Keep Them Close(31)

Vanessa, Brian—we’re willing to commit to Luke today, before the boy’s finished eighth grade. The day he graduates from high school five years from now, he’ll come down to Baton Rouge and join the number one program in college baseball on a full scholarship.

We want Luke in Tallahassee, folks. We’ll guarantee him a spot right now.

Luke belongs at ASU. We’ll wait five years for him.

Commit to Cal State Fullerton, son. You won’t be sorry.

“Skip.” Alan McIntyre, my assistant coach—now the head coach—stands by the first-base line, trying to maintain his composure. Alan has over ten years on me, in his mid-fifties, a guy with a catcher’s mitt for a face, a stomach that hangs over his belt, bad knees, a gravelly voice that is pure baseball. The man lives and breathes the game, bounced around single-A in the minors for thirteen years, longer than he should have, unable to give it up even when he knew he’d never make the bigs. He couldn’t wait to ditch his job at a tool-and-die factory when I approached him four years ago.

“Boys are ready for you.” His voice trembles. He’s never been comfortable with emotion.

I put my hands on his shoulders. “This is your team now, Mac.”

“No, it sure isn’t. No, sir.”

“Mac, look at me.” I wait for his eyes. “Yes, it is. There can’t be any doubt about that. These boys need you. They’re counting on you. I’m counting on you.”

“Ah.” He breaks away from me, kicks at the turf, which makes no sense, but he can’t still himself. “This isn’t right. It just ain’t right.”

“You know more baseball than I do. You’re the right person at the right time.”

“Until you get back,” he says, staring down. “Until you beat these bullshit charges.”

I pat him on the shoulder. Let him tell himself that, if it makes the transition easier. We walk silently into the workout area, chalked up into two practice fields, some batting cages.

Luke, I want to be straight with you. The way you landed after the car hit your bike—the MRI shows a full tear in your right labrum. That’s the cartilage ring in your shoulder joint that keeps the ball of the arm bone stable. It’s a serious injury for a ballplayer, especially a pitcher.

My team is sitting on the turf in a half circle, the way we typically meet. Twenty-seven players, all in their dark purple practice tops, gray pants, baseball bags at their sides. Besides the four freshmen and two transfers on the squad, I have been in battle with each of them, all the way to Eastlake, Ohio, where we lost in the super regionals of the World Series on a cloudy day in late May last year. They’ve listened to me, for hours on end, preach about teamwork, leadership, discipline, toughness, overcoming adversity. This will be a new kind of test.

Surgery can repair the labrum, yes, and with therapy you’ll regain strength and range of motion. But you won’t throw with the same velocity you did before. The shoulder just can’t generate the same power after a tear like this.

“You know you guys can ask me anything,” I tell the team. “Ask away.”

Wittmer, the captain, one of three seniors on the squad, looks up at me. “We don’t need to ask you anything, Skip. We know you’re innocent.”

“But choices I made put me in this situation,” I say. “We talk about good judgment, don’t we? How many times have I said it? We talk about being careful about the people you associate with. I’m accountable for the choices I made. I apologize to each of you for that.”

“It’s bullshit.” Krueger, our top lefty, shakes his head. “It isn’t fair.”

“Hey, news flash: life won’t be fair. Know that, expect that, and then decide how you’re gonna handle it. Because in the end, how you respond is all that matters. Are you gonna roll up in a ball and cry yourselves to sleep? Or are you gonna move forward? Cuz I’ll tell you one thing right now—I’m not wasting one second feeling sorry for myself. I’m sorry for letting you down. But I’m not sorry for myself. Don’t spend one second of your life feeling bad for me.”

Some of the players nod along, going through the motions more than anything.

“Now let’s talk about something more important, gentlemen. Let’s talk about you. What do I preach to you? What question do I ask you? I ask you, what does it take to break you?

“A ground ball under your legs. Does that break you, or do you bounce back and make the next play? A crap call on ball four? Does it break you, or do you forget it and worry about the next pitch? This is no different, guys. This is a gigantic shit sandwich, I grant you that. But it’s just a setback. And I guarantee you, guys, you’ll have bigger setbacks than this one in life.

“So what are you gonna do about it? Are you going to let what happened to me break you? Are you gonna look back on this opportunity and say, ‘Gee, something bad happened, so our team fell apart’? Or are you gonna look back on this and remember how you overcame adversity and reached your goals? That’s the only question you guys have to answer: Will this break you?”

“Fuck no,” says Wittmer, eyes cast downward.

“You want to do one thing for me, do that,” I say. “Do not let this break you.”





24


Allison