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Sam

My outing yesterday was strong, not perfect, but I left the game in the lead. I don’t know why I picked up his call, but after I talked to him, he had me questioning every move I made on the mound. Nothing was ever good enough, and his criticism always got in my head.

My father wouldn’t be satisfied unless my career ended with an induction into the Hall of Fame alongside him.

He could no longer play, but it was like he’d channeled every ounce of energy he had once used in his game into micro-managing every move I made on the mound.

My success or failure was a direct reflection of him.

Sam Drummond Sr. started for New York during their last dynasty, and he had been critical to their four World Series wins.

I chose to sign with his former team’s biggest rival not because they were willing to pay me more but because I wanted to make my name.

There was added weight because I was a junior.

Instead, I’d become one of the most hated men in New York City.

You would have thought that I’d personally pissed on my father’s legacy.

I made myself a cup of coffee and reflexively reached for my medallion necklace, only to find it missing.

Panic immediately set in as I rummaged through the clothing I had dumped on the side of the bed before crashing for the night.

It wasn’t in the pile of clothing, but maybe I’d left it in the locker room.

I took a few deep, calming breaths. It had to be there.

Once I got to the stadium, I’d go through my locker and find it there.

I hoped that it hadn’t gotten lost in the uniform laundry.

My post-game recovery today consisted of a long run and arm conditioning with the trainer later that afternoon. I usually loved running, but the bourbon I drank last night would make it painful, not to mention how it threw off my recovery.

I hated that one phone call with my father could drive me to drink and question everything that I’d accomplished.

I caught myself reflexively reaching for my good luck medallion several times during my run.

It had been a gift from my grandfather when I was twelve years old; he’d given it to me after a horrendous Little League game.

My father had screamed at me after my final pitch of the game had resulted in a walk-off home run.

When Gramps gave me the horseshoe charm on the gold chain, it was meant to provide something to focus on other than my father’s screaming on the sidelines.

Over the years, it had become part of my pre-game ritual, keeping me grounded under pressure .

It had to be in the locker room. I wouldn’t allow myself to panic until I’d checked there. Otherwise, with the amount that I had to drink last night, I’d never be able to retrace my steps to find it.

After finishing my run, I chugged a large water bottle and chased down 800 mg of ibuprofen.

I couldn’t afford to drink like this during the season and build stronger mental walls to block out my father’s invasion.

I had several text notifications that I could only just catch up on now.

I left the rest of my father’s unread and deleted the one from the woman I had met in Chicago.

I had been clear that I was not looking for a relationship but left her my number because sometimes shit happens when you’re fucking someone.

I'd want to know if I had kids roaming around out there, even though I always did everything possible to prevent an unwanted pregnancy.

Gramps: Good game last night.

Me: Thanks. I felt good.

Gramps: You probably heard from your dad.

Me: Uh huh. Don’t you know it.

Gramps: Block him out, kid, don’t let him fuck with your head.

Me: Trying. Are you still coming to my next start?

Gramps: Sure, am. Dinner afterward?

Me: We’re on.