Anything but Minor - Kate Stewart Page 0,3
what I was used to. I’d spent five unnecessary minutes in the checkout at the store because of the person in front of me chatting with a cashier. It seemed no one outside of a car was in a hurry.
After rush hour, the city settled into a contented purr of crickets, wind, and calming water. Yesterday, and after endless meetings my first week, I drove straight to the beach a few miles from my new palace. I sat in the light beige sand and watched people pass by as I inhaled the sea air and watched the sky turn pink.
Pink.
The clouds were lit so beautifully, I felt myself tear up. I had a new addiction, and it was the city itself. Half of my addiction to flying was due to the fact I was a sucker for scenery and my new city fed my addiction in spades.
Armed with my new Prius, I drove around the peninsula of downtown Charleston and familiarized myself with the layout. It was an ocular orgasm, something on every single corner: cobblestone streets, expansive southern mansions, postcard harbor views. I couldn’t get enough. I took three tours, one walking, one by bike, and one by horse-drawn carriage. It had only been a week, and I was in love. I stopped for lunch at a local spot called Barbara Jean’s and ate the largest chicken fried steak in the history of the world. It was steak fried like chicken, topped with a creamy gravy that “tastes so damn good,” according to the waitress, “would make you smack your mama.” I finished my late lunch and walked for hours, completely in a daze, instantly in love with my southern piece of paradise. Trees covered in flowing Spanish moss swayed as I worked my tired feet down the streets, admiring the consistently lit lanterns that dated as far back as the 1600s.
I wanted to be a part of it all.
Running out of ideas but with endless possibilities, I decided my next move was now up to my new planet, and just as the thought crossed my mind, I ran right smack into a vendor passing out flyers.
I quickly scanned the pictures on the pamphlet and dead center was my planet’s answer.
Go to Anchor Park!
Nervous was a feeling I was no longer used to. I’d pitched too many games, faced too many opponents to feel the old yet familiar shitty feeling that had started to eat at me this morning. I needed something to take the edge off and pounding into Melo-dee last night hadn’t done a damn thing to help the slight shake in my hand or the new sheen of sweat that covered me as the words kept circling my head like the fucking vultures they were.
Last chance.
“We’ve got this,” Andy said with confidence as my uncertain eyes met his. “Fuckin’ A,” he said emphatically as he clapped my back with his glove before he made his way out of the locker room. I gripped my cap sitting on my locker shelf and put it on then kicked my locker closed.
Only one thing would get me picked up this year: performance. I had the best stats of any pitcher in the minors. I’d solidly pitched my way into earning the invite to the big show. An invite I’d worked for my whole life.
Do or die at this point.
“Get ’em, Rafe,” Waters, the right fielder, barked out as he passed me. I took a deep breath. If I didn’t get tapped on the shoulder this year to play in the majors, it wouldn’t be because I didn’t play with every fucking bit of talent I had.
That would never be the reason. And just before tunnel vision kicked in and I took the field, I whispered in ritual, “You love this.”
I’ve never been much of a fan of baseball. In fact, I’d never been a fan of any sport. So, sans foam finger, I headed to Anchor Park with every intention of knowing everything about it by the time I left. Surveying the stadium, I noticed a majority of the people around me sported team shirts, so I purchased a bright red baseball cap with a green team logo as a souvenir. I felt the sense of community as the players took the field. I took my seat directly behind home plate. Scanning the bright green field and immaculate stadium, I was impressed, and then I looked down to Google the Swampgators on my iPhone.
I prayed to two Gods in