Chapter Six
Jason sat inthe back of the taxi and took a deep breath. The stadium loomed high, casting a deep shadow in the afternoon sunlight. He stared at the door to the visitors’ clubhouse. It was the day he had waited for, and dreaded, since the last time he had walked out of a stadium similar to this one. He had limped then, his arm in a sling, his body bruised, his soul battered by the jeers of the fans as well as the condemnation of his teammates and coaching staff.
Now he was returning to the sport that had been his whole life, his reason for being, the sport that had kicked his ass to the curb one year prior. After imagining this day for over a year, watching countless games, the playoffs and series, and then opening day, all from his couch, it seemed rather anticlimactic. No one was waiting for him, no adoring crowds, groupies, cheering fans. Not even the media, those damn vultures, looking to expose him however they could.
He was on his own, for maybe the first time in his whole life and it sucked.
“Hey, buddy. You getting out or going somewhere else? I got places to be, man.” The cabbie glanced in the rear view mirror, completely ignorant and uncaring of the dilemma facing Jason in that moment.
“Yeah, it’s fine. What do I owe you?”
After taking care of the fare, Jason slung the duffle bag over his shoulder, grabbed the handle of the suitcase and strode toward the doorway with the waiting security guard.Never let them see you sweat, no matter what the circumstances.
“Jason Friar, Georgia Knights.”
The guard nodded and gestured him inside. “Been expecting you.”
Nice to know someone was waiting for him. Not exactly the reception a big star would get. But what did he expect? He was a former big star, now his status was unproven. He was lower than a minor league call-up in September. Yup, this was going to be fun.
As he walked down the hallway to the locker room, the familiar noises and scents greeted him. Stale sweat, pine tar, and ointment traveled into his nose. He took a deep breath. God, he’d missed the smells.
He pushed open the door and the sound of loud rap music slammed into him as forcefully as a hurricane wind. The dull roar of the players stopped instantly, with only the rhythmic banging of the music pounding the air. Someone switched that off, leaving a silence that was as deafening as the noise previously. Twenty-four pairs of eyes stared at him, and very few were friendly. Not outright hostile, but there wasn’t much love for him there.
“Friar? My office, now.” A bellow sounded from the back of the room. As if a switch had been turned back on, the players resumed their activities but more subdued. They watched him walk the length of the locker room to the manager’s office.
He stepped into the office and closed the door, facing the one man sitting and the two others framing him behind the desk. The manager gestured to the seat in front and Jason sat down, after dropping his duffle by the door.
“So, they really did it. They signed you.”
The raspy voice grated on Jason’s nerves, a blast from his past, and not a good one. He looked over to see an older man, fit even in his fifties, no fat on his frame, and a scowl on his face. The hair may have been a little whiter, a little thinner than the last time they had met, but Jason wasn’t the same either. Time was a bitch to everyone.
“Nice to see you too, Sam.” He nodded to the one man he’d hoped not to see again. Sam Monteleone had been the bench coach during his downfall and made it clear he thought Jason was a disgrace to the game. He had hoped time would have eased that animosity.
Wouldn’t be the first time he was wrong.
“Well, this is a fine mess they handed me.” Sam slammed his hands on the desk and stood up, striding around the desk to get in Jason’s face. “First a team of rookies who can barely catch a goddamn ball and now a washed-up druggie with a bum shoulder. I’ll admit, I was hoping for someone to guide this team, not drag ’em into the mud. Listen up, Friar. Keep your nose clean and stay clear of these young guys. They got their whole careers ahead of them. They don’t need you dragging ’em down.”
Jason leaned back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Thanks for the support, coach. So glad you didn’t believe the bullshit from the media. I was cleared, in case you’d forgotten.”
The other man snorted. “Where there’s smoke, Friar. Just go out there and try to play. I know it’s been awhile. The little white round thing is called a ball. Hit the damn thing and catch it. Just don’t throw it away like your career.”
Jason struggled for calm and stood. “Is that all, Skip?”
“Yeah, yeah. See Artie. He’ll have your locker and gear. BP in thirty minutes.” He turned his attention to the papers on his desk.
Jason resisted the urge to slam the office door and went about getting settled. The rumors would always follow him, like a groupie desperate for one last screw. Well, this time he would not be the one getting screwed but would make sure no one could pin anything else on him.
A few hours later, life was all as it should be. Jason could almost forget the past year, the trials and the tribulations. The feel of an ash bat weighing on his shoulder, the solid crack as it made contact with the fastball the stupid young pitcher thought could get past this old has-been, the sound of cheers and groans from the crowd and the smack of the ball slapping the glove seconds before his foot hit the base.
“Out!” the ump bellowed.
He resisted the urge to toss his helmet as he jogged back to the dugout amid jeers and cheers from the hometown crowd. His teammates avoided his gaze and only one man met his eyes– the manager, Sam. He nodded as if to say, next time, then he returned his attention to the game.
The bottom of the first and Jason was at first base. Tom Pignante reached on a long single to left. As he tossed his hitting gloves to the first base coach, he glanced at Jason.
“Monk? They let you back in this game? Guess they’ll let anyone in.”
“Pigpen.” Jason nodded and the other man’s face turned beet red.