When You Know, You Know

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This is a new standalone story, though I plan on leaving it somewhat open for continuation if I feel there's more to tell at a possible later date.

I fully intend on continuing the stories of Matt and Katie as well as James and Ally, but I knew I had to get this out of my head or it would consume me.

If you like my other works, you'll probably like this. If you don't, then I hope this one still does justice for you. I promise, it's not all baseball, it just starts off that way, so if you aren't a baseball fan, don't give up right away!

I may or may not have gotten slightly carried away with this, but I enjoy it nonetheless and I hope you all do too!

-- this story is completely fiction, though real places and real public figures are mentioned. I've never done anything like this so I hope I do it right. --

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I was ecstatic when I heard my name called for the starting lineup, even more excited to hear I wasn't batting last. Something about hearing 'Jack Wilson' being called out in the clubhouse made my adrenaline rush. Out of one hundred and sixty-two regular season games, I'd played in twenty-eight, and started eleven of those.

It was my first year in the Big Leagues, The Show, where every young boy in America dreams of playing, and I was living it. I grew up a die hard Phillies fan, even being from Michigan. I just loved Chase Utley and Ryan Howard, even though I was a catcher.

Being a Phillies fan, I was over the moon when I'd heard I'd been traded to their organization at the AAA level in the offseason. They didn't need me, they had the best catcher in the League in JT, so I guessed I was just another hot bat for the lineup until they figured where else to send me, but it didn't matter. Even if it was for a short time, I was playing for the team of my dreams, albeit at the minor league level.

Things kept going my way, and I showed up big time in spring training, and got the call up to the twenty-six man roster. I didn't get to play much, but that's how it goes when you're playing behind the best player in the league at your position, and it's even worse when he never takes a day off, but I was over the moon nonetheless.

I was making a living, a really good living, playing the game I loved. What could I complain about? Most guys in my position would complain about the lack of playing time, but I didn't. I was wearing my favorite jersey. I figured I'd bide my time until I got traded, hopefully remaining at the big league level, but wouldn't be surprised if I got sent down.

Everyone said I was a career minor leaguer. For a while, I figured they were right.

It was game one of the World Series. I'd been the DH in game three of the NLDS, and pinched hit in the ninth of game one of the NLCS. All in all, I had five career postseason at-bats, batting two-thirty with a homer and two RBI. That was all going to change that night, in my first WS appearance.

Skipper had me batting sixth and starting behind the dish, since JT wasn't playing tonight due to tightness in his thigh. He'd been checked out by seemingly every doctor in the state and we were all assured he was perfectly fine and could play if needed, but Skipper decided to give him a day off, so I got the call.

It was the bottom of the ninth, we were down two, and I had a runner on second as I came to the plate. Surprisingly, I wasn't nervous at all, which was one of the good qualities I had, I could perform under pressure just like I would in any other situation.

The pitcher kicked and sent a fastball inside at ninety-nine, brushing me back. It didn't matter. I just smiled and stepped back into the box. The next pitch was a hanging curve. There's no way he meant to leave it up there, but he did, and that was my bread and butter.

I'd never heard, or felt, a louder crowd, with more energy, than I did in that moment. The entire stadium erupted after the ball shot off my bat with an audible crack, launching high and deep towards the left field wall. I knew it was gone.

Thank god. I didn't want to have to run. I'd slid earlier in the game and my knee had been sore ever since. Luckily, I got to make a celebratory trot around the bases as the entire city of Philadelphia seemed to shake. I just came in clutch, tying a game in the World Series. The fucking World Series!

Inside, I was bouncing around like a kid. I was so excited. I don't think I'd ever been happier than that in my life. On the outside, I was cool, calm, and collected. At least as much as I could be. I just homered in the World Series after all.

"Long Ball" Hall was called to pinch hit behind me with two outs, in hopes of walking it off with another homer. He didn't, instead lining out to short to send the game to the tenth.

There was one out with a runner on third. The batter hit a soft grounder towards first, Hoskins fielded it cleanly and stepped back to touch the bag, then rifled it home. I wasn't sure why the runner on third was going, but he was.

