Page 3 of Fastball Fever
Phil sighs, running a hand through his hair."I know you think you do."
Ouch.That was a real zinger.I swear I could almost feel the pinch of those words."I carried this team for three years, Phil, and we both know it."
His expression is one part patience, two parts pity."No one's questioning what you've done for us.We just can't keep waiting."
And there it is.The past tense, biting into me like a rusty nail.I had a good run, but it's over.Thanks for everything, don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.I clear my throat, trying to shift the lump that's settled there.
"We're barely halfway through the season," I point out.My voice is steady, even if my gut is churning."Things can turn around."
"If you think you can turn it around, then show us," Phil replies, his tone a shade softer but no less firm."Soon."
What I hear is "or else."But what I feel is "how the hell will ya do that, pal?"
"I'm busting my ass every day," I insist.And I'm failing at it."Can't believe you'd do this now."
"It's not something I want to do."Phil's eyes meet mine, and for a second, I catch a flicker of understanding in them.Then it evaporates."You've got a month, kid."
One month?That's crazy.Maybe I should give up and start writing my memoirs—From Hero to Zero: The Charlie Braddock Story.Available soon in hardcover and paperback.
I heave myself up and onto my feet, feeling the world wobble a little under me.What else can I say?"Got it, boss, loud and clear."
Phil stands up too, smoothing a wrinkle from his shirt."This isn't personal, Charlie."
It sure feels personal, for damn sure.Every game, every pitch, feels personal.I've spent too long thinking I'm the one they can't do without.Now that I'm no longer the golden boy, what should I do?Get a job holding up sandwich board signs outside a pizzeria?
I approach the door, my fingers clutching the handle like it's a lifeline."I'll get it together, Phil, I promise."
"We'll be watching."He sounds like a coach.But he means it like a judge.
I slam the door behind me and storm down the hallway.The sound reverberates through the corridor, but my anger echoes even louder inside me.My footsteps pound the linoleum, echoing like they're trying to outrun me.I wish I could outrun myself.The hallway is narrow, cold, and I feel its chill down to my bones.Phil's words burn in my ears.
I don't remember much after leaving the office.It's like there's a bell going off inside my head, telling me I've got one month, one month, one month.It won't stop ringing, won't let me think about anything else.I want to punch something, someone, anyone.A stack of boxes in the hallway gets the side-eye, but they don't deserve it.Not like I do.
How did I not see Jared coming at me sooner?If I'd paid better attention, maybe I wouldn't be in this mess—on the verge of becoming a has-been, a sad footnote in the annals of baseball history.
I pause halfway down the hall, head bowed, hands on my hips.Phil's ultimatum echoes in my mind.But it feels more like a death sentence than a second chance.The words replay in my head, ugly and real.Improve quickly, Charlie.Because we're all waiting around for you, Charlie.And you can't stop being a failure, Charlie.
I thought this was my year to crush the World Series.I thought I was on top again.What a joke.Thinking is clearly not my strong suit these days.
The fluorescent lights buzz above me, casting a eerie glow on everything, including my pathetic attempt to play it cool back there.I hate how the walls are so sterile, the way they make me feel like a specimen under a microscope.An experiment gone wrong.I pick up the pace, trying to get away from myself.No surprise that I'm the only one chasing me.
Phil admonished me not to take it personally.But my career, all the years I'd busted my ass for the team, it's as personal as it gets.Every step I take echoes back at me, sounding like the hollow truth I didn't want to hear.
A murmur catches my ear, stopping me in my tracks.That's Phil's voice.I recognize it before I realize where it's coming from.An open door, just a crack.Curiosity wins, not like it's a competition.I pause, holding my breath.
"…can't afford to wait.Need him to turn around fast."His voice is neutral, like this is just business."Thinking of hiring a new trainer for him.Exclusive."
The words hit me like cold water doused over my head.I'm frozen to this spot, trapped between staying to eavesdrop and sprinting away.Is that what they really think of me?That I can't even fix myself without a babysitter?Nice to know their faith is as strong as my batting average.
My fists clench at my sides, tight enough to hurt.Phil is still talking, but I can't hear what he's saying anymore.I don't want to hear it.It's one more reminder that I'm a walking cautionary tale about faded glory.Maybe the trainer can help with that too.
I push my hands through my hair.Now, even if I claw my way back to the top, everyone will still remember me as the pitcher whose shoulder got fucked, and he left his team hanging in mid-season.
Leaning against the wall, I feel its cold bite through my shirt.My bag slips off my shoulder and hits the floor with a thud.I want to scream.I want to laugh.But I do neither.Instead, I simply stand here with my eyes burning and my heart beating out the countdown.I have one month, one new trainer, and no chance in hell.
The burn in my eyes…no, I am not about to cry.Wouldn't that be pathetic?It's dust, that's all.
I pick up my bag and take one last look at the open door and what's left of my pride.Doesn't that go before a fall?Jeez, even the bible wants to dunk on me.What else can I do?I walk away from the conversation, from the office, from myself.My footsteps echo again, but they sound different now.
