Comebacker
Everything went white.
Comebacker, sounds like something desirable, something loyal.
Loyal, sure, that ball he so loved, that he caressed in his palms and kissed, gently, when he held the glove to his face for the sign. Yeah, well, it came back to him.
Had he not loved it enough? Had he teased it, tried to break its skin? Was it only getting even? Had he not loved it enough, the game, the moment, so pissed about coming out of the pen, him better than that, wanting more, and more, failing to feel what the game had given him already?
Greatness never comes with contentedness. He had discontent down; was working on the other stuff. He was better than they’d labeled him. He’d show them, he’d show them all: Not just the other guys either; his own.
Everything went white.
Finally they’re around him. He can’t open his eyes without blindness flooding in, like everything he sees is perfectly aligned with rush hour sun. If he squints he sees their shadows hanging back like he’s some kind of broken down car. He’s waiting to be kicked, tested.
What took them so long to get here? Was he out? Is he out now? He can’t see. Would this have happened if he was starting like he should have been? Should have been, fuck. You’ll never ever be good enough. That’s why he’s discontent; it’s true. The best guy in his high school, but only the last two years. He wasn’t the kind of guy who was great as a freshman, you hear those stories around here all the time, best at every level. He was the best when the other best graduated. Then he lost at State two years in a row. His dad told him There’s always someone better. Was that meant to comfort him? His dad was awkward with his son’s success, ashamed somehow when he should have been proud. Maybe it was loyalty - mom’s his ex. His little half-brothers are great at math but can’t throw a ball across a room. Dad shows up at State. Comes back. Like he’s loyal or something. First game he’d seen all year.
Scholarship to a Division I school, still not the best but it’s a solid program. Lefty, works hard. Drafted at 19. The 50,000 dollar bonus seemed like all the money in the world. He put half of it away, still had half until last year when he gave 7000 of it to his sister at her wedding. She looked at him like she’d wished it was more; like it should have been. She’ll ask him for more later on.
He worked hard. Pretended to hate the buses but he loved where they took him. Small town kids have his autograph. Slept with a farmer’s daughter in A ball outside Des Moines, something she wouldn’t even give her boyfriend.
At 23 he was invited to Spring Training and pitched great for a couple of weeks before they sent him down. He swallowed pride and fury and dominated the Southern League even though his team sucked, relievers screwing him, hitters choking, shit. He got called up in September, two goes out of the pen and one spot start in a make-up double header when both teams were out of contention. He won’t admit he was overwhelmed; says he didn’t have his best stuff, arm worn out. Tells himself it’s from carrying his shit team all season. Atlas at least had his shoulder.
At 24 he has a brilliant spring but is sent back down to the minors. Takes him a couple of weeks to rebound from that kind of disrespect, but he gets hot. Really hot. Gets called up when Starter #5 goes down but where do they put him? The bullpen. And he’s great there, long relief for the turd that got the starts. Two runs over ten innings in just over two weeks. Then they sent him down again when Shithead #5 came off the DL.
Back to AAA. It’s August. He’s 25. Doesn’t make the transition. Assigned to the pen there too. Limps to the end, now he’s the guy the starters hate. Limps to end. Gets called up in September anyway. Comes out of the bullpen twice, does okay, wishes he’d get traded.
He’s 25. It’s said a married guy gets priority, gets called up that much faster. A bunch of his teammates are married, have kids even. He doesn’t see it getting them anywhere any faster except maybe broke. He’s not broke; he’s careful. But he’s also superstitious. Wound up married that winter. She’s pretty, has friends to keep her busy. Wants a baby so screws him all the time. It occurs to him he doesn’t really know that much about her beyond her body. But why wouldn’t that be enough?
He’s 26 before he gets his next call up, two new teams between it and his last one – wishes do come true. Signed a minor deal then takes the bump, feels rich. Has a kid, a house, a wife and women. It’s a good year. Solid long relief. Press calls for him to start, he gets two: Spot starts, goes deep, wins both.
At 27 he’s officially a major leaguer. Just in time, his wife’s mother gets the idea of coaching opportunities into her head. He’s nowhere near that. He’s good, he’s sound. He’s nearly a millionaire.
