The game, the afternoon, has been … interesting. A lot of the veteran players and old-timers they asked to come out and be featured in the opening ceremonies, well, they declined. Or just didn’t show up. It was a gaggle of men who stood out on that field next to our current team, being majorly booed by the fans. As if any of us did anything wrong.
People have been turning around to flip up their middle fingers or wash down the windows of the owner’s suite with warm, foamy beer all game. I hope, even though I resent hoping it, that Colleen is safely tucked away somewhere, because this could get ugly quick.
Fortunately, once game play started, the unrest settled a bit. The Pistons fans were tuning in, even cheering for our two runs, even if the away fans were booing us.
And even if they are, at least I’m playing ball. There are lot of guys who play this sport because they’re talented, or because of the money, or because of the fame that comes with it. Me? I play baseball because I don’t love anything as much as I love this game. From the minute I stepped up to the plate in T-ball, my love affair began. The smell of the dirt in the diamond, the cheers in the stands, the feel of my hand in a glove, the crack of the bat when it connects with the ball.
Right now, I’m staring down Donny Desmond, one of the best left-handed pitchers in the league. Donny and I have met on several occasions, and some of those he’s struck me out, but others I’ve nailed his ass with homers. The pitch count is one, two, and there is no way I want this fucker to walk me.
I want a run, I can taste it, and Walker is on first. I see my teammate leading on his right foot out of the corner of my eye, halfway to second in what a lot would call a risky move. But that’s what I’ve heard about Walker, he’s a cocky son of a bitch when it comes to base running.
Donny shakes off a pitch, and then another, before settling on one. I see his whole body tense on the mound, his adrenaline winding up inside him. He stands tall, and I brace myself, digging my cleats into the dirt.
There is an instinct in this game, one you’re born with or can hone over the years. Not all have it, and not even legendary players had it. But if you do, you just know things sometimes, inexplainable feelings or inklings. I have it, and I’m not sure how, but it’s what tips me off to the fact that Donny is going to serve me a breaking ball.
I readjust my hands on the bat at the last split second, so that I can attack it in the way I’ve trained for. It comes hurdling toward the plate, and I can tell with a slow motion view that it’s not too far to the left or right, up or down. If I time this perfectly, I can smack this leather ball to kingdom come.
Waiting, waiting, waiting until the blood whooshes in my ears, I finally swing, the motion smooth and powerful. I don’t see it when the ball connects with my bat; I feel it. The vibration reverberates down my arms, through my body, to my toes. Without even waiting to see where it went, I drop the bat at the completion of the swing and sprint for first. It’s not until I’m there that I allow myself to look, to watch as it disappears into the upper decks of the outfield.
The crowd is going wild, and Walker is running around the bases clapping his hands as he whoops in my direction. I nod at their appreciation, and my chest swells because at least I could give these fans one positive thing for the day. And well, damn, doesn’t it just feel good to be playing the game again?
The inning ends after Jimenez goes down swinging for the third out, and the game moves pretty quickly from there. The other team scores a run, but still trail us by one going into the ninth, and then our closer comes in and does his job.
As we celebrate our first game, our first win of the season, cheering and high-fiving on the way back to the locker room, Walker’s hand closes over my shoulder.
Fuck, guess this means I have to go to dinner with a Callahan tonight.
And the minute that pops into my head, why is it Colleen’s face I see, and not her male cousin who is also my teammate?
5
Colleen
My fist raps on Uncle Daniel’s office door.
“Come in,” I hear from inside, so I push against the heavy oak double doors and enter.
His office is even more opulent than Dad’s, though in a darker way. It’s all dark woods and black accents, a much cooler, intimidating feel than the office that I am currently trying to makeover.
“I thought the press conference went … well,” I start off, eager to get this conversation over with.
As the general manager and owner, it’s only respectful that I go up to my uncle’s office after the first game of the season was over to talk optics and strategy. Especially in dire times like this, we all need to make sure we are on the same page. But I’m tired, and I know he’s going to try to use this as an opportunity to school me, so I’m really not looking forward to it.
“The sharks weren’t too blood thirsty, but they were still direct. You survived the firing squad, barely. You should really be working with Jennifer in legal and Trisha in PR to brush up your interview answers and make them extremely succinct.”
I can barely contain the need to roll my eyes. I did better than he did in that press conference, what with his stuttering around tough questions and side-stepping them. Uncle Daniel was of the mindset that being evasive and politically correct was the way to handle confrontation, especially from external forces.
With my new promotion and position, I was not taking that approach. In fact, I am going to try my best to completely reverse that kind of behavior in the Pistons organization. What landed us in this hot water were secrets, lies, evasiveness, and not enough transparency with both our staff and players, but also the media.
“I’ll take that into consideration.” I grit my teeth, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
Uncle Daniel runs the business, but I call the shots when it comes to most of the day-to-day decisions. We’re going into this season with a fresh slate, no matter the taste in our fans’ mouths about us. We have the opportunity to change that, and our reputation within the sports world.
