It’s a game of eccentrics. So no one
thinks twice when he goes and locks himself in a bathroom stall to tie his
shoes. It’s his ritual, that’s it. Who doesn’t have one?
Eight years, six teams not including the minors. Never left a friend behind;
never really made one. Mediocre at best but stays employed. Doesn’t ask for
much. Gets less than he asks for. It’s his ritual. Who doesn’t have one?
Eight years. Thirty-four years old and feels seventy. Ties his shoes in the
bathroom.
Twenty years ago it was so easy. Grew early, moved well. Sixteen years ago it
was even easier. Drafted out of high school.
But rookie league was hard. AA was harder. He wasn’t used to anyone being better
than he was. He didn’t have the talent, didn’t know how to learn. Didn’t have an
edge. So he invented one: Doing as he was told became his secret power.
They told him to find a wife, so he did. Pick me, pick me! I’m married and I
speak English! That was just about eight years ago.
His wife. Now he’d gladly hand her half his money just so he wouldn’t
have to brave that look again. Soon enough, he will. When his playing
days are over. Soon enough. Love and career didn’t go as planned. At
least he keeps his disappointment to himself.
He thinks of all the things he’s never done. He’s never gotten a ring. He’s
never walked it off. He’s never been on Sports Center. He’s gone eight years
without a post game interview. He’s never really made a friend. He’s never
played Pepper.
The old stadiums – the ones he dreamed about when the dream seemed inevitable –
the old stadiums had stenciled signs: No Pepper Games. He never knew what
it meant, and even when someone told him he was pretty sure they lied. Why have
a sign on a major league field telling major league ballplayers not to knock a
ball around? But whatever it was, he is who he is. He has a job because he does
what he’s told, and doesn’t do what he’s told not to. So: No Pepper Games.
Day game after a night game, and a west coast flight right after: He’s in the
starting line-up. He locks himself in the can and ties his shoes. It’s his
ritual. Everybody’s got one. Strike it up to superstition but the only streak
he’s ever had that he’d want to keep alive is having a job. This job. He’s
terrified of losing it. What could possibly come next? Whoring off his flat line
stats? Color commentary from a nobody? A coach teaching boys that the game is
like loving a woman you love who doesn’t love you back: You watch her sleep
around and forgive her. She marries someone else but you still hang around,
doing whatever she asks you to, thinking someday she’ll realize you’re the one
but she never will. And even though you’ve given her everything and you’re happy
just to be her dog and never complain about it, she’ll still throw you away and
forget you. Because there’s always another dog, a younger dog, a dog that claims
to love her even more than you do.
He was never a student of the game. He didn’t care about the history until he
realized he would be a part of it. Flat line stats, six teams, hopefully seven
or even eight. His name, noted and not mentioned, forever. DiMaggio, Mantle,
Aaron, Griffey, Mays. Never saw any of them, but they left marks. Stole numbers.
Probably played Pepper too.
So today he’s starting. He locks himself in a stall and ties his shoes. He does
this every day, then he tapes down the laces. He doesn’t want anyone to see him
wince when his right leg comes up. He flushes the toilet so no one will hear him
groan. There’s paper right there to wipe the sweat from his lip and his forehead
when he’s done. He wonders how many pregame rituals out there are really just
about hiding pain.
The sun is bright. He steps out of the dugout. He hears a child call his name.
His name. Probably read it off the back of his jersey.
He’s never walked it off. He’s never been on Sports Center. He hears a child
call his name.
In this moment there are a million things he does not know. He doesn’t know if
he’s lucky or cursed. He doesn’t know for sure the tape will hold. He doesn’t
know that he will fall in love with a high school Science teacher who worked
picking peas, cantaloupe and strawberries when she was just ten years old, and
that she will love him back. He doesn’t know she will convince him to get his
first dog, and that he will love that dog so much that he will become a bit of
an activist. He doesn’t know that he will teach as many girls to play baseball
as he will boys, and that he will do so purely for pleasure. He doesn’t know
that he will look back on his playing days without a shred of regret, or that
his greatest joys lie elsewhere; he doesn’t even know it’s possible that his
greatest joys could lie elsewhere. He doesn’t know how to hit a curve. Or a
fastball with any movement. Or that, with the game tied in the bottom of the
ninth and no one on, his manager will decide, with no outs, not to pinch hit for
him, but rather to pinch run for him if he happens to get on. He doesn’t know
that he won’t see a single curveball, just a slow fastball without any movement,
and that a pinch runner will never come into play.
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