Page 6

Sam

T hat had to be the worst outing of my career.

No matter what I did, my pitches were off, either too slow, too low, or not enough spin.

In the last few days, I had gotten a new phone and given it to my assistant to handle the calls that I’m sure were blowing up my phone.

I had given my new number only to a very limited number of people.

My father couldn’t reach me, but it didn’t protect me from his voice in my head.

When I went to the trainers for post-game recovery, I wondered if it was even necessary.

I had only been out for an inning and a half, but the damage to my ERA would be felt for a long time.

Twelve fucking runs I gave up before barely retiring four batters.

I was pulled from the game once they realized that this game was starting to look like the home run derby, and there was no way I would recover.

Gramps: Are we still meeting for dinner?

Me: You want to be seen with me?

Gramps: Everyone has a bad game—even your father.

Me: You sure it’s not too late for you?

I was good for a late dinner but felt guilty keeping Gramps out too late at night. I had wished that it would be more celebratory. I wanted to succeed for Gramps because I knew that he loved me no matter what. I could quit baseball tomorrow and become a carpenter, and he would still be proud of me.

My phone dinged again.

Madre: Sammy…

Me: Yes?

Madre: Everything okay with your arm?

Me: No physical issue at all.

She’d seen the game, too, and her first instinct was to ensure I was okay, not criticize me. Another reason I didn’t feel bad for blocking my father from contacting me. In an emergency, Monica would contact me. Lectures on a bad outing did not constitute a reason to make emergency contact.

Madre: Good. Just checking. I love you.

Me: Love you too.

Gramps met me at one of my favorite Italian restaurants.

He was in town through tomorrow and then headed back to New Jersey.

We planned to catch up again in another month when I played in New York.

He had been disappointed that I chose Boston, but not because he wanted me to relive my father’s legacy.

He hoped that if I settled in New York, he’d be able to spend more time with me.

“I lost the chain,” I confessed as the waitress set our meals in front of us.

“What chain?” he asked in confusion as he tore off a piece of bread and used it to mop up the red sauce from his pasta dish.

“The lucky one. The one you gave me when I was twelve,” I answered, wondering why he didn’t immediately remember something so valuable.

“Hold up, Sammy. Do you think that had anything to do with tonight’s start?” He asked as he realized what chain was missing.

“Uh, I’ve never played like that before. Ever. I don’t know what to attribute it to.”

“You can attribute that to having a bad day. Plain and simple. You may have been blessed so far with mostly good days, Sam. But all ball players have bad games.”

“I don’t have bad days.” I ran my hands through my hair in frustration, unable to get the game's flashbacks out of my head.

“Cut the shit, you’re starting to sound like your father.

If you want to be a robot, then yes, never having a bad day is possible.

Every human on the planet has a shitty day, and it’s not because they lost some lucky charm.

If I’d known you’d cling to that thing all these years later, I never would have given it to you.

Next thing you know, you’ll start eating fried chicken before every start,” he said, referring to a former player who was superstitious and ate the same meal before each game.

Gramps swirled the red wine in his glass and held it to the light before sipping it.

When I ordered a bourbon neat, his derision held me to only one drink that night.

My father was an alcoholic, something that Gramps had always attributed to the pressures of the game.

I used to blame the brokenness in my dad on the booze, but I think he was broken before he started drinking, and he looked to it as a fix.

Having a bourbon to lick my wounds hit a bit too close to home.

“You got five days to fix your head, forget what happened today, and show up fresh.”

“I think I know just the thing.” Luna could be just the right distraction to take my mind off of baseball.

“Whatever you do, don’t get her pregnant.” Gramps knew me well enough not to ask what my stress relief was; Luna and I had a year-long friendship with a benefits situation but had been friends for decades. If she were free, she’d be waiting outside my house for me.

When Gramps got up to use the restroom, I snuck in, paid the bill, and texted Luna.

Me: Luna – it’s Sam. New phone number. Free tonight?

Luna: Ooh, I can be. Your place?

Me: I’ll be back in 45 minutes.

Luna: See you then.