I know it’s my final season. My reflexes aren’t what they used to be. Couldn’t hit lefties in March so now I ride the pine whenever we face one. This automated strike zone challenge situation is fun. I’m 6’4” so my zone has always been bigger than most, but now the umps can’t strike me out on those fringy sliders that always used to get me. Mostly stopped swinging at a two-strike slider a few years ago. Those calls inches off the outside edge are the difference between a walk and a strikeout. I strike out enough already, but now my walks are up. Sixteen seasons in the majors. 39 years old, with my paltry .655 OPS.
With my platoon situation, I need all the walks I can get. Lately, I’ve taken them. Walked in every game last week. Just fouling off the high heat and waiting for the offspeed to miss. Our lineup’s a mess. Coach gave Luis the Prospect my ABs against lefties. Luis went 0-11 over those first three games, and then had a two-homer game. Baseball’s a rollercoaster, that’s for damn sure. I’ve tried to mentor the kid, he’s humble for such a big name prospect. He’s from San Diego. When we played the Padres, his whole family was in the bleachers. I told him he was too amped up, needed to calm himself with a hot shower and some instrumental music. Instead, he downed a Red Bull and was hopping all over the clubhouse like a lunatic. He struck out three times that night. I met the family. His mom could be a model. Looks like she’s younger than me. Dad must’ve been at least 50, all tatted out.
Meanwhile, no family members come to see me anymore. My parents moved to New Mexico a few years back. Long drive just to see me play in Phoenix. Mom posts pictures of her watercolors online. They’re pretty good, mostly desert landscapes. Dad got into online chess and pickleball. Both turn 70 next year. Still have some cousins in Idaho, but none that I’m close with. Younger brother became a translator and has moved between Argentina and Uruguay for the last few years.
Did I mention I hit a 450-footer the other day? Might be my last real blast. Second inning. Sun still up. Breeze blowing out to right. Inside fastball at 93. Turned on that ball and kept it fair by just a few feet. Upper deck shot. Ball caromed around in some empty rows up there. Made me feel young again as I rounded the bases. There’s a kind of floating feeling you get when the crowd “oohs” and “ahhs” your no-doubter. It was only my third of the season, but the 200th of my career. I got to 200. That was one of my goals this season. I’ll be lucky to hit 15 this year. I guess I’m learning how to appreciate this game, now that the sun’s setting on my career. Friends have asked me what’s next. I’ve told them, “Resting my body.” The back aches. The knee pain. The forearm strains. The wrist. One final season.
After that? Who knows. I’ve been thinking about one of those silent retreats. I’ve gotten better at being quiet. Putting the phone out of reach. Turning off the TV. My buddy Grady called the other day. Said he watched our game. Felt bad I made the last out. I said, “Somebody does it every game.” He wondered how I’ve been. I told him it’s been tough splitting at-bats. Feeling like your days are numbered. Then he told me about his niece, who has leukemia. Puts things into perspective. This life. Playing a game. Wrecking your body but getting paid big money just to try and hit a leather-covered ball with a rubber core. It’s crazy when you think about it. Then I hear Grady’s niece is in the local children’s hospital waiting for treatment. Next time I’m in Tampa, I’ll invite Grady and his family to come out to the game.