Page 8

Sam

A fter blowing my next outing, I got sent for a complete medical workup to rule out that something wasn’t physically wrong with my arm. All was clear; lucky me, it was all in my head. I’d never been so disappointed with a clean bill of health.

The sports pundits were already talking about how much of my contract was guaranteed and the cost to release me.

Thanks to the best agent in the game, it was one of the tightest contracts he’d ever negotiated.

I added sports television to the list of things I needed to avoid if I planned to maintain my sanity.

I had turned to Luna several times to distract myself and keep away from the bottle of bourbon in my liquor cabinet.

It didn’t matter how talented her mouth was; I still couldn’t get past it.

At the end of every day, I received updates on how often my father had called.

Monica had clear instructions to call me immediately if there was any chance that it was a true emergency.

He tried to contact me through Facebook and Instagram, but I’d long ago turned off the notifications, and it was normal for me not to read or respond to DMs on those platforms. My social media was also fully managed by Monica with input from the team.

I felt great in practice, even when I warmed up in the bullpen. As soon as I got on the mound, everything fell apart. I had a meeting with the pitching coach, Bill Blanks, later that afternoon to see if he could figure out if there was an issue in my mechanics that we hadn’t detected.

“Hey kid, just got the medical. They told you there was no issue when you saw them. They didn’t tell me anything different, and I see nothing correctable in your mechanics.”

I nodded, “Everything feels fine, but when I go to throw, my arm is just dead.”

“You know what the Yips are?” he asked.

I couldn’t hide the alarm and the sudden sense of panic. The Yips was the sudden onset of an unexplained malady typical in pitchers and catchers. It made them unable to execute plays. The cause was unknown, and so was the cure. In most cases, it was incurable and signaled the end of a career.

“We’ll put you on the disabled list for your next start. In the meantime, take yoga, meditate, learn breathing exercises, and do whatever it takes. Understand?”

I nodded and swallowed deeply, “Any advice?” My calm demeanor hid the myriad of internal emotions: panic, despair, and an overwhelming feeling of disgust.

“Honestly, not much. The Yips have taken careers from people who’ve let it get in their heads.

I’ve coached other guys who I thought had the Yips, and after a bit of rest, everything was fine.

For now, we’re going to assume that’s your case.

Keep your head clear, and don’t listen to sports radio.

I’ve heard your father is pretty shitty, too. Can you block him for a bit?”

“Already did. ”

“Okay, keep that up. We’ll get you throwing again after a bit of rest. For now, we’ll announce that you’ve got a sprained finger. It should buy you some time. A sprained finger would also excuse the last two bad outings.”

“Thanks, coach.”

“Don’t thank me, just rest up.”

I left the stadium on foot, needing the walk home to clear my head.

A couple blocks away, I found a small sports bar, and against my better judgment, I walked in and sat at the bar.

The bar had only a handful of customers, and the tables were mostly empty.

I imagined it would be busy on a game day.

We weren’t playing today, and the team was traveling all next week.

If all went well, I’d be starting the next home game.

While the bartender waited on other customers, I decided between a shot of bourbon and a light beer.

I loved how most of these customers watched every single Boston game, but I could still walk around and sit at a bar with a level of anonymity.

They only seemed to recognize me when I was in uniform or wearing my team hat.

I watched the bartender work, her red hair piled on her head in a messy bun, cut-off denim shorts, and a plain black t-shirt.

Fuck, her legs were toned and muscular, absolute perfection.

When she freed herself up and greeted me, her gold eyes met mine, and I momentarily lost track of where I was and what I’d planned to order.

“Hey, something to drink?” she repeated.

I gathered my composure, “Yes, please, just a light beer.” Nope, no bourbon for me. I needed my wits about me.

“Any brand preference?” She asked, standing over the beer cooler expectantly.

“Nah, they’re all the same. One step up from water. ”

She laughed, popped the top off the bottle, and set it before me. “Would you like a glass?”

“No thanks, but I’ll take a menu if you got it.” She slid the menu across the bar towards me and stepped away to move on to another customer.

I watched as she chatted with the regulars, unaware of how every man in the room watched her.

I asked her name when she came back to take my burger order.

“Kelsey.”

“Hi Kelsey, I’m Sam.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam. Is medium okay for your burger?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” I’d completely forgotten I’d just ordered a burger, more flustered around her than I’d been in a long time.

