Page 3 of The Yips

CHAPTER 4

Sam

Fuck! It wasn’t in the locker room. I hadn’t pitched a single game without that around my neck since Gramps gave it to me. I slammed my locker shut and met with one of my trainers.

“I see your mood is just as sour today as last night. I don’t know what your problem was; you looked good out there,” he said.

John Duggan was one of the best trainers I’d ever worked with. His conditioning regimen always helped me recover from my and be ready for the next start. I trusted his guidance and opinion far more than my father’s. When he said it was a good outing, I believed him, but I still wanted to have my father approve of my performance, just once.

“Well, I don’t think it was Hall of Fame worthy, or at least it wasn’t, according to my father.” My father’s career was well-known, not just for his wins, but also for his reputation off the field.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“What, playing the game? Because I worked my ass off toget here.” Yes, I’d had access to year-round training and parents who were committed to providing me this opportunity, but I’d earned it.

“That’s only part of it. Not everyone who puts the work in has the talent to back it up. Somewhere along the line, you had access to things that other kids didn’t.”

“I guess I also got used to getting bitched at after every start, too. I wasn’t allowed to fuck up.”

“At some point, you got to move on from that. Your father is a pain in the ass. I’m sure they kicked him off the field once or twice when you were in little league. He’s not here right now, you do you, don’t let him destroy your peace,” John said.

We continued lower body strength conditioning and minor mobility work in my pitching arm while I processed what he said. At the end of the day, my $426 million contract could easily pay for me to have someone run interference on calls from my father. I’m sure Monica, my PA, would love to monitor my calls.

We finished our session, and I headed back to my apartment, where I decided to call my mother for some advice. She had divorced my father several years after his career ended, finally fed up with his drinking and womanizing. The divorce had been tabloid fodder in New York City in the early 2010s. Before meeting him, she had been a Victoria’s Secret model and had a very successful career. They found out they were pregnant with me shortly after they started dating and hastily married.

My mother knew him at his worst and always had great advice on neutralizing his impact.

“Sammy, how’s it going,” she purred into the phone dramatically. I cringed when I realized how long it had been since I reached out to talk.

“Madre, sorry it’s been so long.”

Josie and I started calling our mother Madre after our Spanish nanny gave us basic lessons. It was now a term of endearment.

“What did your father do this time?” she asked, her tone full of concern.

“That’s not the only time I call,” I said, even as I realized that it had been the purpose of my last few calls to her.

“No, but I watched your game last night, and since you didn’t pitch either a shutout or a perfect game, he was pissed.”

“You would be right. I’m trying to manage my relationship with him. What do you think? Can I get a new phone number and transfer this one to my assistant?”

“My vote is you tell him to fuck off, like I did.” She attempted to brush it off as if it had been an easy decision, one that she still didn’t question. It was a poorly kept secret that my mother still loved my father but that his drinking was what kept them apart.

“Yeah, well, you were his wife; you got to divorce him. I’m stuck with him. I just realized I’m sitting on enough money to pay someone else to deal with him.”

My mother cackled at that. “I made out the best, but he had to pay me, and I never have to see him again unless I choose to.”

“What the hell made him like this? He’s nothing like Gramps.”

“Your father thought that Gramps never succeeded because he was too soft. He didn’t realize that your grandfather found happiness outside of baseball. That was something your father never learned. And the whiskey didn’t help, either.”

“And Dad had baseball, four championships, the Hall of Fame…”

“And he’s still miserable. No amount of success was ever enough.” Mom paused and then said, “You should check in with your sister; she got another Vogue cover. Be sure to congratulate her.”

Josie also followed the path laid out by our parents, though my mother had been much better at supporting her than Dad had been to me. She had married Jacob Harrison, a running back who had just signed with Dallas for the next six years. She swore that baseball players were all womanizers and football players were the way to go. I tried to warn her off all pro athletes; too much cash mixed with all that time on the road was a bad mix. I’d witnessed enough bad behavior firsthand that I didn’t want my sister to end up hurt.

“I will; I’m supposed to catch up with her when I’m in Texas next month. I’m not sure if Jake will be able to come, as it’s right after the start of training camp. Oh, would you say a prayer to that saint? I can’t find my lucky pendant.”

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