and I wasn’t a player to be labeled. Though I didn’t understand it all right there, I knew my life in the game was going to change.
Chapter Five
My grandma didn’t exactly come to see me off as much as she came to stare eerily at me one last time for good luck. She lurked by the open garage door, safe from the harmful rays of direct sunlight, watching me like some carrion bird, as if I might take a dump in her yard. I threw my big suitcase and my Padres-issued equipment bag in the back of the cab and smacked the top of the trunk signaling I was ready to go. Then, despite myself, I managed to play good grandson long enough to hug my grandma even though the risk of being bitten on the neck was considerable.
At the airport check-in counter, I was informed that my bags were both overweight by about ten pounds. It’s hard to pack six months of stuff in one suitcase and an equipment bag. As I forked out one hundred dollars for the overages, I promised myself I’d ship my stuff next year. Then I recalled, I’d promised myself I’d do that last year.
Airplanes can be depressing, especially when you wind up with a middle seat between two chubby businessmen. When I boarded they followed me in, squeezing into the seats on the left and right of me and forcing me into that awkward game of chess involving armrest space. If this were a team flight, my compatriots and I would be smacking each other on the back of the head by now, ringing call buttons, annoying the stewardesses, and generally making asses of ourselves. There is safety in team numbers, a confidence not present when you’re alone. As it was, I pretended I was a mime, and flipped open SkyMall magazine while the business brothers broke out their BlackBerrys.
While I marveled over SkyMall ’s life-changing ingenuity, the brothers sparked up a conversation, speaking through me as if I were invisible, rambling on about widget sales and gross national product or something. Suddenly excited, they hit on some bar they knew in the area they were headed to and how they were going to get ripped, how there was a dancer there, and how if their wives knew about all of it, they’d be in the doghouse—again. They laughed very mischievously, like the Dukes of Hazzard business edition, and might have shared high fives if my head wasn’t in the way.
I gave up on SkyMall and made a break for my iPod. I had to rummage through my carry-on to get at it, dredging up all the items I had packed in the process, including the worn chunk of leather I passed for a glove. When I took out my mitt, the Duke Brothers took interest.
“You a ballplayer?” Bo Duke asked from the window seat. He motioned toward my glove.
“Yeah,”
“College?”
“No, professional”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I’m reporting to spring training today.”
“Oh, right on, man. What position do you play?”
“I’m a pitcher.”
“Righty or lefty?”
“Righty, unfortunately.”
“How long you been playing?”
“This is my fifth year.”
“Hey Luke, this guy plays professional baseball, how about that?” He called to his buddy, but there was no way he couldn’t have heard me as tightly as we were packed in.
“Oh yeah?” Luke Duke said from the aisle seat. “What position do you play?” he asked me, but the guy by the window answered.
“He’s a pitcher”
“Righty or lefty?”
“He’s a righty who wishes he were a lefty,” Bo said.
“How long you been playing?”
“He’s been playing for five years, Luke.” I didn’t even know the guy sitting next to me and already he was talking as if he edited my Wikipedia page.
“Got any time in the big leagues?”
“No, no time yet.” I answered for myself.
“So you’re just a minor leaguer then?”
What’s that supposed to mean? “Just a minor leaguer?” What are you, just a vacuum cleaner salesman? “Yes, sir, I’m just a minor leaguer.” I exhaled.
“Well, keep playing, never give up. You’ll hate yourself for
Chapter Five
My grandma didn’t exactly come to see me off as much as she came to stare eerily at me one last time for good luck. She lurked by the open garage door, safe from the harmful rays of direct sunlight, watching me like some carrion bird, as if I might take a dump in her yard. I threw my big suitcase and my Padres-issued equipment bag in the back of the cab and smacked the top of the trunk signaling I was ready to go. Then, despite myself, I managed to play good grandson long enough to hug my grandma even though the risk of being bitten on the neck was considerable.
At the airport check-in counter, I was informed that my bags were both overweight by about ten pounds. It’s hard to pack six months of stuff in one suitcase and an equipment bag. As I forked out one hundred dollars for the overages, I promised myself I’d ship my stuff next year. Then I recalled, I’d promised myself I’d do that last year.
Airplanes can be depressing, especially when you wind up with a middle seat between two chubby businessmen. When I boarded they followed me in, squeezing into the seats on the left and right of me and forcing me into that awkward game of chess involving armrest space. If this were a team flight, my compatriots and I would be smacking each other on the back of the head by now, ringing call buttons, annoying the stewardesses, and generally making asses of ourselves. There is safety in team numbers, a confidence not present when you’re alone. As it was, I pretended I was a mime, and flipped open SkyMall magazine while the business brothers broke out their BlackBerrys.
While I marveled over SkyMall ’s life-changing ingenuity, the brothers sparked up a conversation, speaking through me as if I were invisible, rambling on about widget sales and gross national product or something. Suddenly excited, they hit on some bar they knew in the area they were headed to and how they were going to get ripped, how there was a dancer there, and how if their wives knew about all of it, they’d be in the doghouse—again. They laughed very mischievously, like the Dukes of Hazzard business edition, and might have shared high fives if my head wasn’t in the way.
I gave up on SkyMall and made a break for my iPod. I had to rummage through my carry-on to get at it, dredging up all the items I had packed in the process, including the worn chunk of leather I passed for a glove. When I took out my mitt, the Duke Brothers took interest.
“You a ballplayer?” Bo Duke asked from the window seat. He motioned toward my glove.
“Yeah,”
“College?”
“No, professional”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I’m reporting to spring training today.”
“Oh, right on, man. What position do you play?”
“I’m a pitcher.”
“Righty or lefty?”
“Righty, unfortunately.”
“How long you been playing?”
“This is my fifth year.”
“Hey Luke, this guy plays professional baseball, how about that?” He called to his buddy, but there was no way he couldn’t have heard me as tightly as we were packed in.
“Oh yeah?” Luke Duke said from the aisle seat. “What position do you play?” he asked me, but the guy by the window answered.
“He’s a pitcher”
“Righty or lefty?”
“He’s a righty who wishes he were a lefty,” Bo said.
“How long you been playing?”
“He’s been playing for five years, Luke.” I didn’t even know the guy sitting next to me and already he was talking as if he edited my Wikipedia page.
“Got any time in the big leagues?”
“No, no time yet.” I answered for myself.
“So you’re just a minor leaguer then?”
What’s that supposed to mean? “Just a minor leaguer?” What are you, just a vacuum cleaner salesman? “Yes, sir, I’m just a minor leaguer.” I exhaled.
“Well, keep playing, never give up. You’ll hate yourself for
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