September 2008

Orlando, Florida

“I’m running out of options, here, Kim.” Gord was despondent.

The only sound in Kim’s condo was the lake breeze sauntering in from the balcony and gently whipping the blinds against the sliding glass door.

Nursing a beer, Gord sat defeated in the middle of Kim’s loveseat with his feet propped up on an ottoman. Kim sat perpendicular to him on the couch, her feet tucked beneath her legs.

“There’s no one else you can contact?” she queried.

“I’ve called everyone I can think of. They all told me the same thing the Wildcats did. No one wants a twenty-four-year-old middle reliever clogging up a roster spot in A ball.”

It had been two weeks since Gord’s release from the Wildcats’ organization. Since then, he had spent each day calling every friend, colleague, and acquaintance he had in professional baseball, asking — make that begging — for a roster spot. Every reply was the same. We’d love to help you, Gord, but we don’t have the room, money, or need for your services.

“Besides, it’s Labour Day weekend now,” Gord continued. “The chances of finding something at this point in the season are slim to none. I can’t get a spot in the Instructional League without a minor league contract and I don’t have the juice or cachet behind my name to play winter ball.”

Kim took a deep breath. She had a suggestion, but it was unlikely to be well-received by Gord. She knew she had to tread carefully when broaching the subject.

“Well, maybe it’s time to start thinking about life after baseball. Like what do you want to do, career-wise?”

“Life after baseball? All I’ve ever wanted to do is play the game for a living. What else can I do?”

“You have your kinesiology degree …” Kim let her words linger, giving Gord the opportunity to fill in his own ending.

“So, you think I should be a gym teacher?”

“Not necessarily — ” she started to reply, but Gord cut her off.

“No, yeah, that’s a good idea,” Gord quipped. “I can buy a pair of nice, tight cotton shorts, wear knee-high socks, grow a moustache, and have a whistle dangle permanently from my neck. Then I can berate a group of twenty-five eight-year-olds for not running fast enough from point A to point B. Sounds like a very rewarding career.”

“Look, Gord,” Kim’s eyes flashed with anger. “I am sorry that baseball isn’t working out for you right now. But I’m trying to help you to get through this. I don’t need to put up with your pity party, woe is me, sarcastic bullshit.”

She spat out the last two syllables and stormed out to the balcony. Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that, Gord thought. She’s right. Man up and stop acting like a petulant asshole.

Gord took the last swig of his beer and placed the bottle on the glass coffee table. He followed Kim to the balcony.

“Kim, I’m sorry. I’m just having a hard time with this. But that still doesn’t give me the right to take my frustration out on you.” He put his hands on her shoulders as she faced Lake Lucerne. “Having you with me is what’s getting me through this. I’d be going nuts without you.”

Kim smiled and turned to face him. “Well, I guess you’re not as dumb as you look.”

Gord kissed her. With their foreheads pressed together, Gord revealed what else had been bothering him the past week.

“I haven’t told my dad about my release yet.”

Michael Mattis had followed his son’s professional career with the same fervour that he had during Gord’s high school and college years. But with Gord plying his trade in Florida and Michael remaining in Michigan, he was forced to follow the Lakeland Wildcats in absentia.

Michael constantly scoured the Internet for stat updates and listened to every game he could on satellite radio. He had messaged Gord a few days earlier, inquiring about his disappearance from the team’s box scores over the last fourteen days.

Gord hastily created a fake hamstring injury to mollify his snooping father, but he knew he couldn’t depend on the pulled muscle for very much longer.

“How do you think he’ll react?” Kim asked. She was concerned, as she knew about their somewhat fractured past.

“I have no idea, but most likely some degree of furious.”

Michael’s hard-assed approach to the game and relentless pushing of his son to greater heights had waned slightly since Gord got drafted. Gord surmised it was because he had reached a higher level than his father. Thus, Gord had surpassed Michael’s decidedly high expectations for his son.

That being said, Michael still demanded the best from Gord. Poor pitching performances were usually followed by tersely worded notes offering “suggestions” for improvement. Oddly enough, the better Gord pitched, the less he heard from his father. Silence was the sincerest form of flattery in Michael Mattis’s motivational handbook.

“When were you planning on calling?”

“I wanted to wait until I exhausted all of my possibilities. Since I’ve pretty much done that, I’ve just kept trying to put it off. I am not looking forward to that conversation.” Gord paused and leaned over the balcony, inhaling the sweet Florida air.

“You can do it here, if you want.” Kim put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I can give you some moral support.”

Gord was nervous. How could he tell his dad that the dream both of them had shared since Gord was a kid had come to an end? What do I say? How do I start?

“Thanks. I should just do it now. Otherwise, this is going to be eating me up inside until I call.” Gord looked intently at Kim. “But this is something I have to do by myself.”

She hugged him. “I understand. You can have the place to yourself. I have to go out shopping anyway.” She kissed Gord on the cheek. “Good luck.”

Gord paced around the condo with Kim’s cordless phone in his hand. He whacked it on the back of his neck, rehearsing various scenarios on how to break the news. When he finally came up with something half-decent, he dialled his father’s number. Shaking with trepidation, he tried to calm his breathing as he listened to a third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“Gordon,” his father panted. “How are you?”

“I’m doing okay.” Gord paused, concerned. “Are you okay? Why are you breathing so hard?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just got back from a run.”

“Oh, okay.”

Silence lingered over the connection. Gord internally waged a back-and-forth battle over whether or not to tell his father. I’ll let him bring it up, Gord decided. Maybe he won’t ask about baseball, he foolishly hoped.

Sure enough, his son’s baseball career had the pole position in Michael’s mind.

“How’s the hamstring?”

“It’s not too bad. It’s still pretty tender.”

