Page 5 of The Battery
An apt name that came to me one night when I couldn’t sleep. Aston, Shoji, Levine. The first two letters of their surnames spelled it out for me. They lived up to the name from the moment I joined the forty-man. I was no stranger to competition from my fellow pitchers, but these guys took it to another level.
I threw my mind at my exercises. All went hush as I slipped on my noise-canceling headphones. Most people would put on something with a beat or a great bass line. I, however, listened to white noise. The discordant, static sound blocked out everything. Helped focus my mind and my attention. No distractions. No external factors to elevate or lower my spirits like music could. Just me, the noise, and my body.
About twenty minutes into my routine, our pitching coach rounded up the pitchers in the gym. The forlorn look on his face didn’t give me a good feeling. The Assholes in the corner went quiet as we left the gym and headed into one of the two theaters in the clubhouse. The giant screen was off, but the skipper was standing in front of it with his arms crossed. I walked up thesteps to sink into one of the giant leather recliners two rows back.
We had a total roster of fifteen pitchers. Five starters and eight relievers. Yet I saw two of our starters were missing and three of our relievers. And that look on our coach’s face, paired with how the field manager fidgeted…
“I’ll make this short and sweet,” the skipper said, a big man who had once been jacked as hell but now enjoyed too many nights of pasta. His moustache made him look like an old walrus. “Ericson and Peters have been designated for assignment.”
Our two starters. That meant no one wanted them for a trade and they were removed from our forty-man roster until management could find something better. Damn.
“Johnson, Williams, and Daley have all been traded to the Brawlers.” The other three relievers.Daaamn.“As well as six promising players from the farm. Who you see here is who you get for the year. This will be our pitching staff for the foreseeable future.”
Two of the Assholes made an obvious show of turning to stare me down. Shoji raised his hand. Before being called on, he asked, “Is this ’cause of the Spartan? The payload coming in for him?”
“You want to hear what you want to hear, go talk to PR. That’s all I gotta say. Get back out there and do your thing.” The skipper started for the door, then stopped and turned. “Leo ain’t Hiroshi, but he’s one damn good catcher. Show him respect or I show you the door.”
*
My eyes had been wide in disbelief as I absently ate a small sliver of steak. Juicy, salted to perfection, the greatest medium rareimaginable. I barely tasted a thing.
“Come on, man,” Freddie said. “You gotta snap out of it.”
I finished chewing. Swallowed. Blinked.
“Yeah, but it could have been me,” I said. I had been looking around the clubhouse cafeteria, mostly filled for lunchtime. I saw, yet didn’t see. All that I could picture was the dark fantasy of being punted back into the minors to save money.
“But itwasn’t,” Freddie insisted. “Despite hitting our new catchertwice, management still sees something in you. So cut the shit. Eat the greatest steak made by the world’s greatest chef and have a pity party when you’re alone in my guest room watching porn or something.”
At that I laughed. My eyes found clarity. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m still here and…”
The din of a crowded cafeteria cratered. Freddie kept eating, but his gaze went over my shoulder toward the entrance. I turned in my seat.
Romo had walked in, the absurdly tall Sicilian god who probably should have been a basketball player. He had an easy smile on his face, dark hair stuffed under a blue cap. Then,hewalked in beside Romo. Leo Papadopoulos. Only a few inches shy of Romo’s impressive height, he wore a Riders training tee, matching joggers, and no ball cap. My eyes went immediately to the confusing design of tattoos covering his bare arms. Then that beard of his—almost fantastical in its shape. Not too long so as to be repulsive, but not too short that he couldn’t shape it into an iconic look. Furrowed brow looking like he wanted to tell everyone to go away. His eyes swept the room.
Our gazes locked. I didn’t flinch, but I felt my stomach flip. His head continued rotating, but his eyes stayed on mine.
I felt flushed. The spinning in my belly tumbled up into my throat like an unspoken scream. My vision narrowed. Only a few days ago I thought this man would beat me to a living pulp outon the field. Now, he was something of a boss as the team’s new primary catcher.
Our stare disconnected at the same time. I took in a breath and spun around to put my back to him. Conversations returned slowly. Romo was bringing him around to each table as an informal introduction. We had a big meet-and-greet scheduled later. It was an off day, and we didn’t have a game, but management wanted us all to have dinner together tonight on the field.
“Now, when he comes over here,” Freddie said, “don’t immediately throw up your hands and say ‘don’t shoot,’ because I think that might send the wrong message. Or… actually that’s kind of funny. Maybe you should?”
“Not a chance in hell,” I said and stood from the table. My chair screeched along the tiled floor. “I’m throwing balls.” I emptied my uneaten food in the bin, placed my plate on the conveyer belt into the kitchen, and headed for the exit opposite of where Leo and Romo had entered.
Our eyes met again as I left. For a moment, he flashed the barest hint of concern, or confusion. I wasn’t sure which. It was gone as soon as it appeared. He shook the hand of our left fielder, then crossed his arms, the action bumping out his biceps. I tried not to stare.
Halfway down the Riders themed hallway lined with pictures of a bygone era, I came to a sudden halt and checked myself. What the hell was getting into me?
Focus on the game, I told myself. Freddie’s words echoed in my mind. He was right, of course. Management saw something in me. They cut loose others and not me. That meant something.
Right.
Time to throw some balls.
CHAPTER FOUR
Leo
