August 2008

Lakeland, Florida
Mercantile Stadium

Gord, with his feet propped up on a wooden training table, sat shirtless and drenched in sweat in Lakeland’s clubhouse. He had just finished an arduous workout in the Wildcats’ weight room.

The rest of the team started to trickle into the clubhouse to prepare for that night’s contest against the Palm Beach Crabs. Enjoying his last fleeting moments of solitude, Gord pored over the stat sheets posted biweekly on the locker room bulletin board.

It had been ten days since Gord spent the night with Kim. Things couldn’t have been better between them. They talked on the phone every day and had even managed to squeeze in two dates, despite their busy schedules.

The week before, the Wildcats played a three-game set versus the Daytona Bears. Coincidentally, Kim had work commitments in the Daytona area at the same time. They were able to meet up after the middle game of the series. Gord and Kim spent the night in his motel room, as a replacement roommate for Danny Johnson had still not been assigned.

Kim had also made a trip to Lakeland to visit Gord when the Wildcats were in the midst of a rare weekend off-day. While their romantic relationship was still in its infancy, Kim and Gord’s previous friendship and familiarity with one another had fostered a strong bond between them.

They had the best of both worlds: the sexually charged intimacy of a bourgeoning relationship, and the comfort and stability of a committed partnership. Although the words hadn’t been uttered, Kim and Gord were in love.

Smiling, Gord focused his attention back to the stat sheets. He had led Lakeland’s entire rotation in ERA over the past fortnight. He stared at the three digits beside his name in the earned run average column and was ecstatic with their numerical symmetry: 0.00. Over the past two weeks, Gord had not allowed an earned run in six appearances, totalling fifteen innings.

This snapshot of his success was part of a larger picture of improved performance over the past month. Since being challenged by Tom Conrad to improve upon his poor early season results, Gord had drastically stepped up his game. He was proud of himself for answering the bell and showing resilience, with his baseball livelihood on the line.

For the year, Gord’s numbers were much improved from the first six weeks of the season: 37 innings, 3.93 ERA, 45 Hits, 8 walks, and 23 strikeouts. His batting average against had fallen to a very respectable .267. At first glance, Gord’s numbers wouldn’t have blown anyone away, but considering where he was six weeks ago, he had put forth a commendable body of work.

“Oh, Christ. Are you gonna frame those?” inquired Chris Seaboard, as he strolled into the clubhouse. “Maybe make a copy and put them on your fridge?”

“Fuck off, Seaboard,” Gord laughed. “I can autograph these for you if you’d like. The closest you’ll get to three doughnuts in a row like this is during the postgame spread.”

“How’s it going, buddy?” Seaboard greeted Gord with a mid-level five.

“Can’t complain, pal. Things are good,” Gord replied. “You on the bump tonight?”

“Yeah, man. Conrad’s giving me the emergency start. Cole’s shoulder is still sore. Probably from jacking off too much.”

“Mattis!” Tim Reid barked over the din of Gord and Seaboard’s laughter. “Skip wants to see you in his office.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Gord replied, as the Badger stalked off to do whatever he did when he wasn’t terrifying players.

Gord assumed that Conrad wanted to quickly commend him for his stellar results over the past few weeks. Therefore, he didn’t bother putting a shirt on as he made his way to the office of Lakeland’s field boss.

He rapped his knuckles on the door frame, indicating his presence. “Skip?”

Conrad took his glasses off and surveyed his left-hander. “Gord, come in.”

Gord took two steps into the dingy office and waited for Conrad to deliver a formulaic “Keep up the good work” address.

“Close the door and have a seat.”

A chill ran down Gord’s spine as he turned to shut the glass door. He looked inquisitively at his manager, hoping Conrad’s face would reveal the point of this meeting. But Conrad was stone. A perfect poker face.

He cleared his throat. “Gord, I just wanted to tell you what a great job you’ve done over the last month. You’ve been one of my most dependable relievers and are one of the main reasons the club has been playing so well recently.”

Gord felt his body relax slightly with each compliment. “Thanks, Tom. I feel like I’ve really turned a corner here. I’m looking forward to the rest of the season.”

Conrad diverted his gaze. He scratched at an imaginary spot on his rusted metal desk.

“I know we had a discussion awhile back about your future with the organization.” Conrad’s voice wavered slightly as he continued. “I told you that some of our younger arms were breathing down your neck and you needed to prove to the front office that you were worth a spot on the club. And based solely on the numbers, you’ve done that.”

Gord’s heart was in his throat. He didn’t know where Conrad was going with this speech.

“Unfortunately, this is not just a numbers-based decision.”

