May 2005

University of Michigan

“Kim, come out tonight.” Gord cradled his cell phone in his ear as he dressed.

“I don’t know, Gord,” she replied from the loveseat in her living room.

“Come on. The guys won’t stay out after the team dinner and I don’t want to be at the bar by myself.”

The next afternoon, the Wolverines were scheduled to face the Purdue Boilermakers in the first game of the conference tournament. A team dinner had been planned at the Blue and Gold Pub to give the guys an opportunity to relax and clear their minds before the game.

After the meal, the majority of the team would retire to their respective houses to rest and get a good night’s sleep. Staying at home was the last thing Gord wanted to do. He had the ball in Game 1, and, his desire to stay at the bar notwithstanding, it was not an assignment he took lightly.

Without question, Gord was now Michigan’s ace. He had built on his first taste of college success the year before and unfurled a season that left imprints all over the Wolverines’ record books. Ten wins, one loss, and a dominating stat line: 100IP, 77H, 15BB, 79K and a 1.34 ERA.

He wasn’t trying to recruit Kim for a night of drunken debauchery that would result in a debilitating hangover the next morning. In fact, in Gord’s mind, staying out would actually help prepare him for his start.

Gord always needed to go out for a beer on the eve of his pitching appearances. Otherwise, he would just be cooped up at home, with his mind racing in anticipation. He also knew that the sooner he fell asleep, the sooner the dream would captivate his consciousness. It was not something he looked forward to — he tried to delay that moment as long as possible.

If he was in bed by midnight, Gord could guarantee himself about nine hours of sleep and then head to the park. It was his pre-start ritual. Most of the time, he could coerce one or two guys to join him, but, with the conference tournament looming, everyone planned to head home after dinner.

Therefore, Gord decided to ask Kim to join him. Yes, their relationship had hit a rocky patch at the Hangar three months earlier. In fact, the week before Gord left for training camp, they didn’t speak at all, nor for the entire duration of Michigan’s southern swing. But, they had smoothed things over and their friendship was back to normal.

“Well, if you’re going to be a big baby about it, I guess I’ll come out with you.”

“Sweet. Thanks, Kim.”

“You have to come pick me up, though. I’m not walking to the bar by myself.”

“Are all of your housemates gone already?”

“Yep. Julie was the last one and she left last night.”

Final examinations had finished that week, so there was a mass exodus of students leaving Ann Arbor. Kim had remained behind due to her job commitments at the campus bookstore. She planned to head back to Orlando on the first of June.

“I’ll come pick you up — no problem. Dinner shouldn’t take too long. I’ll get you around nine?”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

“ ’Bye, Kim.”

The Wolverines were scattered around the private party room at the Blue and Gold Pub. Some guys played pool, others played foosball, but the majority of the team was focused on the projection screen TV, which showed Detroit versus Minnesota in an early season divisional showdown.

Gord looked around the room. He noticed Ben Daniels, a freshman pitcher from Virginia, standing at the bar alone watching the game.

Daniels had just finished a rookie campaign worse than Gord’s two years earlier. At least Gord got the opportunity to fail in his first year. Daniels had blown a four-run lead in his lone appearance during Michigan’s spring training trip and had not appeared in a game since. The benching was so disastrous to his confidence that Daniels couldn’t even throw strikes or get hitters out in simulated games during practice.

With first-hand knowledge of such failure, Gord stood up from his seat in front of the TV and approached his teammate.

“Benny, how’s it going?”

“Not bad.” Daniels ordered another beer from the bartender. “God knows I’m not getting off the bench tomorrow, and with you starting, no other pitcher will either, so I figured I might as well get hammered.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t blame you. It’s tough sitting on the bench watching your team play without you. Trust me, I know.”

“You do?” Daniels was unconvinced.

“I do, buddy. More than you’d know. I was terrible in my first year. Most guys are. In my three years at Michigan, I’ve yet to see a true freshman succeed in his rookie season. It’s a tough adjustment going from high school to college.”

“Tell me about it,” Daniels nodded. “I was the MVP of my high school team.”

“You’ve got a good arm. You’ll figure it out.”

The bartender returned with Daniels’s beer.

“Here, let me get that,” Gord offered, sliding a ten dollar bill across the bar.

“Thanks, Gord.”

“No problem. Can I give you some advice?”

“Sure.”

“I’m going to let you in on a secret for success. And not just success at pitching or sports, but success in life. Have you ever heard of Derek Northcutt?”

Daniels recognized the name. “Didn’t he used to play here?”

“Yep. He was a senior during my rookie year. The guy just looked like a pitcher, big and strong, and he could throw forever. He never got tired. He had elbow surgery the year before I got to school, so he had lost some of his pop, but he could still bring it in the mid-eighties. Derek was the most mentally tough person I have ever met in my life. Nothing fazed him when he was on the hill. I never saw him get rattled once the entire year: not if guys made errors, not if the umpire squeezed him behind the dish, and definitely not if the offence couldn’t score him any runs.”

Gord paused briefly to order himself another drink.

“Derek was the epitome of a workhorse. He wanted the ball in every situation against the best teams and the best hitters. If he lost or had a bad outing, he wanted to pitch again the next day to redeem himself. He started, he relieved, and he closed. Northcutt did it all.”

“Wow.”

“Near the end of the season, I went up to him after practice one day. I asked him what his secret was — what gave him such a commanding presence on the mound.”

Daniels was intrigued. “What did he say?”