“Have you been rehabbing? It’s been what, two and a half weeks since your last appearance? If you can throw, you should throw.” Michael lectured. “You don’t need to be 100 percent. You don’t want the team to think you’re flaky or soft.”

Yeah, thanks for the concern, there, Pops. Gord shook his head. This is going to be tougher than I thought.

“Plus, you seemed to have turned a corner just before you got hurt,” Michael continued. “You were throwing the way you’re capable of instead of getting lit up all over the park. It reminded me of the way you threw in college.”

I think there was a compliment sandwiched in there somewhere. Okay, you have him on the phone, just tell him. He’s going to find out eventually. I can’t have a pulled hamstring for the rest of my life.

“Listen, Dad. The truth is my hamstring is fine. I was never hurt.”

“What?” A considerable edge infiltrated his father’s voice.

“I had to make it up. That was the only way to cover for the real reason why I haven’t been on the active roster for the past couple of weeks.”

“Why haven’t you played? What did you do?”

“I didn’t DO anything,” Gord retorted defensively.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Gord audibly sighed over the phone. “I got released.”

“What?” Michael was incredulous. “You got cut?”

“Yes.”

Gord braced himself for the explosion that was sure to come. He figured his father would upbraid him like a marine drill sergeant admonishing a recruit for falling behind on a run. Michael was pissed, of that there was no doubt. However, to the surprise of his son, the target of his anger was not Gord, but, instead, the Detroit organization.

“Why did they cut you?” he thundered.

“They basically told me I’m too old to be a prospect. They didn’t see me going higher than A ball, so there was no point of having me on the team clogging up a roster spot for a guy with a bigger upside.”

“That is total bullshit!” Michael shouted. “You were the best pitcher they had for a month! Plus, a scoreless innings streak that was longer than anyone else’s on the staff. And you’re the only left-hander they have in the bullpen. That’s a horrible baseball decision.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Gord was speechless. Flabbergasted might be a better word for it. He had never heard his father directly praise him for his work on the baseball field. Even in college, when Gord was the ace of the staff, Michael never gave pure congratulations for Gord’s performances. It was always “Not bad, but …” “Pretty good, but next time …” There was always qualifying criticism to any semblance of a compliment.

It was a tremendous surprise to hear his dad say that he was the best pitcher on Lakeland’s staff, but even more so to hear how closely Michael followed the team. He must have dissected each game’s stats and completely devoured the box scores. That’s the only way Michael would have known about the scoreless innings streak to begin with, let alone know where it ranked among the rest of the staff. Gord knew that his dad followed his career, but he had no idea that it was to such an extent.

“You know what, forget about the Wildcats. There are plenty of other teams out there. You should get on the phone and start looking for other possible spots.”

“Yeah, I know, Dad.” Gord said curtly. He was angry that his father thought he’d been sitting on his ass doing nothing for the past two weeks. “I’ve called everyone I can think of.”

“And?”

“And they’ve all told me the same thing the Wildcats did. No one wants a twenty-four-year-old pitcher in A ball. I waited so long to call you because I wanted to make sure I’d explored all my options. I don’t know what else to do. This looks like it’s the e — ” He choked on the word “end.” He didn’t want to say it out loud.

“What about next year? Maybe you can get a non-roster invite to spring training? You could really commit yourself to training harder than ever in the off-season.”

“That’s not going to work. No one invites unsigned A ball players to spring training. Those spots are for older guys from the majors looking to reclaim past glory. Or for guys from Triple A on the cusp of the Show. It’s not for situational lefties cut from the Central Florida League.”

“Well, if this is truly the end of your career, I just want you to know that — ” Something caught in Michael’s throat as he struggled to find the right words to say to his son.

He soldiered on. “I just want you to know that you being drafted and playing professional baseball has been the proudest moment of my life.”

“Dad?”

“I know I was hard on you growing up. I pushed you harder than I should have, but it’s just — I just wanted you to reach your potential. The potential I always believed that you had. I know I’ve never told you that before and that’s my fault.”

“I — ”

Michael cut him off. “Just let me finish.” Michael was purging his soul, telling his son things he had wanted to say years ago, but didn’t — or couldn’t.

“I like to think that my pushing and prodding is what inspired you to become a better pitcher. Was it the right way to go about things? Probably not. Should I have been more supportive? Yes, but I didn’t know any other way. Your effort and accomplishments are all due to your hard work and determination. Maybe I provided the fire and was the catalyst, but you had a dream and you went out there and got it. Not many people can say that. So, you’re not going to make the big leagues? It’s not the end of the world. You had the opportunity to play baseball for a living. There are thousands of kids who would give anything to say they had the baseball career you did. You strived for excellence and you achieved it.”

“It means a lot to me to hear you say that.” An invisible weight was lifted off Gord’s shoulders. “I think deep down I always knew you had my back and that you were proud of me. But, to actually hear you say those words, it — it means a lot to me.”

“I am proud of you. I always have been. I think back to when you were a teenager and how much it hurt you to struggle at the game. It broke me up inside. I just wanted you to be happy and have the success I know you deserved. All of the shit I gave you over the years — the criticisms, the suggestions, the critiques. They were all from a place of tough love. I love you, son.”

The last sentence crackled through the long distance connection. Those four words instantly melted away the hundreds of miles of figurative and literal distance between father and son.

Gord could hardly believe his ears. He had never heard his father say that to him before. Ironically, the end of Gord’s baseball career had actually brought the two Mattis men closer together.

“I love you too, Dad.”

“And whatever you choose to do with your life or whatever path you decide to take, always know that I am behind you one hundred percent. You’ll figure this out, Gord. You’re a fighter.”

“Thanks.”

“You take care of yourself.”

“You too. ’Bye, Dad.”

“ ’Bye, son.”