Chapter One

Sam

The ball hit the net with a pathetic thud instead of a sharp thwack.

Again.

Judging by the sound alone, I don’t have to look at the radar gun to know my velocity isn’t anywhere near where it should be.

“Shit.”

I stormed across the backyard and onto the deck, tossed my glove on the table, and slumped into the chair. Grabbing my water, I downed it in one long gulp, but the cool liquid didn’t do a damn thing to cool my temper.

After dragging my fingers through my hair, I locked them behind my head and leaned back, glaring up at the washed-out November sky. Dull blue and streaked with grey, it looked every bit as moody as I felt.

But I think I have a right to be moody.

I followed every damn thing the docs told me to do…

all the rehab, all the restrictions, everything.

Figured if I did it right, I'd come back stronger than ever.

Fifteen months later and I'm still throwing batting practice speed.

They don't call me Cherry Bomb for sitting at 85.

My fastball is supposed to be sitting mid-to-high nineties, so this garbage isn't gonna cut it.

Shifting forward, I studied the pink scar on the inside of my right elbow.

I’m not the first pitcher in MLB to have this surgery, and I won’t be the last. Hell, the namesake for ulnar collateral ligament reconstruction, Tommy John, had it when he was just thirty years old. And he went on to pitch fourteen more seasons.

So when I felt that dreaded pop in my elbow after throwing a slider last year, and the MRI confirmed a torn UCL, I had hope.

Hope that I’d be back on the mound throwing smoke in no time.

But after all the rest, rehab, and bullpens, I’m still not able to throw the pitch that’s defined my career.

If I don’t get at least ten more on the gun, I’m done.

Shaking my head, I stood to collect the balls scattered around the net. But before I stepped off the deck, my phone buzzed.

My agent.

“Hey Ray.”

“How’s it going?” he asked.

Ray Mendoza’s been with me since my rookie season and he’s one of a handful of people I completely trust.

"It's going," I muttered.

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“What’s it feel like when you throw? Stiff? Weak? Does it hurt?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. We talked about this after Ray watched one of my train wreck bullpen sessions. The one where my fastball didn’t have any more life than it did today. And my answer is the same. I stood and walked off the deck into the yard, heading toward the bullpen.

“It feels fine. I feel fine. There’s no pain. No stiffness. No weakness.” I groaned. “I’ve been medically cleared, so I don’t understand what the problem is.”

The line stayed quiet for what seemed like forever, which is never a good sign. It means Ray is picking his words, so I’m probably not gonna like them.

“Being medically cleared doesn’t mean you’re mentally ready.

And you know what Yogi said, ‘Baseball is ninety percent mental. The other half is physical.’ You wouldn’t be the first player to get the yips after coming back from an injury.

Your arm might feel fine, but your head?

That’s the part that’ll get you every time. ”

“You honestly think my fastball’s missing because my head’s not in the right place?” I fought to keep the sarcasm out of my tone. Ray’s been like a father to me and I don’t want to be disrespectful. I shook my head. “No, there must be something wrong with my mechanics.”

“You’ve got three months until spring training.”

It’s funny, time crawled after surgery, like I was stuck in reverse. Now it’s racing toward opening day and I feel like I’m getting left behind.

“I’ll figure it out,” I said. “I have to, because if I don’t…”

I trailed off not wanting to say the words. Hell, I don’t even want to think them.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. A lot can happen in three months.” he said. “Have you considered working with someone new? Maybe get a fresh perspective?”

“Like who? The Waves have specialists for every joint, muscle, and nerve in my arm. If it was physical, they’d have caught it.”

“Something outside the box.” After another stretch of silence, he added, “A sports psychologist, maybe?”

Ray is only trying to help, and I don’t want to take my frustration out on him.

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I can ask,” he said. “I’ll touch base in a couple days. In the meantime, if you need anything, you know how to reach me.”

“Thanks Ray.”

We ended the call and I kicked at the dirt, filling in the hole where my plant foot kept landing.

I grabbed the bucket and started collecting the balls I'd pitched into the net, each one a reminder of my shitty velocity.