“And when we’re in the box, don’t talk strategy. It doesn’t look good, especially to the celebrities we have up there,” he lectures me.
“I was talking to one of our season ticket holders about which pitcher had a good spring training,” I explain wearily.
“Talking shop makes you look immature.” He hawkeyes me.
Ah, there it is, the first jab at my age. I’ve been waiting for that one. “Actually, I think it makes us more relatable as a franchise. The distant air my father gave off, I’m not going to continue that. There is a reason he was allowed to go unchecked, and that’s not something I want for myself. Not that I’d ever commit the crimes against the sport that he did, but—”
“No one is saying anyone here is going to be like …” Uncle Daniel cuts me off, the temperature dropping just from his chilly attitude.
My uncle refuses to talk about Dad. Part of me thinks it’s because, deep down, he knew something shady was going on. Whether or not he ever admits, at least to me, that he had some part in what Dad did, I suspect that he knows the public and fans of baseball in general implicate him as well.
“Your grandfather, my father, put his faith in you. Sometimes I believed his judgment was clouded. There were many who could take this position, but he specified that it be you. Don’t forget that he’s not here any longer.”
If Uncle Daniel is trying to make me feel comfortable, he’s doing a shit job. The sarcasm runs through my head, because I have to laugh at this little show of power or I’ll smack him across the face.
It’s no secret that I was my grandfather’s favorite. Of his nine grandchildren, I was the closest to him, and we were the most alike. He was a gentle, incredibly smart, fair man. At times, he could be too caring, which caused some people to take advantage of him. But he ran this ball club with a tender touch, and it showed with how successful it was. Both his front office staff and his players loved to work for him, and that was evident in the number of cha
mpionships that were won during his tenure as the general manager.
But being his favorite came with consequences. I spent most of my childhood in his office, going about his day to day with him. I’ve heard my family members whisper for years that I was gunning for his job, even when I was only elementary school aged. They were jealous, wanted a piece of the pie, or just did not understand the old man the way I did.
It’s why now that I’m in this position, my harshest critics aren’t sportscasters or other teams or even our most misogynistic players. They are my family members.
The people rooting for me to fail, or thinking I’m unqualified, or whispering behind my back, they’re the same ones I share DNA with. It’s upsetting, if I let that poison invade my brain for too long. It’s not as if I don’t doubt myself every day I walk into that office. But knowing that some of those closest to me are counting me out before I even make any real change, or put my name on this general manager position? It’s a tad devastating.
Uncle Daniel is clearly one of them. He’s trying to bully or intimidate me into thinking that I’ll be gone if I don’t do a good job this season. I’m not falling for that crap.
“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’ve been training my entire life to take over this seat. I learned from the best, even if one of them did it corruptly. I have been watching and learning, both hands-on and by observing others. For years. I have studied statistics, watched film, been present during drafts, helped with player personnel, spent one-on-one time with the coaches … suffice it to say, I’ve made it my mission to know every aspect of this job. And I have very big plans for it, and this team. There is no need to remind me how important it is that we succeed this year. I fully aware of that.”
It is, in the nicest way possible, me handing him his bullshit faux caring and intimidation back on a silver platter. Because I have no time for that, I don’t have the option to. There is simply not enough time to break down and panic, or begin doubting myself, or to realize how young or inexperienced I am for the general manager position. If I did that, I would never be able to dig myself out of that hole, for one. And for two, there’s simply too much to do here. So I choose to focus all my energy on that.
After all, it was what my grandfather had left to me.
That was the secret that no one knew. Everyone—the media, our family, the fans—have speculated that I was given the job out of some kind of nepotism, and I was. That much was true. But if it were up to Uncle Daniel, he would have made an outside hire.
My grandfather was the one still protecting me, five years after his death. He’d specified in his will, as part of his ownership agreement, that I be named the GM when my father finally relinquished the position. There was no way my uncle could undo the twisted legal work my grandfather had spun, and so here I am.
Though I have a feeling, if we don’t gel as a team or a front office, he will do everything in his power to oust me. My father’s indiscretions have made him paranoid, as are a bunch of other executives, and it wouldn’t be hard to form a coup.
Uncle Daniel coolly assesses me, his hands splayed on his desk as he sits in his high-back chair, and I stand. I know it’s supposed to be a power move, but I keep my body still. Don’t let him see you fidget, or sweat, or even bat an eyelash.
“Oh, and Swindell needs to cut his hair. Our team policy mandates that. He looks sloppy out there. I don’t care who these people think the Callahans are, we still run a tight ship.”
Leave it to Uncle Daniel to focus on trivial things like team hygiene and grooming at a time like this.
Great, now I’m going to give Hayes, or Mr. Swindell as he prefers, one more reason to loathe me.
6
Hayes
Fingering the ends of my dirty blond hair, I give a mental middle finger to the Pistons organization.
Which I’ve done about fifty times in the past six months, but this time, they’ve gone too far.