“Confidence. Derek told me that the most important thing a pitcher needs is confidence. It doesn’t matter how hard you throw, or how much control you have, or how good your curveball is; it all starts between the ears.”

“That’s great, but how I do get that confidence?”

“You have to believe in yourself, Ben. If you don’t think you can succeed, why would anyone else think you could? You have to be selfish; you need to be your number one fan. If your teammates see that you’re willing to dig in and battle through adversity, then they’ll get behind you. They’ll believe in you, too. Don’t stand on the mound and be scared of good hitters. Fuck them — they should be scared of you. Attack them like they’re nobodies. They can’t hit you. Think you’re better than your opponents. Don’t give them any credit.”

Daniels liked what he was hearing. “I never thought of it that way before.”

“Neither did I. Sure, it may seem egotistical, but who gives a shit. You want to succeed? You need to be self-serving. Confidence breeds success. The moment you lose faith in yourself, you’re toast. When you can stand tall after baseball or life or whatever has been shitting on you, and you still come back for more? That’s confidence.”

Gord replicated Derek Northcutt’s speech verbatim. He had committed the talk to memory and recited it to himself any time his own confidence waned.

“You cannot be scared to fail. You have to relish the opportunity to try again. Give it your best shot. Don’t make excuses; take responsibility and make it happen. This is not just about baseball. It applies to life as well. You’re nervous about speaking in front of a class? You’re smarter than everyone else in the room. You’re scared to approach a girl at the bar? She’s lucky that you want to talk to her. This is the mindset you need to have to succeed. But, most importantly, internalize it. Don’t be a loudmouth prick. Tell yourself you’re the best, but let your actions determine if that’s true.”

A procession of waitresses emerged from the kitchen bearing huge platters of food for the hungry Wolverines.

“Thanks for the advice, Gord.”

“No problem, Benny.” He clapped Daniels on the back. “We pitchers have to stick together. Let’s go eat.”

After the meal, the owner of the Blue and Gold Pub, and a staunch Michigan athletic supporter, had a surprise for the team as they settled the rather imposing bill.

“Guys,” began Farhad Karzhani, a Pakistani by birth and American by choice, “you know you are my favourite team at UM. But only because Michigan doesn’t have a cricket team yet.”

The Wolverines laughed loudly at the recurring joke.

“This dinner is on the house,” he continued. “My gift to you. Now, go kick some Purdue ass tomorrow!” he cried in heavily accented English.

Whoops and cheers broke out among the Wolverines, grateful for the benevolence of the mustachioed Karzhani. One by one, each player went to shake his hand in thanks. Gord approached at the end of the queue and Karzhani clasped his hand warmly.

“Pitch good tomorrow, Gord.” He winked. “Bowl me a gem.”

“Yes, sir,” Gord replied, smiling.

“Okay, boys, who’s sticking around for a pint or two?” Gord inquired of his teammates milling around the Blue and Gold Pub’s front entrance.

“I don’t know, Gord. I think you’re on your own tonight, buddy,” said TJ Jackson, speaking on behalf of the team.

Jackson’s comment was met with nods of agreement from the rest of the Wolverines.

Gord was unperturbed. “No problem, guys. A friend of mine said she’d come out with me for a bit.”

“I’ll stay for a drink, Gordo,” piped up Jeremy McLeod.

“Nice!” Gord exclaimed, draping his right arm across his personal catcher’s shoulders. “I knew I could count on my battery mate.”

Brent McPhee, the lone member of the coaching staff invited to the dinner, overheard the sequence of events and came over feigning concern.

“Yeah that’s what we need: our starting pitcher and catcher out drinking the night before the game,” McPhee quipped sarcastically. “I’m sure Perry would love to hear this.”

“Come on, Brent,” Gord replied. “You used to be cool when you played. We’ll embrace our inner Cinderella tonight. In bed by midnight.”

“Sure. Have fun, boys. You better be lights out tomorrow, Gord.”

McLeod and Gord picked Kim up at her house, and the three of them decided to check out Whisky Commons. McLeod, though a terrific catcher and Michigan’s field general on the diamond, was very shy and reserved around the opposite sex.

Gord had informed Kim of his catcher’s timidity, and she took it upon herself to include McLeod in the conversation as much as possible. She asked questions about his life, what he was studying, what he liked to do for fun, et cetera. It helped that Kim was never at a loss for words to make small talk.

Actually, it got to the point where Gord must have looked like a third wheel, so deeply enthralled Kim and McLeod were in conversation. Gord didn’t mind. Frankly, he was just happy to be out of the house and not thinking about tomorrow’s start.

Around eleven o’clock, the three of them decided to call it a night. McLeod lived just off Main Street, about three blocks south of Whisky Commons. Kim and Gord said their goodbyes to the bashful catcher at a deserted cross street. Gord and McLeod exchanged handshakes, while Kim moved in for a hug. The smile plastered across McLeod’s face after his embrace with Kim could have powered the street lights along Main Street.

Gord and Kim continued south toward her house. They walked in lockstep, making chit-chat, when Kim asked a question that would prove to have major ramifications on their friendship and, ultimately, lead to its dissolution.

“Do you mind if I crash at your place?”

Gord raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Uh, sure.”

“I hate sleeping at my place by myself. It creeps me out to be there alone at night.”

“You are such a wuss.”

“Shut up.”

Gord laughed. “Yeah, you can stay at my place. But I have to be at the park by noon.”