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NEEDTObrEATHE

“Y ou have got to be fucking kidding me. The Philly Sillys?” I slapped my hands down on the wooden conference table. Standing abruptly, my legs shoved the chair hard enough to hit the wall. “They’re a fucking joke. I’d rather go on IL permanently. Hell, I’ll even take an early retirement.”

Injured leave, or IL, was certifiably a death wish next to being benched in major league baseball. Especially when it was going to be long-term. It was an unsure storm of what-ifs as you recovered. Would you be as strong as before you were injured? Will the injury only get worse? Time would only tell, and it was torture. Absolute god-forsaken torture. Torture that, up until recently, I never was a part of.

“And do what, Jamie? Work as a Little League coach? Dammit, man, you’d make all the kids cry. You’re too serious about baseball. Don’t be a fucking idiot.” I shot my agent, Tom Allen, a dirty look. His language didn’t match his sportscoat and khaki business casual demeanor. But he wasn’t wrong.

I didn’t have the most approachable personality. Baseball was my job. I didn’t do it for the fame or the fans, I did it because I loved it. And you didn’t need to smile because you liked doing something. “If you want any chance of playing this season to get your strength back up to get back in the majors, you need to do this. You’re lucky the Sillys had an opening instead of the team benching you. Thank fuck it’s nowhere near the trade deadline.”

“Yeah, but the Sillys? They’re just a sad excuse for the franchise to do whatever the Savannah Bananas are doing.” At this point I didn’t care who I insulted. I was fucking pissed that ownership thought this was my only viable option. “They just want me for ticket sales and the views on the Tock Tick or whatever the fuck it's called. The Sillys don’t even play real baseball!”

Technically it was baseball, but with a bunch of extra over-convoluted rules that were more akin to kids playing backyard ball. It was purely for the entertainment factor. There was no end game, no World Series sort of pomp and circumstance. Hence the league being Entertainment League Baseball. They solely existed to put on a show for the crowd. It looked closer to a damn circus. Why the franchise thought it was worth throwing money into a team of a bunch of goofballs was something I had yet to fathom.

“But they’re quicker games, Jamie. Two hours tops. Look, if you manage to not fuck up your body any more, and recover while still playing ball, you’ll have your contract intact to come back to the Phils. Hell, maybe even before the season is over. But I can’t emphasize it enough. You. Can’t. Fuck. It. Up.”

Gritting my teeth, I growled out of sheer frustration. I felt as if I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. It wasn’t my fault I was injured. Not exactly. It was the repetitive motions from crouching behind home plate as a catcher. At my age, I was a ticking time bomb to perhaps an inevitable career-ending injury in the baseball world.

With ownership out of the room, I felt I could speak frankly. Albeit a bit too loud for Tom’s liking, judging by his expression. The frosted glass could only hide so many sins.

It wasn’t like I’d already been frustrated enough with the bullshit that life had dealt me lately. Being in my mid-thirties and still on a major league baseball team as the starting catcher was rare. I was on borrowed time. The injury only reiterated that fact.

My backup catcher was decent. I did my best to teach him all my tricks during the game. But he wasn’t ready to go full-time just yet. Probably in another season or two. Or three. Time that I still needed to convince myself to retire with grace. Today was not the time, even though I was frustrated by this roster move.

Being a catcher meant that one needed killer multitasking abilities. Not to mention staying cool in a stressful situation. While everyone was staring at the pitcher, it was the catcher who studied the batters in-depth as to their at-bat habits so we could call accurate pitches in the heat of the moment. Throw in keeping an eye on anyone stealing a base, and it was certifiable chaos.

Because of the weight and prestige I had in my position, I put off telling anyone I was having an issue with my knee. Swallowing a couple of over-the-counter pain pills before a game took the edge off for the beginning of the season. It wasn’t until I stubbornly hobbled into the locker room one day before a game that the team’s physical therapist threw a fit as they sent me through a gauntlet of tests. Which was only bad news after bad news.

Unfortunately, I was familiar with the issue as I had the same thing happen to my other knee a few years ago in the off-season. At least that side of my body had better timing. Probably the only body part to have good timing. Everything else on me had piss poor time management skills.

I went in for surgery the same week. The recovery was four weeks before they eased me back into practice. Everyone expected me to be rusty the first week or so back. What no one planned on was the fact that my stats weren’t getting better. They were getting worse .

Due to my prestige as a Gold Glove award winner and a few stints at the All-Star Game, ownership had framed this fucking awful turn of events for me to be the saving grace of the Philly Sillys. To bring Philadelphia’s ELB team into the spotlight. No matter how they sugar-coated it, it still felt like a demotion with a slap in the face to boot. The first thing out of my mouth was the suggestion of pulling someone up from the farming system from players in the Single-A, Double-A, and Triple-A leagues of the minors. That was immediately shot down with the fact that they were keeping the guys on task for major league ball, not the Entertainment League bullshit.

They thought that my move from the majors to the ELB would kill two birds with one stone so to speak. Having a star major league player starting for the less popular team would draw crowds in and hopefully give a reason for ownership to stop worrying about the fact that investing in the auxiliary team might have been a bad idea. That way I could still play some semblance of baseball with my slow as fuck recovery in something less strenuous.