I did everything right. It was a perfect throw. I made my downward motion and made the tag. It was a perfect play.

He slid into me. I was still on my way down so my left leg was kicked out at an awkward angle and he somehow got his cleat right into the side of my knee. My intent was to go to my right knee with my left kicked out, like I did every time I made a play at the plate.

When his foot connected, I knew it was bad. I felt something pop and something else snap. A split second later and I was fully on the ground, dropped like a sack of potatoes. The crowd went absolutely crazy, not because I was hurt, I'm sure they didn't even notice, but because the game was still tied and that was the third out.

I couldn't move. I didn't yell out in pain like I thought I was going to. With the adrenaline of possibly saving the game yet again, I barely even noticed the pain, but I definitely did realize something was seriously wrong with my knee and I couldn't really move it.

Apparently my teammates noticed too, and soon the baserunner was being charged by a few of them from the dugout. It didn't even look obvious to me, but they somehow saw the intent and came to back me up. Luckily the umpires broke it up and issued warnings before any actual punches were thrown.

The next few moments were a blur. Trainers came out and evaluated me. The stands went quiet once they saw the replay. One of the trainers went to motion for the cart to get me stretchered off the field but I put a stop to that immediately, instead making them help me to my good leg, letting me use them to hop back to the dugout. No way in hell was I getting carted off the field.

The trainers once again made a request that I immediately denied. They wanted to take me straight to the locker room. I wanted to see the game through. The pain was becoming intense by then, but I stood on my good leg and leaned on the dugout rail, praying my teammates would end it there in the bottom of the tenth.

They did. Vierling, batting eighth, sent a solo shot deep to the opposite field. I knew my throat was going to be sore from yelling so much. The entire city was absolutely on fire in that moment. Vierling got mobbed at home plate as he came around, and it wasn't long after he had the cooler of water dumped all over him for his walkoff.

The pain in my knee was almost unbearable by then, so I motioned for the trainers to help me back to the tunnel so I could go get looked at and doped up on painkillers. My team had other plans, and a second cooler was dumped over my head, and the poor trainers. It was a nice sentiment to know they hadn't forgot about my dinger or the play at the plate in all the hype of the walkoff.

In true teammate fashion, they all lined up in the dugout and shook my hand one by one as I made my way to the tunnel. Even the bullpen had made their way in to shake my hand and clap me on the back. Regardless of the pain in my knee, it was the greatest moment of my life then.

**

I had completely torn my ACL and MCL. The doctor said they must had been strained sometimes earlier and were weaker, because he was dumbfounded how that shot to the knee would have done it. He assumed it was from the angle, motion, and pressure I'd been putting on it as I was going down to make the tag, combined with the blunt force to extend the knee the wrong way, but even then he said they shouldn't have torn like that.

Either way, they did. He wanted to do surgery right away, but relented and agreed to wait until after the series, saying it wouldn't effect recovery time any, or make it worse, so he set me up in a brace and gave me crutches, allowing me to be with the team for the rest of the series.

We didn't win it all. It was a damn good run. Nobody thought we could do it, but we came close. Two games short.

Surgery went perfectly. I was expected to be back at full strength again by sometime around late August, early September. I gave it everything I had, doing PT and working with trainers every single day. I loved baseball, and there was no way I was going to let this stand in my way of making it a career.

The second best day of my life came on August twenty-ninth, when doc cleared me for full duty. I'd made a remarkable recovery, and thought I would die if I was off the baseball diamond for even a second longer.

The Phillies sent me down to AAA in Lehigh Valley for a rehab assignment to get me back into the swing of things. My first game back was going absolutely perfect, the fire of the World Series still burning bright within me. I'd homered in my first two at-bats and made a few awesome stops and a great play behind the dish. I was determined to make it back.

The second best day of my life turned into the single worst day of my life in the blink of an eye. I'd just smacked a ball into the gap, giving me an easy double, and a shot at a triple. I saw the center fielder bobble it as he went to pick it up and turned on the jets to get to third.

