Sensing the conversation headed down a deep and depressing path, she changed the subject. “How is the team doing?”
Judging by the anger darkening his face, that was not the best choices of topics either. The television echoed Jason’s reaction as the sportscaster began a story on the Georgia Knights.
What’s going on with the Georgia Knights? Is this young team overcome by the pressures of big league ball, can’t handle the stretch?
What did they expect? They brought in Jason Friar, a washed-up has-been who has no idea how to pull a team together.
Jason stood and walked into the living room, staring at the television. Stacia followed him, listening to the sportscasters debate the team.
I disagree, Bill. Friar has held up his end of the bargain. His on-base percentage is the highest on the team. His average is close to 400. And he’s been hitting the home runs. What more can you ask?
This is a young team. Maybe they need more than numbers to help them win.
Jason flicked off the set, eyes shuttered. He sagged onto the couch, head falling back on the cushion, a deep sigh forced out from his lips. Stacia sat on the couch next to him, a hand resting on his thigh.
“The announcer is right. You’ve done everything the team asked of you.”
“But it’s not working. We’re losing. You’ve seen our record since I’ve joined the team. Four and twelve. With a record like that, we can’t hope to win the division or even the wild card.” He leaned forward and ran his fingers through his hair, then sat there head in his hands. “It’s like these kids don’t care.”
“Do you really believe that? Do you really believe they want to lose? Maybe they need a wakeup call. Someone to shake them out of their funk.”
He laughed. “Funk? These kids are happy to be in the majors. They’re partying every night, loud music in the locker room, more money than they know what to spend it on. They think they’re in fucking paradise.”
“Maybe they need a reminder of why they’re in the major leagues.” Just like you do, she added as she cleared the table.
*
Stacia’s words echoedthrough his head all night and the next day, through the pregame and the game, where the team committed three errors, and a loss of focus in the ninth, they ended up losing the game. Their closer, Juan Ramirez, was clearly frustrated with the team. He threw his mitt into the dugout and refused to pump fists or even accept condolences from the players.
Jason waited for the guys to file out of the dugout before he walked over to Ramirez. “Tough break, man.”
“We had it. We had the game. What the hell’s going on with Patterson? He didn’t even try to catch that ball, and he had plenty of time from the mound. He can’t pitch lately, can’t catch, can’t hit. He’s dragging the team down.” A thumping of rap music blared from the locker room, shaking the floor. “And the loud fucking music, like an earthquake. They need to be woken up, man. You know I can’t do it. Pitchers and players don’t mix. Players police players.”
“What do you want me to do about it? They think I’m a joke.”
Ramirez stared at him. “Then make them see you differently.”
Jason filed into the locker room. Players were talking bullshit with the reporters, pounding back food and beer, laughing and joking with each other, the music thumping in the room. The ringleader of the younger guys, Cody Patterson, newest phenom and golden boy of the pitching staff, was the team clown, dancing obscenely to the music. He generated lots of laughs. Too bad his play on the field was a joke too.
A couple of reporters looked at Jason then quickly glanced away sensing his mood or maybe they too were uncomfortable with the frat house atmosphere. He grabbed his things and walked to the showers, seeing the manager in his office, door closed, shutting out what he could of the noise. No help from that quarter.
Jason let the hot water pour down on him, washing away the stench of losing, but the steady thump of the rap music pummeled him, ratcheting up his tension with every thump of the bass. His blood pounded the beat in his head, a dull steady pounding reminding him of losses, stupidity, and the futility of the situation. With barely one month left in the season, other teams were scenting blood and making their move on the league-leading Georgia Knights—and the Knights were not responding. He was finally on the upswing personally; his on-base percentage was high. He was hitting home runs again and his fielding was solid—when Cody could get the ball on target. In the past, he usually stepped up his game and the team responded. But with this team, nothing worked.
Stacia’s words pounded into him in time with the music.Maybe they need a reminder of why they’re in the major leagues?
Finally, frustration got the better of him—the strike outs, the fly outs, the missed RBIs. He turned off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist and stormed out of the locker room.
When he entered the locker area, Bill Monroe was joking with Cody. A coach should know better. And, as a hitting coach, he had no business messing with a pitcher, even if the pitcher had to hit every five days in his game. Instead, Monroe was sinking his hooks into another young star, dragging him and the team down all in an effort to have his own success. No way would he let Monroe corrupt another young kid. No way would anyone else be used. Not on his watch.
Ramirez saw him, accurately read the gleam in his eyes, and a wary look passed over his face. “Hey man, it’s not worth it. They’re young and stupid.”
“And they’re pissing away any chance they have for the playoffs.” Jason spied a bat leaning negligently against the wall. He grabbed it then smashed the boom box.
The rap music instantly cut off, a deafening silence choking the air. He swung the bat a few more times, making sure the radio was dead and unrecoverable, the plastics and electronics making satisfying cracking sounds. He smiled grimly, satisfied at the destruction.
The players turned and stared at him, a mixture of anger, annoyance and confusion in their expressions. Patterson stepped forward, belligerence etched on his flushed face. “What the hell, man?”
“Is losing fun? Do you like to lose? Because I fucking hate it. There’s no trophies for participation. No almost-won rings. No parades for losers. There’s only one ring and that’s when you win it all. And when you lose, you’re not getting that ring.”