Page 2 of Home Field Advantage
My feet drag me to the field, where the players line up to congratulate the other team. I do the same by meeting the Strikers coach before following my team into the dugout to grab our things. We filter through the door leading to the locker room. The only sounds are the rustling bags, the light thump of cleats, and my heart pounding in my chest.
I hate this for them.
I hate this for me.
I’m the last to enter behind everyone, and as soon as I do, my eyes lock with the owner of the Staghorns. Clark Harris stands there, leaning against the wall, with a sympathetic smile. He knows he has to fire me today, and the pain of doing it is etched on his face.
Before I took this job, which followed the abrupt end of my career, he was my mentor.
He wasmyhead coach.
He was like the dad I never had.
I tip my chin with a silent greeting before he places a hand on my shoulder. “We need to talk.”
Forcing a smile, my lips form a straight line. “Never a good thing, huh?”
He shakes his head.
Clark never beats around the bush, and I love him for it. Except right now, my stomach is in knots, and I’d rather be anywhere else but here.
“We can talk after you finish up with the guys and getchanged,” he says, then turns to leave me there with my spiraling thoughts.
If I were optimistic, I’d imagine him telling me that he isn’t going to fire me, and instead give me one more chance, one more season, to figure out this coaching thing. Especially since he didn’t ask me to meet in the privacy of his office. I would be grateful, accept it, and work harder than ever before.
But my life tends to lean toward adverse outcomes, if I’m being honest.
The team is all changed, and with their heads down low, they all sit on the benches scattered around the locker room.
“You all played a hell of a game,” I say, clearing my throat. “If you all play the way you have over the last few months, I have no doubt that we can win the title next year.”
They nod in unison, but no words are said back.
“We have a chance next season. A big one, especially with the advantage that we have a lot of home games on that schedule. We know how this field works. We know every patch of dirt, weird bounce, and the way the sun glares. This field is ours and belongs to us.” I pause, looking from Mitch to Tyler and then the rest of the guys. “And next year the championship will belong to us too.”
A round of cheers erupts from the locker room, and I force a smile. I didn’t exactly lie to them. Theydohave a chance next year—it’s just probably going to be without me.
I give each of them a mix of handshakes and high fives before leaving them to head to my office off to the side. I take a moment to scan the photos along the wall through the years that showcase my journey here in San Francisco. Stopping in front of my desk, I read the block which bears the inscriptionDallas Westbrook – Head Coachon a small gold nameplate. I run my fingers along the title I never wanted, but when my world crashed around me it allowed me the opportunity to keep baseball in my life.
And now I have to say goodbye to it.
A throat clears behind me, and I snap my head to find Clark standing in my office and closing the door behind him. “Hell of a game today.”
I nod, but remain silent.
“Unfortunately, I’m at a crossroads,” he continues. “While we always try our best to come out of a game with a win, sometimes the other teams surprise us when they swing and hit it out of the park.”
“It was an impressive game on both ends.”
“It was. But that’s not why I’m here.”
I swallow, gesturing for him to take a seat, and he waves me off.
“You’re like a son to me, Dallas. You were the greatest pitcher I’ve ever coached. Probably the greatest of all time.”
“It was a short time,” I add.
“Things haven’t been the best since you were forced into early retirement, and I think we jumped too quickly offering you the role of head coach.”
