Chronicles from "The Yard"

The Inning

Feeling like a soggy, egg-shell blue rag, my debut in Major League Baseball was spiraling out of control.

Sweat dripped off the brim of my deep blue Toronto Blue Jays cap, blurring my vision as I struggled to focus. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing the rising nausea in my gut. I glanced over at the dugout—impassive faces, a few eye rolls. If I kept this up, in front of 40,000 of my newest "friends," my day... my debut... in the big leagues would be over. They'd pull me and put in someone who actually deserved to be here.

My grandfather, a Canadian war veteran from Korea, once told me as we shared ice-cold Coca-Cola from real glass bottles, "Wulfie... when terror makes you want to turn back, bravery is finding the courage to carry through... and if you need to, throw up, but just get it done."

He was a man who'd faced death, had hand grenades lobbed at him, and still found a simple outlook on life. But he hadn't faced the humiliation of a second inning meltdown after retiring the first two batters on three straight strikeouts. One more, and I'd have had what we call an Immaculate Inning.

But no... after that last strikeout, every pitch I threw seemed to glance off the strike zone as if protected by some invisible force—a curse from the baseball gods, reminding me that a rookie doesn't get to have nice things like a gold star inning, let alone dream of a shutout, a no-hitter, or a Perfect Game.

Standing on the ten-inch bump in the middle of the diamond, the pressure of the crowd was impossible to ignore. Roger's Centre was a bowl of concentrated scrutiny, feeling the pressure of the crowd in my chest, the heat of the big lights, seeing my shadow cast multiple times. I'd played in big games before, but nothing like this. Nothing that would etch my name—or my failure—into the record books.

I blew out a heavy, resigned sigh, tasting the salt of my own sweat on my lips. I wanted to curse myself, but instead, I just stood there, hip cocked, glove tucked under my armpit, calling for the ball with a calm I didn't feel. The lip-readers watching on national TV didn't need to know how badly I was unraveling.

How the hell did I get here?

I shook my head, trying to find my focus. I snatched the ball out of the air as it landed in my glove with a soft thud. Rubbing the leathery surface between my hands, I tried to burnish some magic into it, casting a glance at the "Wives" section where my family sat, surrounded by Blue Jays jerseys, baby slings, and a disproportionate of blondes and large, smoky sunglasses.

My mom had her hand over her mouth, my dad sat impassively, waiting for the collapse he always knew I had in me. My brother-in-laws were chatting, probably about anything but baseball. But it was Jamie, my ten-year-old autistic nephew, who stood out—cheering me on, even through my bad pitches. He was the bright light in this sea of dread and he was dancing, had even called my name out, drawing smiles and attention in only the sweet way that he could.

But as much as Jamie's support meant the world to me, it was Erin, my ex-fiancé, who I needed to see. There she was, laughing at something my sister said, her pale complexion glowing, freckled face framed by light ginger hair. She was radiant, happy. Beautiful, even from here. 

Erin had been with me through the highs and lows—drafted out of high school, college ball, seven grueling years in the minors with Minnesota. She'd never complained, not even when we lived in crummy apartments during summers. But when Boston released me, and no other clubs called, we both hit 29, staring into the crystal ball of our future. She thought it was my turn to support her through med school, to focus on our life together. I owed her that much, but being stubborn, I saw it as a request, not a demand.

It had been almost a year since I'd last seen my soul mate, and neither of us was willing to break the silence. The pain was too raw. Yet here she was, witnessing my collapse, ready to rubber-stamp it with an "I told you so." Yet, I hadn't been able to see them before the game, the Blue Jays were amazing and had taken care of them, gotten extra tickets and I was encouraged Erin was here. Maybe she didn't hate me. 

Don't fuck this up... Anger flared in me as I scuffed the ball nervously in my palms. Walking to the back of the mound, I found the only friend I had left—"Jay," the rubberized Blue Jays logo etched into the dirt. I'd always seen him as a silent companion, but today even he seemed to stare back at me, unimpressed.

"Pitcher!"

The home plate umpire's voice cut through my thoughts, Joe West himself, a jowly legend with over forty years of experience. He was both my curse and my blessing today, calling clear strikes as balls, but gifting me a few strikes too. Things always seemed to even out with Uncle Joe, which I had no right to call him, but he'd gone out of his way before the game to shake my hand, welcome me to the majors -- say what you might about his umpiring, as a person he was a class act. 

"You ready?" he asked and I nodded at him, trying to stand tall, feeling the stadium lights cast harsh shadows across the field. No hiding here. Jay knew that better than anyone—he'd seen every pitch, every hit, every home run. And today, even he seemed to ask: What the hell are you doing?

Stepping back up to the mound, my foot grazed the edge of the white rubber. Joe called out the count—three balls and no strikes, two outs. Bases loaded behind me.

I took a deep breath as my catcher, Reese McGuire, flashed a sequence of fingers between his legs. With two days notice, Reese had been assigned to get me ready and as the batter settled in, a smug grin on his face, but Reese and I knew the batter didn't need to steal signs. He knew the situation—one more ball, and I'd walk in a run. And I had to throw a strike.

But as I checked first base, my thoughts spiraled. It wasn't about ERA or WHIP anymore. It was about this one out. The crowd's energy surged, amplified by the stadium's acoustics, pressing down on me like a weight. Everyone knew I was about to hand the other team a gift.

Joe's hand came down as he crouched, signaling it was my turn.

The only thing on my mind was a strike...

...and the only good news was that it wasn't decent to swing on a 3-0 count. So all I needed to do...was do what Reese just gave me the hand signals, so pleasantly flicked between his crotch...

Fastball...hit the bullseye.

Everyone knew it—Reese, the batter, the crowd. And the batter, with that shit-eating grin, knew he could crush anything I threw if I missed the zone. He was going to take that smug grin to first base unless...Unless I hit him. Take the smug look off his face?

No. I never hit batters intentionally. It's what got me in hot water in Triple-A Boston, screwed up my original debut for the Red Sox. I didn't do it in Triple A, I didn't do it then and I wouldn't do it now. It wasn't how I was brought up. I looked up at my family again. My mom had her hand over her eyes, my sister clutching Jamie, who looked as terrified as I felt. Even my brother-in-laws were focused, but it was Erin's gaze that caught mine. She smiled, and warmth spread through me, something I hadn't felt from her in a year.

Don't fuck this up like you fucked that up... Now I knew what the hero felt like before that final pitch in the movies—except this wasn't a movie. I wasn't winning the World Series or getting the girl. My Triple-A Minnesota pitching coach's voice echoed in my head... Slow down... focus, Wulfie... you've got one pitch... mechanics... make it count. 

Settling in, my right foot nestled beside the rubber, hands connecting at my beltline. With a rhythmic kickout, I lifted my knee, twisting my body like a coiled spring as I stepped through. My right hand came back, fingers across the seams, and arm flinging forward with a final flick, I released the ball, grunting with the effort.

Time slowed as the ball sailed low and inside. The batter lifted his leg, but the pitch was borderline—a ball or a strike, he'd probably let it go. It was completely against the code to swing on 3-0 count. 

PLINK-CRACK

That disgusting, high-pitched crack that meant only one thing.

Fuck. I didn't have to look. Every pitcher knows that sound.

That fucker was leaving the park on a one way ticket to the moon.

How did I get here?

*****