Page 18 of Spotlight
I have been inside a lot of baseball facilities in my day. None as small or run-down as this one. Which isn’t really a fair statement. It’s clean and appears well taken care of, but it doesn’t have any of the sparkle and extravagance that other teams flaunt.
I can tell the walls were recently painted and the floors shine with new polish, but it’s obvious that no real money has been put into the club since… maybe ever.
I try to keep my face from showing all this as the Mustangs general manager, Charles Harper, leads me through a series of hallways, grunting out names as we pass rooms. Weights. Therapy. Media. Kitchen. He walks too fast for me to get a good look at any of them, and maybe that’s the point. Best not to look too closely.
I grip my duffel tighter in my left hand as I follow him. I knew signing with the worst team in the league was going to be an adjustment, but any optimism I was holding on to flew out the window the second I stepped inside the door.
My stomach swirls with dread and the feeling that I have managed to go from the height of my career to the bottom in six months’ time. It’s just one year. One season to show everyone what I’m capable of and get back on track.
Last fall I pitched in the playoffs for an incredible team. I thought I was on my way to the top. This place is going to be a daily reminder that staying at the top takes a hell of a lot of work.
“We’re all excited you’re here,” Charles says. His mustache pulls at the corners, indicating he might be attempting a smile.
Before I can reply, a man I recognize approaches.
“This is your catcher, JT Ryan.” Charles opens his stance as JT steps up to join us.
“Flynn Holland. Welcome to the team.” JT Ryan stands in front of me, sizing me up but in a non-confrontational way. He’s baseball royalty. His dad is a Hall of Famer who played with four different teams over his career and won the pennant with three of them. JT has been with the Mustangs since he was drafted six years ago. Before that, he played in college and helped his team win a national championship. I don’t know how he ended up here. Or why he hasn’t left. But the Mustangs are damn lucky to have him.
“Thanks. I’m…” I search for the right word. Happy isn’t accurate. Excited? Not exactly. “Looking forward to it.”
Theitbeing the baseball season. I’m itching to show everyone what I’m capable of.
“I’ll let JT give you a more in-depth tour,” Charles says, pulling his phone from his pocket in that way people do when they’re anxious to get back to work. “Really great to have you here, Flynn. Let me know if you have any questions.”
“Thank you, sir.” I nod to Charles as he steps away.
JT places both hands on his hips and his smile pulls up. “I’m so stoked you’re here. I’m a fan, actually. I saw you pitch in game six against Kansas City.”
He whistles, grin lifting higher at the same time he chews fast on a piece of gum, and starts walking, leaving me little option but to follow him.
“How’s the arm? Did you take some time off after the end of the season?” JT fires questions faster than I can answer them. He stops in front of an older man coming out of a small office.
“This is Earl,” JT introduces him. “You need something around here, he’s your guy.”
I give Earl a polite once-over as I try to guess his role here. There are a lot of people behind the scenes that make an organization run, but I’ve rarely had them called out as the go-to guy.
“Hello,” I say.
Earl looks like every TV sitcom grandpa. Gray hair, a light tan, creases around his eyes and mouth, clean-shaven. He’s wearing an off-white, short-sleeve dress shirt with a pocket on the left side. His pen and glasses are tucked inside, and he smells faintly of spearmint.
“I’m the facilities manager,” he says as he extends a hand. He has a warm smile and a firm grip. “Nice to have you. Some arm you’ve got, kid.”
Kid.Everywhere I go it seems people are hung up on my age, like a few years makes a difference in my abilities. I’ve spent my life proving people wrong and I guess that’s going to continue here. When will it be enough? But Earl oozes a friendliness that keeps the word from annoying me too much.
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I say, squeezing his hand before I pull my arm back.
“If you need anything, anything at all, holler.” He flashes another smile that I feel myself mirroring.
“Yeah, I will.”
He tips his head to me in acknowledgment before walking off.
JT continues the tour. He walks slow but talks fast, pointing out every nook and cranny of the small facilities, much like Charles had, but in much more detail. I’m struck again by the difference in size and extravagance from the other teams I visited. It’s staggering, really. I never thought a lot about the disparity between the top teams and the worst. It’s no wonder, really that they’ve had a hard time signing talented players.
JT shows me the indoor batting cages and a weight room with one of those garage doors that opens to a side parking lot. Music is pumping and a couple of guys are using the squat rack.
They both lift a chin to JT and then their gazes move to me. I raise a hand in a wave, but neither return the gesture.
