Chapter 1 - Bottom of the Ninth, Bases Empty
)!rtb.jpg]
Dave had been waiting for Duke’s phone call all morning. From the second he awoke in his king-size bed, alone, and settled onto the penthouse deck with a cup of coffee, he had kept his phone by his side. It remained silent.
The sun came up over downtown Indianapolis, glinting off of copper-colored buildings and streak-free office glass, and he had put on a pair of shades and continued to wait. By the time he finished taking a dip in the hot tub on the deck, spent a few minutes flipping through the newspaper and not focusing on a single word, and poured himself a third cup of coffee, his heart was starting to sink. He texted Duke: Any word yet? You’re killing me, man!
Duke did not reply.
Dave showered, put on some running shorts, looked at his workout closet and tried to decide what footwear to select: there were cycling shoes if he was up for road-biking, trail shoes for running some off-road terrain, or his new Asics, if he was up for running a few miles on pavement through downtown. He tested his knee. It felt tight, but not as tight as yesterday.
“You’re getting better and stronger. Every day, man, every day,” he said, encouraging himself, and slipped on his trail running shoes. He needed to get out of the city, breathe some air that wasn’t tainted with exhaust, and be alone with his thoughts.
Duke still had not called.
In the elevator down from the penthouse, Dave picked away at an app on his iPhone and within seconds had ensured an UberX car was waiting for him on the street below. He climbed in the front seat and directed the driver to a trailhead by the river, on the outskirts of downtown. As they drove, he massaged his knee, willing the tissues to warm to his touch and relax. It had been six months since his knee surgery and he was healing nicely, but he was starting to get antsy and wanting to stretch it out on long runs more and more, to see how far it would take him. He didn’t have much time to waste with passive healing; spring training was a month away and he needed to be out there, sweating, working out his body, proving to himself and everyone else that he was strong enough – no, stronger than ever – and ready to play ball.
The driver dropped him off by the trailhead and Dave took off on the trail that led down to the river. The cold, gray Midwest air greeted him like an old friend, and he would miss it. Where would he be traded? What city would he call home by this time next week? He paced himself and was encouraged by how strong his legs felt, and as the miles ticked by, he tried to imagine his future. Who it will be? Houston? Denver? Minnesota? God, anyone but Kansas City, please!
And then Duke called.
Breathless, Dave slowed to a jog and moved to the edge of the trail. Even if he had not been expecting Duke’s call, he would have known it was him by the “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” ringtone he had downloaded for Duke’s number. Duke had been Dave’s agent for sixteen years, staying loyal and true and finding opportunities for Dave’s southpaw pitching arm all through the minor leagues, up through the majors, and into some of the best years of his career as a Chicago White Sox star pitcher. He had enjoyed escaping by private jet to the anonymity of nearby Indianapolis in the off-season, close enough to Chicago, but not too close, and Dave wondered where Duke was about to whisk him off to next.
“Duke, it’s about time! I nearly ran half a marathon this morning trying to shake off this nervous energy! How is the draft going, what have you got cookin’, and where should I book a flight to? Where am I headed to next?!” He paused his questions finally and listened quietly for Duke’s reply.
“It’s not good, man.”
“Not good? Duke! You always make it good! Don’t let me down now!”
“Dave, it’s not me this time. I can’t work a whole lot of magic for a sixteen-year veteran with a bum knee.”
“Hey, hey, hey. You say ‘sixteen-year veteran’ like it’s a curse! It’s my best asset! I’m experienced! And everyone loves a southpaw! Duke, what gives?”
“I’m just going to spit it out, Dave. We have always been up front with each other, and there’s no point being a pussy about this. The draft is done, man. You weren’t picked up. The best I could get you was a slot with a Triple A team…”
Dave interrupted him before he could finish. “A TRIPLE A TEAM? I’m not going back to the minors, Duke. That’s like telling a doctor he has to go back and repeat kindergarten. What the hell, man? I don’t get it! Why didn’t I get picked up?”
Duke sighed audibly. “Look, man, I hate to have this convo on the phone, ya know? We should be bellied up to a bar and throwing back a few cold ones before we get into all this. But here we are. On the phone. I don’t have all the answers, and I’m still working a few leads, but I hear what folks are saying about you. They’re saying you’re done. Your knee is a problem, your pitching arm is getting old, and the southpaw notoriety can’t overcome all of that. Best thing I can advise is, take a year off. Get strong again. Take a break. Coach little league if you need to get your ballpark fix. Let’s try again in a year.”