He gets his first regular start before his 28th birthday and finishes the season 6-3. Would have been 8-1 if his team helped out at all, stupid bunch of butter fingers, flaccid relievers. Kids. He plays with a bunch of little children, pizza eaters listening to shit kid music. He’s better than them. He knows it, so do they.
He’s traded, this time to a contender. He was good last year, he’s better this one but they have him back in the bullpen. Shit. He gulps down fury but that pride keeps coming up on him. It burns his throat. He sits alone on the bench, the bus, the plane. He eats alone. It’s a thin line between plotting and focus.
But focus wasn’t the issue when that ball came back at him. It was speed, pure speed. And there he was on the ground, too stunned to have a good idea of what might have happened or what the ramifications might be. His eyes are tearing too hard to see anything. He feels dirt in his lips, his face is all wet. He’s not sure which way he’s lying but then a hand burrows under his head. He can feel it moving dirt to get there, determined fingers bearing the weight of his skull like his own on the seams of a fastball, rocking his head just a little, or maybe it’s throbbing. He hears whispers, or something like singing. It’s in Spanish. A second hand is wiping his cheek. It’s so gentle, like he should have stroked his baby when he could have, she was so small. It’s in her baby honor he’s crying, that’s all, an ode to his little girl. Someone else puts a hand on his chest, keeps him from spinning.
He was spinning, right? Is that the same one who’s holding his hand?
All this in an instant. All this, before the stretcher comes.
That was eleven months ago. Eleven and a half. Eleven and thirteen days. He is 30 years old. He doesn’t mind being in the minors. He doesn’t mind coming out of the bullpen. This is the first time in nearly a year he’s on the mound with an audience of more than six or seven. It’s the first time in nearly a year he’s on the mound in a game. It’s the first time he ever remembers hearing the sound of the crowd. He’s lied about the headaches but he feels fine right now, just fine. He slows his breath. He’s not scared at all of the ball coming back to him. He’s only scared that it won’t.
Comebacker, sounds like something desirable, something loyal.
Loyal, sure, that ball he so loved, that he caressed in his palms and kissed, gently, when he held the glove to his face for the sign. Yeah, well, it came back to him.
Had he not loved it enough? Had he teased it, tried to break its skin? Was it only getting even? Had he not loved it enough, the game, the moment, so pissed about coming out of the pen, him better than that, wanting more, and more, failing to feel what the game had given him already?
Greatness never comes with contentedness. He had discontent down; was working on the other stuff. He was better than they’d labeled him. He’d show them, he’d show them all: Not just the other guys either; his own.
Everything went white.
Finally they’re around him. He can’t open his eyes without blindness flooding in, like everything he sees is perfectly aligned with rush hour sun. If he squints he sees their shadows hanging back like he’s some kind of broken down car. He’s waiting to be kicked, tested.
What took them so long to get here? Was he out? Is he out now? He can’t see. Would this have happened if he was starting like he should have been? Should have been, fuck. You’ll never ever be good enough. That’s why he’s discontent; it’s true. The best guy in his high school, but only the last two years. He wasn’t the kind of guy who was great as a freshman, you hear those stories around here all the time, best at every level. He was the best when the other best graduated. Then he lost at State two years in a row. His dad told him There’s always someone better. Was that meant to comfort him? His dad was awkward with his son’s success, ashamed somehow when he should have been proud. Maybe it was loyalty - mom’s his ex. His little half-brothers are great at math but can’t throw a ball across a room. Dad shows up at State. Comes back. Like he’s loyal or something. First game he’d seen all year.
Scholarship to a Division I school, still not the best but it’s a solid program. Lefty, works hard. Drafted at 19. The 50,000 dollar bonus seemed like all the money in the world. He put half of it away, still had half until last year when he gave 7000 of it to his sister at her wedding. She looked at him like she’d wished it was more; like it should have been. She’ll ask him for more later on.
