skin, is that every day is a new chance to figure out another piece of who he is. And that’s…it’s exciting to me, an adventure I’m looking forward to taking. “Why wouldn’t they want to hear about you?”
I’m no longer nervous over his thoughts when I see him glance down at the white tablecloth and grind his teeth, agitation clear in the sudden strain of his posture. If anything, I’m worried I opened something I shouldn’t have.
“There have been more people that I can count who only wanted me around because they knew I was moving forward with a professional baseball career. Women would crowd themselves around me, and I’d flirt and have fun when the time seemed fitting for it, but the groupies got old fast. They didn’t want to know why my favorite color is silver, or why I believe in conspiracy theories that are all probably bogus but still interesting as hell to me—” He lifts a knowing brow at my growing smirk over our familiar conversations about the death of Marilyn Monroe, the likelihood of UFOs existing at Area 51, and how Shakespeare might not have written the classic literature he’s known for. “—or why I loved spending time learning my best craft in the classroom and how to be a good teacher.
“All they really cared about was when I was going to be entered in the draft, what my pick would be, and how much money would be on the contract presented when the time came. Did you know that I started having problems with my arm when I was eighteen?” When I shake my head, he nods tersely. “I went to the doctor and they didn’t find anything wrong with it at first—told me the basics on how to stretch, ice it, heat it, and to keep going. By the time I turned twenty-one, I’d wake up in the mornings barely able to move it. My right shoulder would be so stiff that trying to bend it or do anything felt nearly impossible. Pain would shoot down my arm and settle into my elbow and wrist, and by the time I got in to see a specialist they’d determined it was ‘mild arthritis’ but I’d be fine as long as I did physical therapy. Except, I knew that was more or less bullshit because only I could tell people how bad it was getting. I knew it was going to get worse no matter how much PT I did, or Motrin I popped, but I kept going for another two years because people kept pressuring me to push past it.”
The long, defeated sigh turns his frustrated expression into sullen defeat. “You know, Red asked me why I didn’t stop long before I did, and it made me think about all the people I was trying to impress and get approval from by living a life that I didn’t want. I beat myself up for doing shit to my arm when I knew I needed to take it easier, but easier ‘wasn’t going to get me an $80 mill contract’ according to my father. And he was right…but he was also wrong. I think the biggest reason why I kept going was because I knew my arm would give out, and that would be the only viable reason people would accept my choice in leaving the sport. If I’d gotten to the point I’d need surgery on it—which is still on the table even though the meds are helping and I’m taking better care of it—there’d be too much damage and I wouldn’t be able to have so much expectation put on me. I basically hurt myself, continued to hurt myself, until I couldn’t play.” He stares at his water, gliding his fingertip up and down the condensation. “Screwed up, right? I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m used to people not wanting to know about the personal things I like to do in my free time because I’ve spent most of my life focusing on other things that I didn’t care so much about. Going out to dinner with people who only wanted to sleep with me or try getting a chunk of money somehow weren’t worth my time. Not…not a lot of it anyway.” I know what he means when his cheeks tinge red and he won’t look me in the eye.
Looking around as I twiddle anxiously with my thumbs to make sure nobody is in earshot, I admit, “I