“Fries or tots?” She asked as she placed condiments and a roll-up of silverware in front of me.

“Tots, please.”

When she left to place my order, I downed my beer to give her a reason to return. I spotted some Keno slips and found an ATM to get some cash. Maybe if I played a game or two, she’d have a reason to talk to me.

Once I filled out the slip, I called her over and handed her cash for a few games. She returned with my slip and wished me good luck.

Her fair skin was dusted with freckles, her lips full and pink. I imagined how it would feel to suck on that bottom lip. Would she taste as sweet as she looked? Thinking about her made it easy to block out the customers at the end of the bar who were complaining about my last start.

When my food came from the kitchen, I had her run my Keno ticket. When she scanned the ticket, the tone indicated I had won, and she returned with fifty bucks.

“Looks like your lucky day,” she said, placing the money on the counter.

“Hey, how about I play one more time, put this fifty in on a game, and you pick my numbers? We’ll split the winnings,” I suggested, not ready to lose her attention.

“I don’t want to be responsible for you losing money,” she said hesitantly.

“I turned five bucks into fifty; I’ll only be out five if we lose,” I reassured her.

She shook her head, “I don’t want to play with someone else’s money.”

“Fine, let’s call it your tip. I feel lucky right now; winning this game is the first good thing that’s happened to me in two weeks. Pick some numbers for me, please?” Oh man, those eyes. So expressive with flecks of yellow and brown.

“Okay, here goes.”

She filled in four numbers, calculated the fifty-dollar play, ran the game, and returned with my slip.

I ate my burger quietly. She checked in several times to ensure it was correctly cooked and replenished my beer. I handed her the lottery ticket when she returned to clear my plate. The game had run its course, and I’d been too distracted with her to watch for the results.

When she ran it through the register, her eyes bulged out of her head.

“Sam!”

“What’s wrong?”

“We won big!”

“What do you mean by big?”

“$1,500! You have to give me a second, though. I need to check with my manager to see if we can give out that much cash.”

When she returned from the back, she counted out the winnings and placed them in front of me. I counted out half and slipped it across the bar to her. I wanted to give her the entire pile of cash, but I didn’t think she’d accept it.

“I can’t take this,” she said.

“That’s the deal we made. Besides, those were your numbers.” I looked down at the slip, and my jaw dropped; she’d picked 19, my number. Did she know who I was and was just pretending not to recognize me?

“Really? I can’t even tell you how much this will help me.

” Her eyes filled with tears, and she brushed them away as she regained composure.

In that second, I knew that I needed to see this woman again and that I wanted to take care of her.

“Wait, you’re the second guy named Sam who tipped me big in the last few weeks. ”

“Uh, Kelsey, do you drive Uber?” I asked cautiously. I hadn’t paid much attention to my driver that night, but the name was familiar.

“Oh, you’re that Sam?” Her expression fell when she made the connection.

“Oh God, I swear I’m not usually that much of a shithead. I wasn’t at my best. Can we start over?”

She took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. “Okay. Partly because I feel like you’re genuinely sorry. But also because both tips are beyond generous and have given me a level of security that I haven’t had in a long time.”

“What are you doing next Saturday at 7:05?” I asked on a whim.

“That’s an oddly specific time. It’s a home game, so I’d try to work here. I usually make good money on game nights. ”

“I’m a starting pitcher for Boston, my number is 19, and I have had a slew of shitty luck for the last two weeks until tonight. I’m superstitious as hell, and I’d like to see if my luck will change if you are in the stands behind home plate.”

She assessed me cautiously, trying to figure out if I was serious. “What are you doing here if you’re a player?” she asked, looking around, “This isn’t really a place the team comes to hand out.”

“I was walking home from the stadium after a meeting.”

“I can ask for the night off. The Keno winnings will cover more than what I’ll lose working. But I know nothing about baseball.”

“You don’t need to. Just leave me your full name, and I’ll have two tickets for you at the box office on game day. I’ll also leave you my number, and you can call or text me if you change your mind.”

“Okay. Wait, are you the guy everyone was complaining about last week?” She asked, eyes wide. She really didn’t know much about baseball.

“That would be me.” I hung my head a bit in shame. She now knew me as the prick in the Uber and the pitcher who sucked—one hell of a first impression.