As I was rounding second, I felt that damn pop, and once again, I dropped like a sack of potatoes. In my agonizing pain I still had the wherewithal to crawl back to second safely, so at least someone could pinch run for me at second and keep the inning alive.

I turned over and parked my ass right there on second base, tears forming in my eyes. Not from the pain, I couldn't give less of a shit about that, but from the knowledge that my career was probably over.

It seemed to take the trainers an hour to make it out to me at second, but in reality, it was probably more like thirty seconds. My mind drifted off to little league. Practicing with my dad in the back yard every day, trying to get better and better, not settling until I was the best player in the entire league, and even then, still trying to improve.

I thought back to middle school ball, playing my heart out for my school for the first time. Then high school ball, making varsity as a freshman. Getting better and better, training for hours every single day. I absolutely loved baseball. I ate it. I slept it. I breathed it.

It did lead to less of a social life than most kids. While they were all out having fun, I was hitting balls off the machine in the batting cage Dad build for me in the back yard. Sure, I still had a good group of friends, and we all hung out quite frequently, but I barely dated. I guess a high school girl didn't want to compete with baseball for my heart.

We took States all four years. I had baseball scholarships left and right to almost every Division One school in the country. I hate tooting my own horn, but for an eighteen year old kid, I was damn good. One of the best.

That point got proven when I got drafted in the end of the first round by the Red Sox. I showed up pretty big in that first spring training and got sent straight to AA, skipping rookie ball, low A, and high A. Once you hit triple A, the prospects aren't prospects any more. You're just another ball player on another club.

Even then, I stood out pretty well, carrying a career minor league average of three-thirty-one. Each year I hit around twenty-five to thirty-five homers. I was still good, just not Big League good yet.

Then I got the call. It was the greatest moment of my life. Hell anything to do with baseball was the greatest moment of my life.

I was shaken out of my daydream when the trainers finally got to me. Before they could even ask any questions, I just sighed, told them I was done, and had them help me off the field. I still wasn't going to get carted off.

The fans at the game were obviously Phillies fans, and they knew who I was, so I once again got a standing ovation as I left the field, though this time, I knew it was probably the last time I'd ever be a player on a diamond. In that moment, I wanted to die.

Seven years in the minors, one in the majors. Most people never make it that far. I should have been proud. I should have been forever grateful I was able to live that dream for as long as I did. In the back of my mind, I knew I was proud, and knew I was grateful, but in that moment, all I saw was it getting washed down the drain...

**

I was right. Both the ACL and the MCL tore again, but the MCL was minor and didn't need surgery, the ACL did however. This time, Doc said it was very unlikely I'd ever be able to play at full strength again. He said I could rehab and train, but if they didn't just tear again, I'd never be as good as I was.

Considering I was barely even good enough to make a major league roster, I decided that was it. Thank God my family, friends, and teammates were so supportive, because it was a hard choice to make.

Baseball was my love, my life, my everything. I wasn't sure what I was going to do without it.

**

I felt the gravel churn under my tires as I pulled off the dirt road and onto my long gravel driveway after work. Playing for a World Series contending team, even if it was just for a year, had its benefits, and I'd acquired myself a good little nest egg to restart my life back home.

It wasn't the millions that the long time players make, but it was enough for me to fix up my old truck, by a nice twenty acre chunk of land that had a quaint little house and a nice fifty by sixty pole barn on it, both in great shape.

I had a few hundred thousand left in savings after those purchases, so I got with my dad, a wealthy business man in his own right, and his investment guy, and invested about half of it. If it worked out anything like how my dads did, that hundred thousand and some change would serve me well over the years.

I'd always loved driving, and been good at it, so after my recovery and finishing renovating my new home, I got my CDL class A, and got a nice paying job, making about eighty-five thousand a year, which around here, went along way, as a local heavy hauler, running pickles of all things from the local factory to the other side of the state.

