Page 7 of The Yips

After 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 onthose 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.

---