Page 19 of Spotlight
“That’s Gunnar and Bo,” JT says. “You can always find them in the weight room. And don’t even think about changing their music. Nice guys, though, once you get to know them. I’ll introduce you later.”
Judging by the icy stares, I’m not sure they’re all that eager to meet me. It’s been a whirlwind since I signed last week. Interviews and photoshoots, mostly highlighting the excitement of three brothers playing professional sports in the State of Arizona. Four if you count Brogan, but since he’s not blood, most of the headlines have only featured me, Archer, and Knox. A baseball player, a football player, and a motocross rider. It’s been fun to commemorate the moment with them, but I can see my teammates might not be so excited about the attention I’m getting. It’s either that or they’re worried about my performance last season. Though, I’m not sure I could make the team any worse.
Next, I see a lounge area with a large TV and big, leather couches. It’s next to a kitchen that smells like coffee and burnt popcorn.
“Microwave, refrigerator, water cooler.” JT points to each and then taps a finger on a clipboard hanging on the wall. “Sign-up is here. Whenever you get a chance, you can put yourself down for a few days.”
“Sign-ups for what?”
“Throughout the season, we all pitch in to make sure there is always food around for the team and staff,” he says. “My wife makes the best coffee cake muffins. You want to get in early on my days because they go fast.”
What in the potluck hell? I’ve fallen a long way from the catered food and delicious cafeteria options I had access to with the Twins.
“You don’t want to eat anything I make,” I say.
“A lot of the single guys bring in donuts or order pizza or something.” He waves it off, so I do too. One year. That’s it. One amazing season and I’ll be out of here.
Then finally, we’re stepping out of the building and onto the field. My eyes drift closed, and I inhale deeply. One thing that’s always the same with baseball stadiums, that smell. Grass. Dirt. Sunshine. Is there any better scent?
A few guys are out here, running in the outfield; others are playing catch. Spring training doesn’t start until tomorrow, but there’s an eager energy in the air that gives me my first hint of excitement since I signed with the team.
“Want to throw me a few?” JT asks.
I’m in jeans and a T-shirt, but the enthusiastic look on his face has me nodding.
His grin widens. He leans down and plucks a baseball off the ground, then tosses it to me.
My fingers smooth around the ball and that familiar sensation of comfort spreads through me. While I grab my glove out of my duffel and head up to the pitcher’s mound, JT gets in his gear.
We play catch for a few minutes, while I get warmed up. It feels fantastic to be out here. Amidst all the chaos of the off-season and busting my ass in tryouts and meetings to find a team, I almost forgot how much I love this sport. There’s nothing better than standing out here in the sunshine with the ball in my hand.
“Warm yet?” JT asks as he throws the ball back to me.
“Getting there.”
“All right, then. Let’s see that fastball.” JT punches his glove and squats down behind home plate.
I pull my shoulders back, stretching my muscles, then tip my head side to side. I throw the first pitch, a fastball just like JT wanted, but at only eighty percent.
He catches it and tosses it back. We do it three or four more times until my arm is loose, and this feels like any other field, with every other team. There’s a familiarity in baseball, probably in most sports. Everything changes as you move from team to team, but everything is somehow exactly the same.
The sun pricks the back of my neck as I get into a zone. JT nods that he’s ready, and I wind up and give him everything I’ve got. It feels good. No. It feels fucking fantastic. It’s the first pitch I’ve thrown in months that wasn’t in front of coaches and general managers—people picking apart my every move so they could decide whether or not I was right for their team.
I realize some of the weight of that is gone now that I have a spot. Maybe it isn’t the place I wanted to end up, but now that I’m here, I’m ready to get to work.
After a few pitches at full speed, JT stands and lifts his mask with one hand. His grin stretches across his face as he yells, “You’re putting on a clinic.”
I don’t immediately understand his meaning but then follow his gaze to right field where guys have stopped what they were doing to watch.
I get it. I’m the new guy and they all just want assurances that I’m not going to come in, throw like shit, and cost them a bunch of games. Although honestly on this team, winning any games would be an improvement over their previous seasons.
When they realize we’ve noticed them, they go back to playing catch. I’ve got the bug now. I don’t want to stop.
“Got time for a few more?” I ask, hopefully.
His nod is immediate. “Definitely.”
So we keep at it. I throw to him, trying out all my pitches and seeing which feel rustier than others. I have work to do, no doubt about it, but my arm feels great and anticipation hums through me. Out here I can forget that I’m playing for my last-pick team and that I blew an amazing opportunity just months ago—one I dreamed about my whole life.