Gord mustered a faint nod. What did that mean? He waited for his manager to explain.

“Our scouting staff has been following each minor league affiliate in a sort of blitzkrieg scouting session. The front office wants a report card and recommendations for advancement of every player in our system. I have your report right here,” Conrad said, tapping the impressive stack of papers occupying the right side of his desk.

Gord felt the acidic taste of bile creep up his throat. His mind speculated wildly on what was written in his report.

“Basically, our scouts have determined that your ceiling is A ball.” Conrad jumped right into the crux of the report, as though it would lessen the sting of his message. “It has been recommended that your contract be terminated immediately to make room for some pitchers with greater potential.” Conrad looked at his left-hander with sad eyes. “And I have no choice but to follow that directive.”

The air rushed out of Gord like he’d just had a date with the front end of an express train. Contract terminated? They’re releasing me? He struggled to make sense of his manager’s words.

“If it were up to me, I’d keep you on the roster to help this team win. Unfortunately, you know as well as I do that the minor leagues are in place to develop big league talent, not to make the Central Florida League playoffs.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Gord stared blankly at the floor. I’m cut? My ceiling is A ball?

Deep down, Gord knew that he didn’t have the stuff to make it to the Show. He had seen the writing on the wall. Watching Danny Johnson pitch for half a season only reiterated as much. But Gord didn’t care. So what if he projected to be a career minor leaguer. He just wanted to play baseball for a living. Gord had been proving people wrong at every level since high school. A part of him foolishly hoped that, with enough hard work, he’d be able to do the same in the minors. But he wasn’t going to get that chance.

Gord offered a meek point of contention. “But Tom, I haven’t given up a run in fifteen innings. I’ve led the staff in ERA the past two weeks. I mean, the stats — ”

Conrad held up a hand to interrupt. “I know you have, Gord, but you have to look at this from a scouting perspective. You’re four to five years older than most of the hitters in this league. Plus, you have four years of college ball under your belt. You’re getting these guys out with maturity and guile, not with your stuff. These guys are still too raw to know what pitches to hit and what pitches to lay off. You’ve just been taking advantage of that — as you should. But that won’t work in Double A. The hitters are much smarter up there. They’d use you as batting practice. I’m sorry, Gord, I really am.”

Gord looked at his manager. Conrad appeared to have aged fifteen years over the course of their brief conversation.

Gord felt zero sympathy for him. He feels bad. What about how I feel? Gord thought. He still has a job. He’s still involved in the game.

Gord wanted answers. “Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do now, Tom?”

Conrad sat silent. Invariably, every player he released showed flashes of anger when faced with his baseball mortality. There was nothing Conrad could say to defuse the anger, so he usually kept his mouth shut and let the player vent.

A deep pit of rage and frustration boiled through Gord. He bolted upright, knocking his chair over in the process. “Well? Come on. You seem to have all the fucking answers,” he shouted. “What am I supposed to do now? I’ve wanted to play baseball since I was five fucking years old. And you’re telling me I can’t anymore. How is that right? Who made you God?”

Gord turned away from his manager. Yelling and screaming wasn’t going to change his mind. Nothing would. Gord’s professional baseball dream was over. Blinking through tears, he looked back at Conrad. The shouting was replaced with a whisper. “What am I going to do?”

“I’ve watched you over the past year. Not just on the field, but off. In the clubhouse, on the bus during road trips. I’ve seen the way guys on the team look at you. They respond to you. You were a leader on this team. You showed a lot of these young guys how to prepare for games and act like a professional. They saw you in here busting your tail in the weight room, pouring every last ounce of blood, sweat, and tears into making yourself a better pitcher.”

“Yeah, well, apparently it wasn’t enough,” Gord bitterly retorted.

“Maybe not, but as a manager, your heart and determination was a privilege to witness. You’re part of a dying breed, Gord. A true student of the game. There aren’t many of us left. Most of the pitchers on my staff owe you a debt of gratitude for helping them with their command, or their breaking stuff, or the polish necessary to thrive in the face of adversity.”

Conrad let his words linger in the air for a moment before he continued.

“Earlier today, I called Hank Walton, the manager in Erie. I wanted an update on Johnson, to see how he was doing. The kid is on fire up there. Lights out. Not only that, but he’s started lifting weights and has really committed himself to his bullpen sessions between starts. He’s reading scouting reports and watching videos of his mechanics. Anything he can do to get better.

“I asked Hank what catalyzed the change. Apparently, Danny said it was a conversation the two of you had before he left. He said you challenged him to reach his potential. That you showed him how to get the most of his talent. You’re a natural teacher, Gord.”