I really fucking hated it.

I hated the idea so much.

“Look, think of it as something short-term. Give the Sillys a few weeks of your time and then you’ll be back before the postseason.”

As much as Tom was maybe right, I didn’t want to entertain the other outcome. I didn’t want to admit to myself that this could be my last season as a major league ball player. Especially if my stats remained in the toilet.

From a sensible aspect, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. My yearly salary was in the very healthy eight digits. Not that I did much with it aside from putting it into savings and investments.

I kept a somewhat modest penthouse that I bought outright near some wetlands on an offshoot of the river over the bridge in New Jersey. The commute was a bit longer, but I liked the quiet time to zone out. The views reminded me a bit of my hometown in North Carolina. The only thing that I did manage to sink some decent money into was a top-of-the-line pickup truck with all the bells and whistles. It was safe to say that I wouldn’t have to worry about work after baseball was over.

But I didn't want baseball to be over. I never wanted it to be over.

If I knew what was holding my body back from its condition pre-surgery, I would have already done everything in my power to rectify it. As soon as I was cleared by the doctor and trainers, I was back in the weight room. Everything pointed to me healing perfectly. So what fucking gives, body?

“If you want to stay in this organization, I highly suggest that you take their offer. I’ve had guys let go for less. Much less. They see something in you that they want to keep.”

“Yeah, but they don’t like me enough to throw me to Triple-A. Hell, Single-A even. Instead, I get drop-kicked to the bottom of the barrel.”

“Only because of your prestige.” I stop pacing and glance at Tom, who still looked hopeful. With a sigh, I collapsed back into the desk chair I’d gotten up from. “Heck, maybe you can do what they’re asking and boost attendance in the first week. Then maybe you’ll be back here in two weeks. Tops.”

I shot Tom a look that said all he needed to know. I wasn’t buying any of the kiss-ass shit he was offering. Even if I did boost attendance numbers, I still needed to get my stats back to, well at least near, where they used to be before my knee started giving me issues. That was the major hang-up here for me.

“Look, just give it a chance. Maybe it will be something you can do in your sleep. Fewer games, shorter games, more rest. Think of it as a mid-season vacation where you still get to play ball.” Tom stood slowly with a nod. “Just make sure you give the team their answer before the end of the day.” With that, he left the room. I was all alone with my thoughts.

If only it was as easy as everyone kept telling me it was going to be. It was almost as if they were spoon-feeding me shit and calling it chocolate. A change of scenery was not going to be the answer. Being thrown onto the Sillys was going to be more like a total shock to the system. Maybe, just maybe, it could turn into something good.

Or maybe it was really going to be like a shit show.

As much as I hated their offer, I wanted to keep my position and stay in Philadelphia. If that meant jumping through hoops like a trained circus monkey, then so be it. Philadelphia was the first place that felt like home since I started my professional baseball career. Even if coming back to the East Coast wasn’t under the best of circumstances.

I jumped from college ball to the San Diego Padres minors’ farming system, to the majors for a few seasons, only to be ultimately traded to Philadelphia. I dated on and off in that time, but it wasn’t until I found a home in San Diego that I saw myself maybe settling down. My last girlfriend, Vanessa, and I had been together since right before I was called up to play in the majors. We made a home out in California and life was, well, content.

Unfortunately, professional ball was an unforgiving bitch. A player was there for ownership to do what they could for a team to get a win. If the franchise said you’re being traded, you can’t bitch about it. You can only say “Where to?” and “How soon do I need to pack?” You can be pissed or disappointed by it, but you had to follow where the money and contracts led to.

While I was excited to be back on the same side of the country as my folks, Vanessa, unfortunately, was not. My career and I weren’t worth the cross-country move. I did have to give her some amount of respect for breaking things off instead of leading me on through the whole sham of a marriage. So many guys in this industry have been chased down by gold diggers and spotlight hounds. Shallow women with even shallower personalities.

I didn’t want a pretty woman with no soul. I wanted a real relationship. Something tangible. Something that would last forever. Something like what my parents have.

Sure, Dad razzed Mom every chance he could get, and Mom bossed him around to no end. But it was all in love. They were well into their early 60s, and I still caught them kissing at random intervals when I was home for a visit. Hell, they still went on dates, even as empty nesters.

Baseball wasn’t a money grab for me like it was for some guys. It was what I loved. I wanted a life partner who respected and appreciated that. But a woman who was supportive of this life was like finding that one home run ball that had soared clear out of the park into the parking lot beyond.

The schedule wasn’t for the faint of heart. I had no idea how some of my teammates played professional ball and juggled raising a family. It was a lot to even think about, but I was a bit envious of them. I always wanted a family. One day.

Now here I was, at the fucking terrifying crossroads of my life and career. Despite this shitty hand my career decided to deal me, I wanted to play ball. And I wanted to play ball in Philadelphia. Which only left one option.

Donning a new uniform and playing for the Philly Sillys.