After putting everything away in the shed—bucket, radar gun, and display—I shut the door and turned around to find Mom standing on the deck with two glasses of iced tea.

“All done for the day?” she asked, assessing my mood with the precision that only mothers possess.

I nodded, kissed her cheek, and took the glass she offered. We both sat, and I took a long gulp of tea, avoiding her gaze.

“I was just talking to Ray.”

“And what did he have to say?”

“Same old, same old. Keep working, keep trying.”

Mom sipped her tea thoughtfully, watching as I picked up my glove and examined the laces.

“The doctors say there's no physical reason you can't throw like before, right?” I nodded. “That means the issue is elsewhere.”

“Yeah, Ray suggested talking to a sports psychologist.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your energy is blocked.”

I barely contained my eye roll.

My mom is the strongest person I know. She had to be to get us through the tough years after my father left.

For most of my life, she worked two or three jobs to support us.

And as I got older, every extra penny went toward my baseball gear and travel teams. Hell, she’s the one who built my first backyard bullpen.

So once I got my first big contract, I paid off her house and gave her enough money so she could quit her jobs.

And that’s when she got all woo-woo . She’d always been spiritually curious, but with extra time on her hands, she went all in. Crystals on the windowsills, incense burning in the living room, books about chakras and energy healing stacked on her bedside table.

When she learned enough, she wanted to open a new age shop to teach others. Of course I helped her with that too, and now Moonlight and Marigolds is an integral part of the Starlight Shores community.

But just because she’s into all that stuff doesn’t mean I am.

“Mom, I don't think?—”

She cut me off and leaned forward to squeeze my hand.

“I’m sure Hope can help you. She does incredible work.”

I assume she’s talking about Hope Keller who owns the yoga studio next door to my mom’s shop. But I have no idea how that would help.

“What kind of work?”

“She's a Reiki master,” she said. “She’ll heal your energy blockages and align your body’s natural flow. Your fastball will be back to normal in no time.”

I took another swig of tea to hide my grimace.

“Sounds...interesting.”

“She helped Mrs. Abernathy with her arthritis. And you remember Coach Wilson? The one with the bad back? He can play golf again now. Eighteen holes, with no pain medication.”

“That's great Mom, but this is different.”

She fixed me with the look that had kept me in line through my teenage years.

“Sampson Robert Cherry, do you think I would suggest something if I didn't believe it could help you?”

Uh oh, it’s never good when she uses my middle name.

“No, ma'am,” I said quietly.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and her fingers flew across the screen. A second later, it buzzed and she smiled. After typing something else, she set the phone on the table and smiled at me.

“Hope can see you tomorrow at three.”

“Mom–”

“Just try one session.” She reached out to pat my cheek, the way she used to when I was a child. “If it doesn't help, I won't mention it again.”

That little gesture sealed my fate.

“Fine. One session.”

“Excellent.”

She stood and kissed the top of my head, then went inside.

I looked at my backyard bullpen and shrugged.

One session. I can do that.

Hell, it’s not the dumbest thing I’ve done in the name of baseball…or to make my mom happy.

It’s not going to fix anything, but it can’t make things any worse.

Hope

“Okay ladies, let’s take it down to the mat,” I said, raising my voice just loud enough to be heard over the soft music in the background.

“Draw your knees into your chest and give yourself a squeeze, then let them fall to the right. Open your arms out wide, gaze to the left and breathe into that twist.”

I walked slowly between the mats, checking their form and occasionally crouching down to press against a knee or shoulder to deepen the stretch.

This Tuesday afternoon gentle flow class is one of my favorites.

It’s usually smaller than my other classes, which makes it easier to give individualized attention.

Most of today’s attendees are women in their sixties and seventies who come each week to move gently, breathe deeply, and care for the bodies that have carried them through their lives.

I led them through the same thing on the other side, then softly guided them into happy baby.

“Breathe into your center. Feel the connection between your breath and the floor beneath you, and when you’re ready, ease into Savasana. Legs long, arms heavy, palms open.”

The studio filled with the sound of collective exhales as the class settled into the restorative pose.

“There’s nowhere else to be. Nothing else to do. Just let go.”