The Problem with Sports

by M. E. Clayton

  “Look, no more blind dates-”

  “Don’t you miss sex?” she asked, prioritizing.

  Hell yeah, I missed sex.

  “Of course,” I admitted. “But not enough to sit through an uncomfortable dinner, forced conversation, fake interest…you name it. Not to mention, going through all that, only to have the sex suck or be mediocre at best? No, thank you.”

  “Fine,” Rachel relented. “Just promise me you’ll make the effort to meet someone, okay?”

  I was an independent editor and sometimes author. There was really no need to leave my house, outside the basics of grocery shopping and whatnot. So, I understood where she was coming from. I did need to get out more.

  “Deal,” I agreed.

  “You’re lying,” she accused.

  I was.

  Chapter 2

  Nathan~

  There was more to life than sports.

  There was family, friends, market shares, knitting, all kinds of other things. I’ve been retired from the MLB for only a few months, but you’d think, by now, I’d have gained a new hobby or something.

  Right?

  Don’t get me wrong here. The decision to retire was the right one. I wasn’t experiencing buyer’s remorse or anything like that, not at all. It’s just that baseball’s been a part of my life since I was eight-years-old. I really didn’t know anything else.

  Growing up, my brothers, Gideon and Sayer, had no interest in sports as a career, so they’d been able to play a little of everything. And even as good at football as Sayer had been, he’d grown up to become a firefighter, and a damn good one. Gideon was a constructional engineer and was partners with our father in their business together. Sayer was the oldest at thirty-six, while Gideon was the middle child (and had the middle-child syndrome to prove it, too) at thirty-four, and I was the baby at thirty-three.

  Me, however, I had fallen in love with baseball the first time my father had signed me up for Little Tykes Baseball when I’d been six. My uncoordinated legs had run me around that diamond when I’d hit my first home run (the other six-year-old who’d been in right field had been chasing a butterfly), and when I had tripped on my shoelaces and face planted into home plate, that had been it for me.

  I had fallen in love with baseball.

  From there, my life had become nothing but school (because, legally, I had to), my brothers (because they lived with me), and baseball.

  Well, and girls. Girls had been sprinkled in there because…well, they were girls.

  And while my parents, Robert and Louise Hayes, had planned for college for all their three children, landing a baseball scholarship to USC had certainly made things easier on them financially. And when I had made it to the pros, the first thing I’d done with my money was pay off their house and cars. I had wanted to do so much more with my money, but my parents weren’t flashy people. They had taken the blessings of no longer having a house payment and car payments and had called it a day.

  And when I had attempted to buy Sayer and Gideon their homes, they had reminded me that they were men and could handle their own shit. At the time, I had tried not to take it personally, but I understood where they’d been coming from. I was their baby brother, and millionaire or not, they had wanted their successes to be their own.

  So, since my family was self-sufficient, my money has been doing nothing but sitting in the bank, accumulating mad interest, and retirement at the age of thirty-three really hadn’t been a problem.

  Except, I was finding myself bored a lot these days.

  The first couple of months of retirement had been spent moving into the top penthouse of my condominium building. But since I had a dick, it hadn’t taken much to move in. I hadn’t decorated or anything fancy like that. Despite having been a professional athlete, I’d never fallen into the money trap. Even my car wasn’t anything upper-middle class American couldn’t afford.

  After getting situation in my new home, I had spent the following weeks loving on my mother. Louise Hayes had spent her entire life being a wife, mother, and homemaker, and she had loved every second of it. So, when I had finally flown the nest, she hadn’t made a secret of how badly that had affected her. Unlike Sayer and Gideon, I was traveling all over the country, and conversation was limited during the season. And Mom played the guilt card like a professional. So, I had made sure to smother her with ten years of making up.

  However, these days, she had Leta to smother, and so me, Gideon, and Sayer had a little more breathing room now. Leta was Sayer’s stepdaughter. Sayer had married the love of his life in April, and Monroe had come with a fifteen-year-old daughter, who was about to turn sixteen (maybe I could buy her a car), but also a douchebag ex-husband. Oh, according to Sayer, Thomas (Monroe’s ex) was doing a better job in the fatherhood department, but he still hated that Monroe had moved on with a younger guy, no matter that it had been Thomas who had divorced Monroe. We didn’t like the man on principle, and until Sayer said differently, that wasn’t going to change.

  The only problem with Sayer marrying Monroe was that it had put ideas in Mom’s head. She had stink-eyed me and Gideon damn near throughout their entire wedding. Luckily, it had been a small and tasteful wedding, so Mom’s crazy behavior hadn’t ended up as an internet clip. But one thing was for sure; if I ever get married, Jake, Sayer’s friend and fellow firefighter, was definitely planning my wedding.

  And back to retirement being the right call, I knew I was fortunate to have retired when I did. No matter the sport, injury was a motherfucker. And if you were never outright injured, the wear and tear on your body was no joke. We got paid a shitload of money for what we did, but fans only got to see the excitement of the game. They weren’t privy to the after-game moments where players were limping off the field, or in the locker rooms, icing down their knees or shoulders. They weren’t privy to the pre-game physical exams, where players were being shot full of cortisone injections or having their ribs taped up like goddamn mummies, just to be able to play. Yeah, we were the ones who chose a career in sports, but that didn’t mean we didn’t earn our money.

