It’s been a month of this bullshit. This throwing program fucking sucks. Long-toss is for outfielders. Throwing to my cousin Jorge, who l never should’ve let stay with me in my house. I think he pisses in my pool. Definitely never walks Zeus, my French bulldog. Can’t even make eggs. How does a kid get to be 22 and can’t make eggs? Guess my oldest brother and his wife never taught him anything. Now the kid is holed up in my guest room probably masturbating. He orders pizzas almost every night.
Meanwhile, my girlfriend told me she needed a break. Said I’m depressed and gloomy. Well, fuck yeah I’m depressed! I can’t pitch. That’s my life. She liked sitting in that suite at the stadium and screaming from those seats. Way to support me when I’m down. She doesn’t know adversity. She’s never been a professional anything. She used to be a flight attendant. Now she’s trying to get a real estate license. Maybe she can sell my house when I get traded.
Anyway, I’m supposed to throw long-toss for 30 minutes a day. Three-hundred feet. I take Jorge to the high school field in this plastic suburb and I toss him strikes from deep center. They told me to come back to the stadium after two weeks of long-toss. Cheap ass major league team. Last winter, they fired half of their training staff and started sending us slide presentations they probably made with AI.
One thing you learn after elbow surgery… you’re just another dude in a uniform. Doesn’t matter how much you signed for ($1.5 million). Doesn’t matter how good you were in the minors or how high you rose on the Top 100 lists (I got to 16.) None of that really matters. All that matters is your current velocity and your spin rate. My velo is back. I hit 97 the other day, when they had me come and check in at the facility. My spin rate isn’t. I can’t command shit… so long-toss is all there is right now. If I’m lucky, they let me go out on a three-week rehab assignment in June.
Jorge asked me what he should do with his life. I asked him what he can imagine himself doing. He told me he has no idea. I told him the first thing to do is stop watching that moron Mr. Beast and stop listening to that Rogan bullshit. I told him to read a book. He went down to Barnes & Noble and bought a set of graphic novels. All superheroes and demons and shit. I’m surprised Jorge can even read. He’s asked me about girls. I told him to be honest. He said, “They’re all lying in their profiles.” He said when he meets them, they look totally different. I asked about his profile. He showed me his picture. It’s from four years ago, when he was a track star in high school. I asked him, “And do they all think you’re 18? Update your damn picture!” Jorge got embarrassed. He had a six-pack. That was before he started drinking six-packs. He’s probably 30 pounds heavier now. I put him on a cardio regimen. That lasted about two weeks. He said he prefers walking to running. What a kid!
Anyway, I’ve got to ice this sore arm. Long-toss is a bastard. The team is already 10 games under .500, so they’re in no rush to see if I can help. The ace just went on the injured list with a knee issue. The rookie they brought up can’t find the strike zone. The other guys are all nibblers, trying to get by with off-speed junk, all change-ups and sweepers. What the hell would I do if I couldn’t pitch anymore? Probably go into the woods and live in a cabin. Sit in an old wooden chair on a porch, looking up at the stars while the owls and frogs serenade me. Three more years until I can pick my team, assuming my arm holds up and I resurrect this prematurely paused career. Wonder if Jorge has already ordered a pizza. I’m getting hungry.