)
Dave hung up the phone. He didn’t have the stomach to discuss this news any longer. He didn’t know which was harder to hear: that there would be no big league spring training team waiting for him, that he was being encouraged to take a year off, or that there was a very real possibility that his baseball career was over.
An hour later, still sweaty from his run back to town, Dave took a seat at a local craft beer bar in his neighborhood. He intended to stay awhile. He ordered a double IPA from a local brewery, and let the strong taste of hops overpower him with its pungent and arresting bitterness. It matched his mood perfectly.
He had started pitching at the age of 6, after being bumped up to the 8-10 year old team from the t-ball team, thanks to the persistence of his father. It hadn’t stopped there. Year after year, his dad pushed the boundaries on his behalf, creating new opportunities where none seemed to exist before, and opening doors on competitive teams who insisted he was too big, too slow, and too left-handed to be any good. But his dad never gave up. And his mom, wow. She was an angel. Picking him up after practice, shuttling him to small towns for weekend games, washing his whites each night so they would be crisp and grass-stain free each morning… His parents had paved the way for him to have the baseball career he’d always dreamed of. It had paid off. After a short trip through the minors, he had been picked up by the Colorado Rockies and spent a record eight seasons picking off hitters one by one, leading his team to division titles and three post-season playoffs. And then he had gone to Chicago and had another great few years, until his knee started acting up.
Duke’s news was debilitating because it was not what he expected to hear that day for starters, and because he had been four years old the last time he had started the spring season without a baseball team to play for. What do people do in the spring when they don’t have spring training?
A few beers under his belt, he decided to ask the bartender this exact question. He didn’t look like a baseball player, so perhaps he would know the answer. Dave was a planner and a plotter by nature, and if he was going to be forced to sit out this spring, he was going to make damn sure he knew how to do it right.
“What do people do in the… you know, in the spring?” he asked the bartender, a short man covered in tattoos.
“Well, there’s gardening,” he said, eyeing Dave as if to assess how he was holding his liquor.
“Screw gardening. What else is there?”
“If you had a ranch, you could rope some cattle, or repair your barn after the snow melts, or go hiking, or…”
The voice offering suggestions came from behind him and he turned to find out who owned the melodious sound that was filling his ears. If she was anything as beautiful as her voice, he expected to find a beauty queen standing behind him.
She might as well have been.
All of five-feet-four-inches tall, the petite brunette with dark eyes and full, glossy, pink lips eyed him curiously. Dave was accustomed to getting hit on in bars, especially in Chicago where he had played the last few years after being traded from Denver, but not in Indianapolis, covered in sweat, where no one knew him.
“I don’t have a ranch,” he said. “So, we’re going to have to go back to the drawing board. Buy you a beer while we brainstorm?”
The brown-haired beauty scooted onto a bar stool next to his, and she ordered a cranberry and soda with “a third of a shot” of vodka in it. The bartender eyed her curiously, and she waved her hands along the length of her body as if to demonstrate how tiny she was. “I’m a little drinker,” she said sweetly, to Dave, and then added, “and I like to stay clear-headed, so I can remember the experiences I have.”
Experiences? What experiences is she going to have? Dave wondered. The wink and the squeeze of her hand on his thigh told him all he needed to know. The miniature Barbie had him in her sights. And he couldn’t say he minded. It had been a long time since he had been with a woman, and perhaps she was just the distraction he needed after the day’s news.
He turned his body on the stool so that he was facing her, letting the outside of his thigh move around the back of her stool to let her know she was the only person he was looking at. Part of the problem of being a major league ball player was that women assumed you were their pass into the media, their sugar daddy, their meal ticket, and they would happily be your arm candy in order to get those illusive fifteen seconds of fame. Dave had a strict rule about women during baseball season – he swore off of them completely. But now? He was headed into spring without a team, and maybe that meant it was time to occupy himself with a girlfriend while all the ballplayers were busy for a few months. Gillian, the brunette by his side, was adorable, too cute for words, and had a bubbly personality to match; he thoroughly enjoyed his afternoon of flirting and drinking and being the object of this beauty’s attention.
He extended a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. As he did, she placed her hand over his, moved his hand towards her mouth, and placed a lingering, sweet kiss on his palm. She ran her other hand over his thigh in slow, lazy circles that moved closer and closer towards the top of his leg. He felt himself growing hard with the anticipation of each circle of her little hand.
“I have a place close by,” she said. “Looks like you’ve been out for a run. Would you care to come over and let me help you freshen up? I have a shower, you know…” she said coyly, smiling up at him beneath long lashes.