  I retired because I wanted to enjoy the rest of my life. I didn’t want my golden years plagued with aches and pains beyond the normal ones that came with age. I didn’t want to undergo a million surgeries for my shoulder because I hadn’t been smart enough not to stop when I should have had. And being the shortstop for the California Condors for the past ten years, my body had seriously started to feel those self-inflicted aches and pains.

  As for women, I had fallen into that paranoid trap of not knowing if a woman liked me for me, or for my wallet. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve enjoyed my fair share of females throughout my career, but the obvious gold-diggers and team sluts had left a bad taste in my mouth. I hadn’t been a saint by any means, but witnessing the relentlessness of some of the fairer sex and watching fellow athletes cheat on their wives or get trapped by an unwanted pregnancy had gone a long way to making sure I paid special attention to where I stuck my dick.

  And never without a condom.

  Never.

  My thoughts were cut short when my phone rang. Still appreciating the view my penthouse afforded me, I pulled it from my back pocket. Looking down, I grinned at the name flashing across the screen. “What’s up?” I answered.

  “I was going to text you, but I thought this warranted a phone call,” Sayer replied, foregoing any sort of greeting.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Leta’s history class is covering political reporting, and they have to do a project where they pretend to be investigative journalist,” he explained. “I’m calling to warn you that Leta’s going to call you and interview you for all the R-rated shit that goes down on the road with professional sports teams.”

  “What does playing sports have to do with investigative journalism for history?” No fucking way was I going to tell my niece the shit that goes on once the lights go off in the stadium.

  “The students were able
to choose their specific topic in history, and Leta chose sports and is doing a project on how sports have shaped history and how history has shaped sports,” he replied. “I think Monroe may have influenced her choice.” Sayer’s wife was a sports freak. She didn’t need to get fitted for a straitjacket just yet, but the woman loved her sports.

  The traitor has also proclaimed the Dodgers as her favorite baseball team.

  “And what’s that got to do with threesomes after a game win?”

  Sayer chuckled. “She’s fifteen. She knows sex sells.”

  Fucking Reality T.V.

  “Well, thanks for the heads-up,” I told him. “I’ll be sure to make sure she keeps things G-rated.”

  “Thanks, man,” he said. “Shit. I gotta go. They’re looking for me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m hiding in the closet. Bye.”

  I stared at my phone and wondered how it came to be that my brother-my oldest brother-was scared of a fifteen-year-old girl.

  My phone rang in my hand again, and this time it was Gideon. “What’s up?”

  “You have no excuses anymore,” he barked into the phone. “Call your mother.”

  “I just talked to her yesterday, Gid,” I barked back, swearing Mom pitted us against each other for entertainment purposes only.

  “Then why did she just call me asking how you’re doing?” he snarled, preferring to call me a liar instead of Mom.

  “Because she’s batshit crazy, Gid,” I pointed out.

  He hung up on me.

  Goddamn it, Mom.

  Chapter 3

  Andrea~

  I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to be able to listen to this.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I loved our dinner chats and Grant really was the best dinner date ever. But the kids never stopped talking about sports.

  And, believe me, I’ve tried everything.

  Every evening, during dinner, I asked him about school. I asked him about his friends. I asked him about his weekend plans with his father. I asked him about any new shows or movies that have caught his interest. I asked him about everything but sports.

  However, the conversation always came back to trades, and injuries, and penalties, and corrupt umpires and referees, and even the up and coming college players.

  I mean, I was all for having passion for something, but did it have to be every sport under the sun?

  But I also wondered if it was because I always listened to him intently. Since Grant couldn’t play sports, the only way he could enjoy them were through watching the games and knowing the players. Steven wasn’t big on talking sports with Grant, and while I understood why, I hated it. Though Steven’s come a long way since Grant was first diagnosed, Steven still had a tendency to make it all about himself at times.

  “I don’t see how he can continue to play, Mom,” Grant said, and I thanked God he had enough manners in him to wait until he swallowed his food before dropping that sentence. “It’s obvious the injury is more serious than they’re letting on.”

  I took a drink of my water as I resigned myself to the topic of conversation. This was our last dinner together this week, as I always dropped Grant off with Steven around five every Thursday. Though they weren’t full days, the trade off allowed us both to have four days a week with Grant. There was no child support exchanged and I had chosen not to accept any alimony. Grant’s treatments and preventative care was expensive, and it didn’t benefit him if his father didn’t have enough money to care for him properly should something happen. Steven was a real estate agent, and he did well for himself, but he wasn’t rich. Plus, I did okay for myself. There had been no need to fight over money. Grant’s health had been the priority for me back then and it still was.

  “And who is this, honey?”

  “Jansen Hillman,” he answered. “He’s the third baseman for the Detroit Irons, Mom.” Of course, he is. “He got injured last year when Franco Marsalis slid into third and basically cleated the man out of a career.”

