no idea what to do.
Not Ready for This
Mac
W
hen I landed in Orange County, I was still in no better mindset. If it was possible, I might have been in an even worse mood. I got into my ride-share, put my head back on the seat, and dropped a pair of sunglasses over my eyes, not wanting to make small talk with the driver. He got the hint, only asking me for our destination before getting on the crowded freeway.
If you had asked me last season, I might have admitted—most likely in a drunken state—that there was a decent chance that I’d get picked up by a Major League team. There were forty rounds in the draft, and about thirty-two guys went in each round. So, yeah, the possibility of me being one of about twelve hundred seemed achievable. Even if it happened in the last round, that shit still counted. And I would have taken it, by the way, skipping all the way to whatever farm team they sent me to with a smile and never looking back.
But it hadn’t worked out for me.
And everyone knew it.
I’d be facing that reality in about T-minus twenty minutes when I arrived at the baseball house. I thought that a tiny part of me never thought I’d make it here—to my senior year at Fullton State. At least, I’d always assumed it was small, but when the draft had come and gone and I wasn’t one of the names called, it was clear that I had believed in something for myself far more than I’d had any right to. It’d felt more like the entirety of my being had hoped and pulled for a dream that was getting further and further out of reach. And now, the countdown was on, the pressure intensified. It was this year or nothing. Get drafted or hang up my cleats for good and go work for Dickhead Davies.
How the hell would I ever walk away from baseball and stay whole?
My disappointment had grown into bitterness over the summer even though I had been kicking ass on my summer ball team. I found myself pissed off that my friends were getting paid to play baseball, but I had to go back to our fucking university and take a bunch of classes for a future I didn’t want. I hated the way that getting a degree was forced on our shoulders in order to do the one thing we loved. As if we didn’t have enough pressure and stress as it was, being a Division 1 athlete.
The only saving grace was the fact that my courses came pretty easily for me. Where Chance had struggled last year to stay eligible, I never had to worry about that kind of thing. I passed my classes with ease. I just didn’t want to fucking take them anymore. I was so sick and tired of school … of pretending to give a shit about classes like business economics when I had zero interest in it.
I knew that I wasn’t the only guy on the team who hadn’t gotten drafted last year, so there were a few of us seniors in the same boat, all knowing that it was our last chance, praying we’d get the opportunity to make our dreams come true. But none of that made me feel any better. As much of a team sport as baseball was, it was still every man for himself. We didn’t get the chance to go pro as a team; we got the chance separately, as individuals, and we were ranked as such.
As my ride pulled into the driveway of the baseball house, I wondered if everyone would see a giant neon sign that read FAILURE, flashing over my head when they looked at me. I wondered when I’d stop seeing it every time I saw my reflection in the mirror.
With a groan, I carried my shit across the threshold and opened the front door to boisterous yells and whoops that hit my ears the second I stepped inside. My name was being shouted from somewhere in the kitchen, and I looked around until I saw Dayton Mawlry, our star pitcher; Colin Anderson, our shortstop; and Matt Sanders, our new left fielder, who I’d heard all about over the summer, doing shots before starting to pour more.
I’d lived with Dayton and Colin last year, but Matt was a new addition to the house.
Shaking my head, I knew that a baseball party was imminent.
“We’re pregaming!”