When Terry Grude, our head coach, pulled me into his office after practice yesterday and had a talk with me about the team’s guidelines for personal grooming, I about threw a chair across the room. Who the hell did these people think they were? Their own blood slash general manager was in prison for making a joke out of our sport, and they were worried that my hair fell down to my shoulders?
Give me a fucking break. I’m not cutting it, not even coming close. This is who I am, I’ve gone my entire adult life looking the way I want, and no one is going to tell me to change that. Especially not a club that I shouldn’t even be a part of in the first place. On the contrary, if this is the thing that gets them to let me out of my contract, I’m all for growing this hair down to my ass.
On this rare off day, where the weather in Pennsylvania actually is going to get above sixty, I decided I couldn’t sit in my house any longer. Not only is the rented four-bedroom house on the outskirts of Packton too hotel-like and corporate, but it just isn’t home. I’ve barely had any of my personal effects shipped out here, not intending to stay through playoff season.
None of my friends are here. And though dinner with Walker hadn’t been half as bad, in both food and conversation, as I assumed it would be, I don’t have any intention of becoming close with my teammates. I can do my job just fine without connecting on a deeper level, seeing as I’m out of here the minute the November negotiation window opens up.
Packton is bustling as I stroll through Central Street. Even for a random Tuesday afternoon, there are people occupying benches, patio sidewalk seating at some of the restaurants is full, and so much talking that I have to put my headphones in. I scroll through my phone, selecting a Radiohead song, and play it through my Bluetooth.
Maybe if I keep these in while going to get a coffee, Joe, the owner of Buzz Coffee & Tea, won’t ask me any questions. I push inside the shop, which has a Pistons logo in one of its front windows, to see a line of about five people waiting for their order to be taken.
The song in my headphones plays on, but it’s low, low enough that I hear the jingle of the bell as I enter. A couple people in line or sitting at tables look around to see who just entered, and though I see some wide eyes, no one approaches me.
That’s the thing about this town that I actually like; even though these people clearly know who I am, they are used to major league players sharing their streets and shops. I’m never asked for autographs, or having my picture stealthily taken, and I can go about my life as a normal human … for the most part. Packton’s residents are used to the circus of having a ball team in their town and don’t let it overrule their small town community.
When I make it up to the counter, I nod at Joe, who gives me a bright smile through his dark black mustache.
“Slugger! Good to see you!” he greets me. “That game the other day was brilliant, how you feeling in your first season as a Piston?”
That’s the other thing; people here don’t acknowledge that players like me were signed illegally. Joe assumes that I’ll have another year here, which I won’t. “Feeling good, just glad to be on the ball field.”
I want to keep this conversation short, because I’d just like to get my coffee and go walk alone. But Joe keeps at it, not even trying to ring me up.
“Tough loss to Boston, though. That road game was a shame.”
We’re three and one, not a bad start to the season, but with a very long way to go. Our one loss comes courtesy of Boston, who is the American League team projected to make the World Series, if not win it. They’re fucking good, better than our disjointed team, even if we can pull out a few runs. It was a hard loss, with them handing us our asses as they scored five runs in the first two innings. It didn’t get prettier after that.
“It was.” I nod. “Can I just have a large coffee, with a splash of whole milk?”
It might be rude of me to just request my order and not indulge him in more shop talk, but this is my day off. The day where I don’t have to talk about baseball. I love the sport, but even I need a break.
>
He rings me up, grabs me my coffee, and I thank him with a salute of my cup and an extra ten-dollar bill in his tip jar.
As I exit Buzz, I nearly bump into someone on the sidewalk.
“Oh, excuse me—”
“I’m sorry—” someone says at the same time as I reach out an arm to steady them.
A jolt of awareness shoots up my arm, settling somewhere in my gut, because a bunch of honey-brown waves swirl over blushed cheeks.
“I didn’t see you there.” Colleen smiles, as if I haven’t scowled in her directions every time our eyes met over a press conference table or in a hallway of the facilities.
“Come to make sure that I abide by the grooming policies?” My voice is filled with snark.
Colleen blinks, those big, amber doe eyes surprised. “I was actually just going for a walk around town on my day off. I didn’t want to send word to Terry about that, unfortunately, but it’s my job.”
“Ah, so it was you. I figured.” I nod, confirming my suspicions.
I’d thrown the first punch, and Colleen was firing back about the comments I’d made to her that night after the weight room.
“I’ll take responsibility, though it’s a policy I’m working to change. I think it’s good for player morale, and baseball superstition, if you can exercise freedom over personal appearance, jewelry, things of the like.”
“What next, we’re all going to get matching Pistons tattoos? How revolutionary of you.” I roll my eyes at her courtesy.
The sun shines down on me, and I realize I forgot my sunglasses when a car drives by and I’m blinded by a reflection in the windshield. Funny, that she’s out on a walk on her day off as well. Looking down, I see her tight black workout pants paired with a dark indigo sweatshirt, and for some reason the color brings out her eyes. She’s dressed down, her hair loose and catching in the wind. It makes her look younger than the fierce suits and severe ponytails she wears to the office.
Warning Track: The Callahan Family, Book One Page 3
