out of the year means I either meet men in cities I might never come back to, or they’re local to Savannah and don’t want to “sit around waiting for me to come home.“ At least, that’s what the last guy told me. I don’t want that either. I want a guy who is happy enough with his own life that he isn’t waiting around for me. He should have his own interests, his own career, or at least a passion, something that keeps his heart full when I am not there but has room enough for me when I am home. Is that too much to ask?

My phone vibrates as another notification comes through just as I drop my bowl in the sink. My rules are that I can only be online when eating and no DMs, but Kittyball100 has shared something on my page, and I have to know what it is. Surely, not checking would be a bigger distraction. I open the post and there I am, jogging out onto the field, swinging at one of Gordon’s fastballs, then sliding into home base, the clips go on, jumping from scene to scene, all of them me, all of them moments from last season. Good moments. Great, even. The song behind the clip is Roar by Katy Perry, and they’ve captioned it,Season tickets to a year of Sage, #Bestbirthdaypresentever!

I click the comment box.Hope you had an amazing birthday!I type out and add a cake and balloons emoji and hit post, then close the app before I get lost in it again. Today is not the day to be late. It’s day one of official training, and I’m ready. I’ve been training all the time. When I say my last season sucked, I’m not joking. It was like the pressure of the potential cuts got into my head and I was fucking up every game. The video montage Kittyball100 posted showed only the good stuff, but I guess the fact there was enough good stuff to make a montage might mean I wasn’t as terrible as I thought. Maybe.

I slip the band from my wrist and throw my shoulder-length blond hair into a ponytail as I scan my loft for my bag. My loftis tiny, so it doesn’t have too many places it can hide, and yet every day I am searching for something. My bed is a mess of blankets and pillows in the corner, blocked in on one side by the back of my couch, which has seen better days. The armrests are worn so deep that the blue filling can be spotted peeking through the orange velvet fabric. It came with the loft, so I can’t really complain.

The kitchen is directly opposite my bed and consists of a sink, two open shelves above for plates and cups, and enough bench space to fit a microwave and air fryer. Not that I do a lot of cooking indoors.

The window out to the fire escape is the first thing you see when you walk in, and the stairs lead all the way up to the roof. That is my favorite place in the world. Okay, second favorite to the baseball field. I’ve got an old smoker setup along with a regular barbeque, or as the Americans call it, a grill. I do all my cooking on the roof. The undercover area built by the previous tenant had shade sails fixed to the frame, and it only took a Saturday afternoon and a few beers with the guys to replace it with some tinted roof sheets to let some light through and make it a little more weatherproof up there.

I spot the purple strap of my bag sticking out from under my bed and quickly grab it and head out.

When I get to the bottom of the stairs, the rich scent from the Chinese restaurant below fills my nose with its smoky sweetness. The restaurant below my loft is what most people call Chinese Barbeque. The actual name is Shaokao, and it is the second reason I rented the loft upstairs. I love barbeque. All kinds of it, from the Aussie backyard to the American smokehouse, it’s the best food in the world.

Like any guy in sports, I needed to have a Plan B or at least some idea of what I want to do when my baseball career ends because it will end. Either by injury, age, or declining skill, itcan’t last forever, and because I don’t exactly get paid enough to set me up for life just yet, thinking about when it all ends, as depressing as that is, is important.

The thing is, I know what I want to do when I retire from baseball. I want my own barbeque restaurant, only not an actual restaurant, a food truck. I want to mix the amazing Aussie flavors with the American smoker-style barbeque and drive to different locations, sharing the unique infusion of flavors with people. The guys on the team think I’m nuts. Well, they mostly think I only want to do it because I’m obsessed with eating barbeque, and they’re not wrong. Every place we visit on tour, I’m looking for a steak house or barbeque place to eat at. I’ve learned so much from talking with chefs and owners over the years. And while the guys might laugh at me, they’re also always happy to test out a new recipe, so maybe my idea isn’t so wild after all.

I get to the field and manage to avoid a few of the Banana-Ramas, who are hanging out by the main entry, by slipping through a side door. They can get a little too in your face sometimes, and today, I don’t want to force the smiles and engagement they crave. Weaving through the back corridors, Duckie slams into my side, wrapping his arm over my shoulder as I reach the Funky Monkey locker room. Last year, we shared the locker room with Animal Control, but over break, the league did some work on the space and separated us by a dividing wall. Duckie releases me and drops his bag onto the bench in front of his cubby.

I go to place my phone on the shelf of mine when I spot the notifications count. I check the time. We’ve got a few minutes until we have to be out on the field, so I swipe into the app and scroll through hearting, liking, and commenting on each post, my mood lifting with every second.

“Sage!” Duckie calls, and I look up from the phone to see him fully dressed in his training gear and frowning at me from the doorway of the locker room.

“Sorry, what?”

“Dude, it’s time to go. You might have spent every day at the gym during the break, but the coach will still have you running the stairs if you’re late. Seriously, though, did you actually live at the gym? You’re ripped,” Duckie says, leaning on the doorway.

“Nothing better to do,” I reply, closing down the phone and stripping off my shirt. I wore my training shorts here, so it will only take me a second to be ready.

“Oh, I’m sure you struggled to findsomeonebetter to do in all those DMs.“ He winks, and I laugh and follow him out to the field. Not everyone gets Banana Ball. It’s not just baseball with dancing and lip-syncing. It’s a full theatrical performance. Like a baseball-themed circus with gymnastics and lights and magic. And it’s a hell of a lot of work, too. I’m going to need some serious trick plays if I am going to stay on the radar this year.

All four teams are already out on the grass when we get there. It’s not a good look, hitting the field last, and we draw the eye of Coach Miles.

“Nice of you two to join us,” he says, nodding toward where the rest of the Funky Monkeys are stretching. “Get started, we’ve got a lot to cover.”Shit. That is the exact opposite reason to be on the radar.

As I stretch out my muscles on the grass with the others, listening to them talk about what they got up to in the break, I just keep thinking about how I’m already messing it all up. Kittyball100 called it the year of Sage. Can I actually get my shit together and live up to that? Who knows. I guess only time will tell.

Chapter two

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