Big League Dreams Ch. 01

I smiled back at her. "Well, after my performance tonight at least I know that it isn't because you think that I'm going to be a big, rich star."

"Ray, that's pretty clear. Although one bad game doesn't mean anything, or so my father used to tell me after I messed up on the soccer field as a kid. And as far as I'm concerned, your performance tonight has been pretty damn good." She rubbed my chest down to my cock, which rose to meet her hand. "Also, I intend to make a shitload of money on my own, so I'm not looking for a sugar daddy."

Her hand continued to rub my cock, until it was ready for another round. I was really beginning to like this woman.

*

We split the next two games on the road, and all I did was sit in the dugout, cheer for they guys and high-five them when they did something good. Rather than start me in the deciding game, they decided to go back to Balboa, who started game one and did OK. I couldn't second guess that decision—Javier had been strong all season, and I had been terrible in my last start. We were told that it was all hands on deck, though, and that any of us might be called on to pitch, depending on how the game went.

And the game went, on and on. It was 2-2 in the ninth, and Teo had already used Javier, three other relievers and two of the starters, and then we were in extra innings. Both teams had chances, but no one could push the winning run across. In the bottom of the 14th, Al told me to go warm up, in case we went to 15. And we did. I trotted in from the bullpen, determined not to blow the game. When I got to the mound, Teo just said, "Keep it simple. Throw hard." I got a 1-2-3 inning, and when we didn't score in the top of the 16th, I went out for another inning. A good curve led to a weak groundout by the first batter. The second hitter lined a clean single to left. He was dancing off the base, but I was pretty confident that he wouldn't go. I retired the next batter, a big lefthander, on what my dad used to call a "can of corn" to Roscoe, and got out of the inning with a weak liner to short. I walked off the field, smiling, feeling like I had in part redeemed myself to the guys.

When I got back to the dugout, Al clapped me on the back and told me that I had done a helluva job, and was done for the day. Which, presumably, meant the season, one way or another. In the top of the 17th, we scratched across a run, and Cal Burkowski, who had been pacing in the dugout, anxious to get his chance, came in and struck out the side on 12 pitches. We stormed the field, league champs. It was too bad that we had to win on the road, with very few of our fans in the stands, but it was better than watching them celebrate. While I was part of the celebration, I still felt a little like an outsider. Nevertheless, I contributed a little, and the cheap champagne and beer in the locker room tasted good.

This being the low minors, though, even though it was late, we had to load onto the buses and take the long ride home. I fell asleep, and as we were pulling into the parking lot, Teo told us to come back to the stadium the next day at 2 to clean out our lockers. I drove back to the Pullmans, trying to be as quiet as possible, and was happy to fall into bed, only slightly disappointed that Jillian wasn't there to surprise me.

*

When I finally got up the next morning, more than a little foggy, I took stock on what turned out to be a surprisingly good season, and one that gave me hope that I might actually have a future in baseball, although there was a nagging in the back of my mind that I was just putting off the inevitable return to a duller adult life. But I was going to ride this as long as I could, because I loved the game, and the lure of the show eclipsed any other alternate career plan I could conjure up.

Leaving the apartment into the warmth of the morning, I saw Allison throwing a baseball against a pitchback. The girl was dedicated, that was clear, and I could see that she had an easy motion and seemed to be throwing with some speed. She smiled when she saw me, and motioned for me to come over.

"So, Ray, congratulations on winning the championship."

I shrugged. "I didn't do much, really, but thanks."

"We were listening on the radio—you pitched two scoreless in extra innings."

"That's true," I admitted, smiling a bit.

"What happens next?"

"I go to the park at 2, clean out my locker, and go home, I guess."

Allison's face darkened a bit, and I could hear Jillian's warnings in my head. "So, you leave today?" she replied quietly.

"I don't know how it works, really. I guess it depends on whether they fly me somewhere, or more likely give me a bus ticket. Actually, I need to go back to my last team and get my car, if you can call that piece of crap a car."

She smiled, probably because I semi-cursed in front of her. "Ray, can I throw some hardball to you?"

"Sure. Do you have a glove? Mine's at the park."

She gestured to the catcher's mitt on the ground. "Is that OK?"

"Yep." I put on the big old glove, pounded the pocket a few times, and waved at Allison to start throwing. As I expected, she had pretty good zip for a 16 year old girl, and while I certainly didn't throw the ball back at her at full velocity, I didn't baby her either. I gave her a few small suggestions about her grip, and arm slot (as if I was any kind of expert on that), and she seemed to pick up on them quickly. I kind of admit that it was nice to just be tossing a baseball without worrying that my entire career depended on how I did, and we got into a nice rhythm, which was only broken when my phone rang.

Motioning to Allison to stop, I let the glove drop to the insanely green grass, and pulled my phone out. It was Jillian, so I turned away from Allison and walked to the steps of the apartment for some privacy.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself, champ," she replied in that deep, sexy voice of hers.

"Thanks."

"So, what's your plan for the day?"

"I have to go to the stadium at 2, then find out about getting home."

"Do what you can to arrange to leave no earlier than tomorrow. I want to make sure you get a good send off, befitting your status as a league champion."

I knew that she was giving me shit, but I also was getting warmer thinking about what Jillian might have planned. "With that sort of incentive, I'll make sure that it happens."

"OK, Ray. Call me later." She disconnected before I could say anything else.

I looked up and saw Allison, standing alone on the lawn, tossing the ball up in the air and catching it, looking angry. I walked back towards her.

