An Unlikely Slugger: The story of Cole Bassitt

Chapter 15: Back Home

It wasn't too bad to smell the sweet Iowa air once we returned to our houses after flying throughout the night. I unlocked my studio apartment and wiped the dust off of my kitchen table. The first thing I did, before even switching the lights on, was whip my smartphone out, nearly tying my fingers in a knot dialing a phone number. I placed it up to my ear.

"Sammy's Pizza, what can I do for you?" A high pitched voice picked up on the other line.

"Hi, I'd like a 16 inch pizza, half pepperoni, half cheese and a 2 liter bottle of Coke."

"OK, that will be 25 dollars. Is this delivery, takeout, or pre-order?"

"Delivery."

"OK, I'm going to need an adress."

"Alright. Commerce Park Apartments, room 322."

"We'll be on our way in 30 minutes or it's free!"

"Thanks."

-click-

The person on the other end hung up. Immediately, I clicked on the ballgame between the Columbus Rush and the Indy Battle.I texted the guys and said to come over. Tate, Kai and Cadmon, who all lived a few steps away from me, were here faster than you could say "pizza".

Kairo and Jack also showed up, wanting to get acquainted with their new teammates.

Kairo's hair was put up in a messy ponytail, a common sight when his helmet isn't on. Jack was chewing some gum.

"Sup." Jack said in between chews, offering me a piece. I indulged and popped the green candy into my mouth. "Thanks, man." Watermelon flavor, my favorite.

-knock knock knock knock- 

Kairo, the closest to the door, opened it. At the door stood a kid in a Sammy's Pizza shirt with a satchel slung around his back.

"Is this room 322?"

"Alright, pizza!" Tate exclaimed.

As the Battle teed off on the poor Columbus pitcher, we each took a slice of pizza. It looked like we'd be making reservations for a hotel in Indy. As the 'party' died down, everyone left and I hit the hay.

 The next morning, at 5 30 sharp, I left for morning weights, bumping my favorite songs on the way. The minute I got there, I made a beeline for the workout room and changed into my workout clothes. The only other people still in the locker room were Cordell and Kade King, eagerly chatting.

"Say, Cordell, what's with the beard?" I inserted myself into the conversation.

"Back in Canada, when your hockey team makes the playoffs, you begin to grow a playoff beard for good luck," Cordell rasped. Kade nodded.

"Yeah. Pretty cool tradition." Kade added. Cordell had a marvelous trait of growing a full beard within weeks, and today was no exception, as a beard had seemingly appeared on his face throughout the last week.

"ENTER ID CARD." The robotic scanner flashed on its screen. I slid my id card under the scanner's light.

"THANK YOU." The scanner flashed. The door clicked, hissed, and opened, revealing a weight room with several machines and racks. Instantly, I headed for the shelf where my workout paper resided. I leafed through the stack of papers.

Alvarez, Bullock, Caldwell, here we are. Bassitt. I grabbed two dumbbells and began my first exercise. Once I finished morning weights, I headed back to the team clubhouse.

There was considerable hubbub in the team locker room. The guys crowded around Craig, who opened up a box. 

"Thanks guys, means a lot!"

Kai, Cadmon, and the other guys beamed as Craig took out a new black bat. I had forgotten today was Craig's birthday, making him 39. Craig had been in the league longer than 4 of our players had been alive. He also had played in four different decades, getting his start in 1999.

Now that I've ranted about the ageless wonder that Craig is, I should probably get back to work. 

I walked across the street to the inflated dome where our batting cage was. "The Balloon", affectionately named by the 2014 team during its inagural season, was made of tarp and held together surprisingly well by metal rods, requiring very rare mantainence throughout its 6 year tenure. Inside, I perused the rack of bats and selected a 35 incher, a beautiful piece of lumber with a drop-4 cut and an axe-handle. I headed to the cages. Today the net dividing the hitting area and turf field was drawn aside, and I found Cadmon, Xander, and Cordell, among others, shagging flies hit by the guys in the cages. A TV by the racks of bats and helmets informed me of open spots.

MACHINE 1: B. BARRANDA (Pitches: 36 Hit: 28)

MACHINE 2: Vacant

MACHINE 3: K. CALDWELL (Pitches: 563: Hit:511)

MACHINE 4: K. YBAÑEZ (Pitches: 52 Hit: 43)

MACHINE 5: Vacant

I strolled with my bat and helmet into machine 5 as Drake clocked out, taking his ID out of the machine. Kellen was tearing into the rubber pills, hacking each one that the machine spat out.

I plugged my card into a slot in the machine. A light flashed to life and I shoved my lid on.

My swings weren't too bad today, hacking at 100 pitches before calling it a session. Cadmon adjusted his sunglasses from the top of his head and clipped them to his tight-fitting red shirt before trotting over to me.

"You about killed Cordell," Cadmon chuckled.

"Oh really?" I chortled.

"Yea, you had him shaking because you popped one right on his hair as he was getting off the field."

I laughed. Cordell's eyes were still as wide as hubcaps from the other side of the field. Kellen was still chugging away, taking at least a thousand pitches. No wonder that son of a gun leads the league in homers. He hits enough pitches to call it a career each day.

"Jack and I are going to that Japanese joint in town for a bite. Wanna come with?"

"I'm down." That solves my lunch plans. 100 swings makes me hungrier than Bryan walking by a McDonalds.

"Cool. Last one there's buyin'!" Cadmon yelled as he sped off for his car. I took that as my warning to haul it to my car.

After busting butt to get to the Japanese joint, Jack and Cadmon giggled as I walked in.

"Eh, who cares. I get paid more than you guys combined anyway," I retorted.

I burned a few bucks for spicy tuna rolls, then we headed back for afternoon fielding practice.

My gray CATS jersey was still folded in my suitcase in my apartment. I put on my undershirt to insulate any remaining body heat and trotted to the Balloon. Kellen had finally finished, racking up a grand total of 1750 pitches and one very tired pitching machine. It was doubtful he even attended morning weights.

I put on my shins and clicked out to the field. Practice seemed like an eternity. Even in November, Midwest heat hits hard. By the time I peeled my catcher's mask off for the last pitch, my hair, pits, and knees were drenched. I poured water on my face from my gallon jug.

This truly is the life.