THE clubhouse was finally quiet. Jake had had enough microphones and cameras shoved in his face for one day. As he sank down into a big brown leather recliner, he smiled at the realization he would never have to do another postgame interview again.
Sure, he was bummed that they’d missed the wild card by a half game, but he was secretly a little relieved. He was ready to hit the road. He wanted to see his kids, and he wanted to get back home. It’d been years since he’d been in Georgia for more than a three-game stand in Atlanta, and he missed it. He missed everything—and everyone—he’d left behind there.
“Hey, Jake,” the clubhouse manager called from the doorway. “Did you already clean out your locker?”
Jake smiled. He remembered the old metal lockers from high school. The fancy wooden shelving he had here was as far from that as he could get. “Yep, everything’s in my car.”
The manager walked to Jake’s locker and looked up. “Not everything.” He gingerly climbed onto a wheeled chair and pulled down Jake’s nameplate. He hopped down and tossed the plate to Jake. “Here you go.”
Jake caught the plate and took a long look at it. “I guess that makes it official.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going on a road trip back home to Georgia. Gonna stop and see the ex and the kids on the way.”
The manager shook his head and laughed. “You’d think you’d have gotten your fill of road trips as long as you’ve been playing.”
“Yeah, well, this is my last one.”
“We’re gonna miss you around here. I know the team will miss you on second base.”
That was a polite lie. Maybe if he’d retired last year, but this year he’d been hobbled by knee pain more often than not. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be wishing I was here when next season starts.”
“Well, you just make sure you’ve got someone to keep your mind off baseball by then,” the manager said with a wink.
Jake smacked the nameplate against his leg. “I just might do that.”