"Who was that? Your girlfriend?" she asked in a singsong voice, sounding every bit the annoying teenager.

"It was Jillian, and I don't think we are 'boyfriend and girlfriend' at this point," I replied, emphasizing my comments with finger quotes.

She shook her head. I looked at my phone—it was 10 a.m. and I was hungry. "Allison—is there a good place to get breakfast in town?"

Allison nodded. "Betty's downtown has amazing pancakes, oh my god, they're so good."

"Want to show me where it is, and have breakfast with me?"

Her face lit up. "Uh, sure, yeah."

"OK, go make sure it is fine with your parents, and let's go, because I'm starving."

She dropped the ball and her glove on the ground and ran into the house. A few minutes later, she returned, cleaned up a bit, with Sandy.

"Ray, congratulations," Sandy said with her slight drawl.

"Thanks, Sandy, it was fun."

"I'm sure it was. You sure you want to take this one out for breakfast?"

Allison rolled her eyes.

"Yes, Sandy, we just had a good hardball catch, and she deserves a good meal," I replied, smiling. "We pitchers have to stick together."

"OK, then, have fun." She turned back to the house.

"Let's go, Allison, I need coffee." We got into the car, and Allison immediately changed the radio station to some pop country station without asking.

"Tell me where to go."

She directed me through the broad, tree-lined streets of her neighborhood toward the downtown area. We passed the bar where Jillian hustled me at pool, and went a little further before pulling into a small strip mall. There was an insurance office, a drug store, an empty storefront, and Betty's.

The place was packed, and it was clear that Allison knew about half the people there. I could see that she was sort of showing me off as we were led to a booth. The waitress, a pretty blonde girl maybe a couple of years older than Allison, gave us our menus and asked, "Do y'all want coffee?"

"Yes, please, very much," I replied.

"And you, Allie?"

I expected her to correct the waitress, but she didn't. "Yes, please, Cassie."

When the waitress left, Allison half-whispered to me, sounding slightly awestruck, "That's Cassie Donaldson. She's like the head cheerleader at school."

I realized that Cassie's exalted spot in the pecking order meant that Allison wouldn't snap at her, for fear of some sort of teenage girl retribution.

When the coffee came, I took a swig of the black liquid, and felt its warmth and its reviving powers flow through my body. Allison, on the other hand, put two packets of sugar and a ton of cream in the cup, rendering it a completely different beverage than what I was drinking. It was also clear, by the face she made when she took a sip, that coffee was not her regular morning drink, and I realized that she was trying to impress me, or something.

As it turned out, Allison was correct—the pancakes were great, and when I got her going, Allison was a pretty good companion, although I learned more about her school and her teams than I could process. We returned back to the house, and I went into the apartment to straighten up and begin packing my few belongings.

*

I got to the stadium at 1:30, and it was hot, humid day. I was glad that I didn't have to work out, and could try to stay cool. When I got into the locker room, Roscoe and Cal were packing their stuff, smiling.

"Roscoe, what's up, dude?"

He smiled broadly. "Cal and I are going up to AA for the end of the playoffs."

Cal nodded in agreement. "Gotta get to the airport."

"That's great, guys. Congrats. See you in February."

Before I could continue the conversation, Al called my name.

"Poole—I'm glad you're here early. Get your ass into my office."

My stomach dropped. The odds on this being good news were low. Al, however, was smiling, so maybe it wasn't anything big.

I somehow made it into the pitching coach's closet of an office and sat down.

Al chuckled. "Poole, this isn't bad news. Trust me." He pulled out a sheet of paper.

"Son, we've been talking to the front office folks, and they pointed out some stuff." He looked at the printout. "Seems that you're effectiveness drops off the second time through the lineup, and even more the third time."

"But I was winning games."

He nodded. "True. In low A. You're a smart kid, and were able to work around problems by pitching, not stuff. Here, it wasn't so easy. But you did great in relief in the last game."

"Al, what are you saying?"

"They want you to become a reliever. Which, if you want one man's opinion, actually gives you a shot to make it. Because, honestly, you aren't a big league starter."

My head was exploding. On the one hand, I was just told that the only thing I ever did well—starting pitching—was a dead end, and something that I rarely did—relieving—might get me to the majors. "Uh, so what does that mean?"

"It means that pretty soon, someone from the big club is going to send you some workout plans and other stuff to get you prepared for shorter outings at higher intensity, and they're going to talk about your pitch selection. Shit like that. And when you come to spring training, you'll work with the relievers. All goes well, maybe you're back here next year, to start the season, and who knows. Look, to be honest, since you're a college guy, they're gonna be aggressive with you."

"And if all doesn't go well?"

"Don't think that way, Poole. Be honest, when I saw you in spring training this year, I never figured you'd even last the season in low-A. But you figured it out, and ended up here, and won a ring. Clearly they have some faith in you. Don't fuck it up."

I took a minute to compose myself. Al was right. This was a good thing. Teams used tons of relief pitchers these days, and if I could figure it out, who knows. "Thanks, Al, and thanks for your help."

"That's my job, Poole, to mold pitchers out of dumbass kids."

I laughed. "Thanks, Al. See you in February. By the way, do I get a bus ticket or something to get home?"

"Yeah. You have to pay for it, and you submit it to the team, and they pay you back."

"Great. Thanks."

We shook hands, and I left, gathered my crap into a duffel, said good bye to whoever was there, and left, first pondering my future as a relief pitcher, but slowly pivoting to my immediate future with the beautiful Jillian Lowery.