Page 4 of The Battery
Santa Ana.He had good memories there from years gone by.
“Well, Leonidas Papadopoulos,” the GM said, “you are one mighty fine catcher and it pains me to see you go. But damn if the Riders fought like hell to replace Tanaka and they went for the best, the sons of bitches. So, good luck, we wish you the best, yadda, yadda, yadda. Are we done here, Sarah?”
“Yes, sir, we can—” He logged off and his little square vanished from the television. “Okay, well, I guess that’s good enough. Leo, it’s been a pleasure working with you.”
Ignoring her, I leaned toward the laptop and put my thumb and forefinger on the HDMI cable connected to it. “Text me, Turner,” I said, then yanked the cord free and slammed the laptop lid shut. I turned, shook the manager’s hand. His face had been stupefied.
I put my back to the manager. The closed laptop. My past.
I had my phone to my ear as I ambled back through the locker room toward the exit. “Yo, Spartan,” Turner said. I could hear the smile on the man’s face. “We did it, man. We actually did it. Only took two months.”
“Hell yeah, brother,” I said through a grunt.
“There should be a car waiting for you in the parking lot. I got you a hotel for the night.”
“I need to—”
Turner interrupted with, “Your uncle is all set, brother. Don’t worry about that, all right?”
I pushed my way outside. The early May evening was cool. A gentle breeze tussled my hair as I stared at the guest team’s parking lot. Sure enough, a slick black car waited for me. The door popped open automatically as I approached. Inside, the driver turned and nodded.
“Now,” Turner said as I pulled the door closed. “First order of business. You gotta get that rookie fired. Who hits someonetwice in the same inning…”
CHAPTER THREE
Cody
Iran myhands along my thighs in a vain effort to wipe off the sweat. Beside me, Freddie let out a lionlike yawn and regripped his hold on his truck’s steering wheel. BPM pumped out of the car’s speakers from the satellite radio. I lifted my thermos from the cupholder and took a careful sip of hot coffee as Freddie took a sharp corner.
“You gotta calm down, buddy,” Freddie said as he glanced sideways at me. “It’s not like the man is gonna beat you to a pulp the first time he formally meets you.” He waited a beat, then added, “Probably the second time.”
I let out a snicker. Genuine. It felt good.
“How fast can I learn MMA?” I asked.
Freddie wobbled his head. “For you? Hmm… probably ten years.”
“Oh, ha-ha.”
Only the sound of music filled the truck cab as we approached Riders stadium. The time on the clock read 10am. Freddie knew I liked to arrive earlier. He had been helping me find my own wheels so I didn’t have to constantly bug him about bringing me. With the league minimum salary they paid me, I could afford a good baseline model. But the paranoia of dropping back into the minors and losing that sweet paycheck weighed on me.
Room and board, however, did not. Freddie, the Riders shortstop, had been an old friend from our days in the minors together. When it was announced that I would be thrown into the relief roster, Freddie had me on a call within minutes.Insisted I stayed in his spare room in a nice townhouse he owned in Lincoln, one town over from Lexington. He had the room all tricked out with a new television and a top-of-the-line king-sized bed. What a friend.
I had been browsing a streaming service on said television the night before. The announcement of the Spartan’s trade deal had gone out a couple of days ago. The news hit me like a fastball to the shoulder. Or ass cheek. The sting wore off after a while, but then last night, he randomly popped up on my screen. I had hovered overHot Gates, a movie about the Spartans battle against the Persians in whichthe Spartanhimself, Leo, made a guest appearance. The snippet only lasted a minute, enough to show him charging into battle wearing only a loin cloth, a red cloak, and a helmet. Who knows how much makeup they used to cover that near full-body tattoo of his…
“Just scream ‘help me’ if you think he’s gonna hit you,” Freddie suggested as he put the truck in Park and climbed down. I followed and stretched. Freddie was around my height with hair the color of rust and enough freckles on his face to map out entire constellations.
The stadium dominated the landscape. Only a few years old, the ballpark was a far cry from the humble park I had played in during the minors. The two-lantern tower at the primary entrance jutted into the sky, a nod to the original midnight rider. I thought walking up to the player’s entrance would lose its majesty after so many times, but it still gave me a thrill, a confirmation that I hadmade it.
“Good luck, bro,” Freddie said as we entered the stadium. We bumped fists as he headed left toward the locker room and I broke right toward the training room. I was already in my workout gear and wanted to get started on squats.
Inside, Riders blue and bronze splashed over every surface. State-of-the-art electronics covered the walls, nooks in everyhallway with trophies, jerseys, and every kind of baseball paraphernalia one would expect to see. All of it steeped in a one-of-a-kind scent of leather, sweat, and whatever cleaning agent was used on the carpets.
I nodded to our first baseman as I entered the gym. The clang of bumper plates and cable machines filled the area as well as hard rock pumping through speakers mounted on the ceiling. An array of monitors lined the perimeter, each displaying a different highlight reel of our previous games. I bumped fists with one of the trainers and made my way to the squat racks.
A cackle of laughter split the air. I looked over to see a few of my fellow relief pitchers crowded together.
The Assholes.