He stood then, paid their tab at the bar, and together, hand in hand, walked towards the entrance. He held the door for her and they stepped out into the late afternoon sun.
“So, how did the draft go today, Big Dave? And do I get to find out for myself why they call you Big Dave?” Gillian asked as they walked towards her car.
Dave stopped in his tracks. Something wasn’t right. It was becoming more and more clear to him now that he was outside, in the light of day, looking at Gillian without the effect of a beer in his hand and the bar lights overhead.
They called her Gilly in the bull pen. An opportunist with a propensity for hard-bodied ball players, Gilly had worked her way through the starting line-up of the Indianapolis Indians, the Triple A affiliate of the Philadelphia Pirates. He had heard the rumors: she notched her bedpost with the jersey numbers of the ball players she brought there, and now it appeared Gilly was making her move into the big leagues, or so she thought. There hasn’t been a press release yet. She has no idea I didn’t get drafted.
Dave smiled down at her; the bartender’s strange glance at him as Dave had put a protective arm around Gilly at the bar now making sense. “They call me Big Dave because I outweigh most pitchers by fifty pounds, easy. There might be other reasons, too. But, I don’t think that’s information you’ll be finding out after all. Thanks for the company, Gilly the Gigolette.”
He left Gillian staring at him, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face, as he took off running down the street back to his penthouse. While he was not opposed to some female companionship, he just was not up for a girl who looked at him as a stepping stone into the major league’s publicity scene. Letting himself in, he grabbed a cold bottle of water and headed back out to his patio. He sat quietly, watching as the sun started sinking below the horizon. It had been an eventful day, full of events he wished he could forget.
As afternoon turned to evening, and evening turned to night, he sat on his deck and let the relaxation from the beers roll over him. He thought about his knee and wondered how to strengthen it in the coming year so he could play again. He thought about what he would do with himself in the coming months before baseball season started, and what he would do afterwards when he would not be able to turn on the TV without finding a baseball game. Money was not an issue and he didn’t need to work. The seasons of professional ball had left his bank account well-stocked, and then his parents had left him quite a bit of money as well when they passed away.
He thought about his mom and dad then, wishing they were around for him to talk to. Their only child, they had given him every advantage in life, and gave him a strong foundation for the career he’d enjoyed. Always, at every turn, they had been there to give advice when he asked for it. When they died unexpectedly, victims of a drunk driver, he had been crushed and had been feeling the weight of their absence ever since.
“If Dad were here, what would he say? What advice would he give me?” Dave wondered, aloud.
Dave sat quietly, wishing he could hear his father’s voice, hoping that if he sat still enough, he just might. In that moment, the clouds parted and a few twinkling stars could be seen over the bright lights of Indianapolis, though most of them were faded out by the blaring lights of the city. His dad had loved the stars. Together they spent many nights peering through a telescope, catching glimpses of planets and constellations, and enjoying the crystal clear night air.
Of course, there was nothing crystal clear about Indianapolis air. The air back home in Colorado had been though. In the hills above Breckenridge where he had grown up, the stars had been dazzling beacons. He remembered his dad’s words then.
“Son, I’m going to tell you something important,” his father had said. “The stars will always guide you home. If you ever get to a spot where you’ve lost your way, just know that if you can get back to a place where you can see the night sky, see every star that twinkles back at you, the perspective you need will come. Stars are there to remind us of what’s important in life. When you can’t see ‘em, they’ve got no way to help you.”
None of that had seemed to make any sense when he was 19, itching to see the world and move to a bigger town, but it rang with truth for him now. The home he’d grown up in had been a modest A-frame on a large plot of land behind the ski resorts. It was quiet there, a creek ran through their property, and he had enjoyed the changing seasons in their pristine, mountain retreat. When his parents passed away, Dave had debated what to do with the property. By that time, he was living in Denver and enjoying the lifestyle of an up-and-coming sports icon, and didn’t make it back to Breckenridge often enough to feel justified keeping the place. When a local developer had offered to buy the property for three times what it was worth so that Breckenridge could groom some new ski slopes, Dave accepted without so much as a backward glance.
But now he missed the stars and he wondered what had become of his parents’ property. And somehow his dad had known he would someday. “If you ever get to a spot where you’ve lost your way,” he had said. I think I have, Dad. I think I have.
In the morning, Dave closed up his penthouse, packed a few bags, and took the first flight out of Indianapolis to Denver. He rented a car and began the drive west, into the mountains, towards home, to Breckenridge. He’d be able to see the stars there, he knew it. And somehow, the answers would come to him. His dad had promised they would.![rtb777.png]