He worked hard. Pretended to hate the buses but he loved where they took him. Small town kids have his autograph. Slept with a farmer’s daughter in A ball outside Des Moines, something she wouldn’t even give her boyfriend.
At 23 he was invited to Spring Training and pitched great for a couple of weeks before they sent him down. He swallowed pride and fury and dominated the Southern League even though his team sucked, relievers screwing him, hitters choking, shit. He got called up in September, two goes out of the pen and one spot start in a make-up double header when both teams were out of contention. He won’t admit he was overwhelmed; says he didn’t have his best stuff, arm worn out. Tells himself it’s from carrying his shit team all season. Atlas at least had his shoulder.
At 24 he has a brilliant spring but is sent back down to the minors. Takes him a couple of weeks to rebound from that kind of disrespect, but he gets hot. Really hot. Gets called up when Starter #5 goes down but where do they put him? The bullpen. And he’s great there, long relief for the turd that got the starts. Two runs over ten innings in just over two weeks. Then they sent him down again when Shithead #5 came off the DL.
Back to AAA. It’s August. He’s 25. Doesn’t make the transition. Assigned to the pen there too. Limps to the end, now he’s the guy the starters hate. Limps to end. Gets called up in September anyway. Comes out of the bullpen twice, does okay, wishes he’d get traded.
He’s 25. It’s said a married guy gets priority, gets called up that much faster. A bunch of his teammates are married, have kids even. He doesn’t see it getting them anywhere any faster except maybe broke. He’s not broke; he’s careful. But he’s also superstitious. Wound up married that winter. She’s pretty, has friends to keep her busy. Wants a baby so screws him all the time. It occurs to him he doesn’t really know that much about her beyond her body. But why wouldn’t that be enough?
He’s 26 before he gets his next call up, two new teams between it and his last one – wishes do come true. Signed a minor deal then takes the bump, feels rich. Has a kid, a house, a wife and women. It’s a good year. Solid long relief. Press calls for him to start, he gets two: Spot starts, goes deep, wins both.
At 27 he’s officially a major leaguer. Just in time, his wife’s mother gets the idea of coaching opportunities into her head. He’s nowhere near that. He’s good, he’s sound. He’s nearly a millionaire.
He gets his first regular start before his 28th birthday and finishes the season 6-3. Would have been 8-1 if his team helped out at all, stupid bunch of butter fingers, flaccid relievers. Kids. He plays with a bunch of little children, pizza eaters listening to shit kid music. He’s better than them. He knows it, so do they.
He’s traded, this time to a contender. He was good last year, he’s better this one but they have him back in the bullpen. Shit. He gulps down fury but that pride keeps coming up on him. It burns his throat. He sits alone on the bench, the bus, the plane. He eats alone. It’s a thin line between plotting and focus.
But focus wasn’t the issue when that ball came back at him. It was speed, pure speed. And there he was on the ground, too stunned to have a good idea of what might have happened or what the ramifications might be. His eyes are tearing too hard to see anything. He feels dirt in his lips, his face is all wet. He’s not sure which way he’s lying but then a hand burrows under his head. He can feel it moving dirt to get there, determined fingers bearing the weight of his skull like his own on the seams of a fastball, rocking his head just a little, or maybe it’s throbbing. He hears whispers, or something like singing. It’s in Spanish. A second hand is wiping his cheek. It’s so gentle, like he should have stroked his baby when he could have, she was so small. It’s in her baby honor he’s crying, that’s all, an ode to his little girl. Someone else puts a hand on his chest, keeps him from spinning.
He was spinning, right? Is that the same one who’s holding his hand?
All this in an instant. All this, before the stretcher comes.
That was eleven months ago. Eleven and a half. Eleven and thirteen days. He is 30 years old. He doesn’t mind being in the minors. He doesn’t mind coming out of the bullpen. This is the first time in nearly a year he’s on the mound with an audience of more than six or seven. It’s the first time in nearly a year he’s on the mound in a game. It’s the first time he ever remembers hearing the sound of the crowd. He’s lied about the headaches but he feels fine right now, just fine. He slows his breath. He’s not scared at all of the ball coming back to him. He’s only scared that it won’t.