“Look, Tom. That’s great. I’m really happy for Danny,” Gord said. “But that still doesn’t change the fact that my baseball career is over.”

Conrad shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be. You can still be a part of the game. Have you ever thought about coaching?”

“I’m twenty-four years old, Tom. You want me to staple my ass to a bench and write out lineup cards?”

“No. I mean as an instructor. You have the knowledge and demeanour to teach pitching. Any organization would be lucky to have someone like you on their payroll, fine-tuning the deliveries of their draft picks.”

“With all due respect, Tom, I don’t think that’s for me. I couldn’t stand teaching guys to pitch when, in my heart, I know I can still throw at this level. The Wildcats may think my career is over, but I don’t.”

“I respect that, Gord. And I wish you the best of luck. It has been a pleasure having you on the squad.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

The two men shook hands across Conrad’s desk. Gord left the office quietly. He had walked into the office supremely confident and in possession of an impressive scoreless innings streak. He left the office with an outright release and a shattered baseball career.

In a daze, Gord made his way across the width of the clubhouse. Not wanting to begin the agonizing process of cleaning out his locker, Gord sat shell-shocked in front of it. He struggled to grasp the stupefying reality of his release.

“What did Conrad want?” asked a smirking Chris Seaboard. “Do we have to cover your ass with rose petals when you go into the shower now?”

Gord didn’t even acknowledge his teammate’s presence. It was like he didn’t know Seaboard was there.

“Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” Seaboard continued. “Your face is white as a sheet.” He snapped his fingers a foot from Gord’s face.

Gord peered at Seaboard. “I’m done.”

“You’re done? Done what? What does that mean?”

“I’m done. Cut. Released.”

“Fuck off,” Seaboard cracked, thinking Gord was putting him on.

Gord shook his head sadly. “That’s what Conrad wanted to see me about.”

“Jesus Christ.” Seaboard sat down beside him. “Why?”

“Because I’m a dinosaur, man. I’m too old for A ball and the front office doesn’t project me to get promoted. So, I’m gone. They’re making room for the new crop of arms.”

“Fuck, man, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, boys. What’s up?” Steve Anderson strolled into the clubhouse. He approached Gord and Seaboard.

The silence was deafening. Seaboard awkwardly averted his eyes from Anderson, unwilling to be the bearer of bad news. Gord glanced up at his fellow pitcher.

“I just got released.”

“What?” inquired a disbelieving Anderson. “You’re kidding me?”

By the looks on their faces, it was clear to Anderson that Gord wasn’t kidding.

“That’s so shitty.”

Nodding, Gord stood up and wordlessly stuffed the contents of his locker into a large, black duffel bag. He worked at a feverish pace, wishing to speed up the inevitable and get away from two dozen sets of prying eyes. Gord knew that, as soon as he left, gossip and rumours of his dismissal would fly furiously around the clubhouse. He turned back to his visibly uncomfortable bullpen mates.

“Look, guys, I don’t want to make this any tougher than it is. I’ll always consider both of you great friends and I hope both of you make it to the Show.” He embraced both Seaboard and Anderson.

“I’ll miss you guys.” Gord struggled to keep his composure. “I better go make my rounds.”

Slinging the duffel bag over his right shoulder, Gord made his way around the clubhouse and said goodbye to the rest of the Wildcats milling around their lockers. His departure caught the majority of the team off-guard.

Gord’s release was taken harder by a lot of the guys than one might think. And it had nothing to do with Gord’s popularity in the clubhouse. Gord’s exodus actually made a lot of the Wildcats question their own baseball mortality. If it could happen to him, it could happen to me, they thought.

Baseball was a fickle game. One minute you could be a star on a meteoric rise to the top — the next minute, you could be on your way out of town with a one-way bus ticket. The privilege of playing baseball for a living was not something to be taken for granted, and sometimes it took the release of a teammate to remember that.

Amidst the melancholic atmosphere of Gord’s farewell was a moment of levity provided by Tyson Dante.

Dante was in the stadium’s indoor cage taking extra batting practice when word of Gord’s release reached him. Dante stormed out of the cage and found Gord just as he was preparing to leave the clubhouse for the last time.

“Gord!”

He turned to face the diminutive slugger.

“You’re gone?” Dante asked.

“Yeah,” Gord replied.

Dante was silent for a moment. “Shit, you can’t go,” he whined. “I’m hitting .500 in the games you pitch!”

Gord’s lips curled up in a slight smile. “I think I’m going to miss you most of all, Scarecrow.”

“What does that mean?” Dante was confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Exactly. See you later, Tyson.”

Gord walked out of the clubhouse. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t call himself a baseball player. He didn’t know what he was.