I carried good hours, running from around five in the morning to around three at night, so right about fifty hours a week, give or take depending on the day. It was good work, paid very well, and I really enjoyed it, so it suited me just fine.

I was twenty seven years old now, having spent from ages eighteen to twenty six playing baseball, and another six months on recovery.

I pulled the truck up next to the house and killed the motor. It was an old eighty eight single cab Ford with the seven three in it my dad gave me when I turned sixteen. Since then I'd basically rebuilt the thing and lifted it up eight inches and put it on thirty seven inch tires. It was my baby.

Jumping out of the truck I grabbed my empty thermos and water jug I carried with me and made my way into the house, kicking my boots off at the door and heading for the kitchen to rinse the thermos and re fill the water jug and put it in the fridge for tomorrow.

I'd fallen into a routine since being home. Being a baseball player, I liked routine. Setting the thermos down upside down on the dish towel that sat next to the sink, I made my way over to my room to strip down and take a shower. I hung my work jeans over the back of the chair in the corner to wear the next day, I usually just wore one set Monday through Wednesday, then wore a new set Thursday and Friday, but I tossed the shirt into the hamper. That, I changed every day.

I stepped into the bathroom, turned the shower on, and looked at myself in the mirror as it warmed up. It's hard not to see the ball player I once was, but at least I didn't hate the guy I saw.

I was about six foot two, one hundred and ninety pounds. I wasn't ripped by any means, but it was mostly muscle. One thing I hadn't lost when I lost baseball was my drive to stay in shape, so if I didn't work out on the equipment I had in the barn, it's because I was doing some other form of manual labor and figured it counted.

After my shower I threw on an old t shirt and a pair of shorts. It was only early April, but it was hot for this time of year. Heading back out of my room I made my way towards my screened in front porch, grabbed a beer from the fridge out there, and plopped down on my favorite chair.

I stared out over my land, admiring its beauty for a few minutes. Reaching over to the table next to me, I turned on the speaker which automatically connected to my phone. Thumbing to the MLB app I scrolled through the games being played at that moment and settled on the Tigers, my number two team, even though they were the hometown team and I was the minority here.

As the radio broadcast filled the air, I kicked my feet up, took a long swig from my PBR, closed my eyes, and let the sounds of the game take me back

**

The next day was Friday, and work went extremely smooth. I made my runs, surprisingly no traffic, no hold ups, in and out of the receiver both times. Easy peasy.

I was home by two thirty.

Friday nights I usually met my buddies from high school at the local bar, so until then I went out by the barn to work on my latest project. I was putting in a patio area off the side of the barn, and was going to center a fire pit in the middle of it and build a big gazebo off to one side.

I had the patio down, the fire pit sectioned off, and the four posts for the gazebo set in the earth. All I was waiting on was the brick for the rest of the fire pit, so in the meantime, I set to making sure the posts were straight and not slanted in any direction, then went about running the four by four boards from post to post for the frame.

I had a tiki type design in mind, but I wasn't too sure yet. It wasn't far from being done, maybe a week or so if I kept actively working on it.

I worked for a few hours on it before checking my watch, deciding I should go shower up and get ready to head to the bar, so I put my power tools back in the barn and headed back towards the house.

I grabbed a quick shower, touched up my beard, and threw a standard Carhartt t shirt and a clean pair of jeans on. Ever since I could grow one, I'd always kept my beard about a quarter of an inch, and it was thick. Long enough to look good, and short enough so it wasn't ungodly. I thought it looked really good on me. Fit me well.

After I'd gotten dressed and ready to roll, I heard my phone ding from over on my bed. Making my way over to it I picked it up to see it was a text from my buddy Connor, who was one of the guys meeting me at the bar.

~ sorry, none of us can make it tonight. Got some family matters. Grandpas going crazy again. Lol ~

Welp, there went my night I chuckled to myself. By 'none of us', he meant himself, Brad, Jessie, and Scott. Brad was his brother and Jess was his sister. Scott was our buddy from high school who wound up dating Jess. We all figured they'd get married before too long.