  I ate a couple of more bites of the enchilada casserole I had cooked up. “Well, it’s a shame when someone gets injured.”

  Grant snorted. “It’s a shame when they force these players to continue to honor their contract when they know it hurts them to play.”

  My heart warmed.

  Grant loved his sports, and he was definitely a fanboy, but he wasn’t so blinded by the fame and money that he stopped seeing athletes as human beings. He acted like he knew the players personally, and he cared about their health and well-being just as much as he cared about their stats.

  “And that was the bad call last night,” he continued. “I mean, how blind was that ump?”

  I took another drink of my water. “You know, school’s starting in a few weeks,” I said, desperately trying to change the subject. “It’s the third grade. Are you excited?”

  Grant looked up at me, and it was times like these that my palm itched to slap the shit out of Steven. Grant was his exact replica with his dark blonde hair and green eyes. Looking at my son, I couldn’t see any resemblance to me, whatsoever.

  Even though I was blonde, too, I had more of a platinum color and my eyes were brown, instead of the classic blue usually associated with blondes. And where I was only five-foot-four, Steven was six-foot-one, and I was pretty sure Grant was going to inherit his height, too. The kid was growing like a weed.

  Looking at my son, I knew he was going to grow up to be handsome, because, for all of Steven’s faults, the man was a good-looking male. He kept himself trim and fit, and he’d been great in bed. I might not like the man much these days, but I wasn’t going to create lies about him just because things had ended badly between us.

  “I’m actually very excited,” Grant replied, and I grinned at his grownup articulation. Sometimes it was hard to remember he was only eight.

  “Really?”

  Grant nodded. “Third grade is a whole new world, Mom,” he said, grinning.

  I smiled and went back to eating. But not two minutes later…

  “Jansen Hillman’s going to have to retire, and that sucks,” he said, returning to his favorite topic of sports. “And it’s really a shame, Mom.”

  “It is?” I mean, I knew sports injuries were no joke, but they weren’t the end of the world.

  “Well, he’s clearly the best third baseman to ever play for the Condors,” he informed me. “As a matter of fact, he’s probably their best player ever. And if he has to retire, then he’s going to miss out on breaking all kinds of records.” I sighed. “His batting average is .363, Mom. And he’s hit a gazillion homers this season, so far,” he replied with all the enthusiasm of a little boy. “His assists-”

  “Okay, okay,” I chuckled. “I get it. He’s awesome.” So, okay, this wasn’t my favorite subject, but I loved seeing my son happy and excited.

  Grant finished his forkful of food before speaking again. “He’s more than awesome, Mom. Jansen really is the best player the Condors have ever had.”

  “Even better than the pitcher and catcher?” That was my only knowledgeable contribution to this conversation. Riveting, I know.

  “Well, Marcos and Jennings are good, too, but...” Grant shook his little head. “…Jansen just has it all.”

  “Well, I’m sure whoever they find to replaced him will be just as talented,” I assured him.

  My kid scoffed.

  “Yeah, like the shortstop they picked up to replace Nathan Hayes,” he remarked all forlorn-like. “Granted, the guy will probably improve with experience, but one player can really change the entire dynamics of the team, Mom.” Dynamics? The damn kid was talking as if he were grown.

  “So, you…you liked this Nathan Hayes?”

  Grant shrugged a shoulder. “He’s no Jansen Hillman, but he was good, too. He’s probably going to end up in the Hall of Fame someday.”

  “Well, then, surely, that means he was better than just good, right?”

  “The guy just�
�he had a few more good years left, Mom,” Grant said. “It was disappointing to see him bow out so soon.”

  “So, our favorite player is Jansen Hillman, then?”

  Grant smiled. “He’s our favorite player on the Condors,” he corrected. The breeze kicked up a bit and a napkin flew into Grant’s face, and we both laughed.

  The condominium building we lived in was nice beyond normal expectations. It had only ten floors, the top one being the only penthouse in the place, but each condo came with a balcony that Grant knew better than to play outside on. I came out here often, but Grant only came out here when we were having an outdoor dinner together. We lived on the ninth floor, so we were pretty high up. High up enough to make me uncomfortable if Grant was out here without me.

  The condo was two-bedroom, one being a master bedroom with an en suite, one bathroom, a kitchen, living room, and a sitting room that I had converted into my office. The condos were nice, and they even came with their own washer and dryer. They cost a pretty penny, but after Steven and I had sold our house and had divided all our assets, I had been left with a decent down payment for the place. It wasn’t a house in the suburbs with a yard and friendly neighbors, but it was our home. It was our home and Grant seemed happy here, and that was all that mattered.

  “It’s always nice when there’s a breeze,” Grant said, pulling the napkin from his face. “July is always so hot.

  It wasn’t often we ate out on the balcony during the hot summer months, but this week had cooled down significantly that tonight had been enjoyable enough to eat outside.

  “Winter is still my favorite season,” I replied, knowing we were on opposite sides on this topic.