“Fuck,” I mutter, digging my feet into the dirt. I stand in the box, waiting for the next pitch. It comes, I swing, and it’s another foul.
“Do you want some advice?”
The competitor in me says no, but the baseball fan says yes. If Steve Bainbridge is willing to offer me some advice, who am I to say no? “Yeah, please,” I say, stepping out of the batter’s box.
He turns off the machine and brings the bucket of balls over to me.
“Face the fence,” he says, kneeling down. “Let’s go back to the basics of keeping your eye on the ball. I know you’re some big shot down in Triple-A, but the pitching here is different. These guys can put a ninety-eighter by you before you even have the chance to blink. Your reflexes are slow. And I’m willing to bet people pitched to you because they were afraid of you.
“Not to mention you see the same guys more in the minors than you will in the majors, so you can’t mentally adjust to their technique.”
I stand there listening to everything he has to say and realize that he’s right. Thinking back to yesterday’s game, my swing was too slow, and I was always behind the ball.
“Did you ever do this when you were younger?”
“Yeah, I did. This is how I learned how to bat.”
“No, it’s how you learned to keep your eye on the ball and not memorize where it’s going to be.”
Bainbridge sets up just outside my bat’s reach and kneels down with the bucket of balls next to him. I ready myself as if I’m in the batter’s box and take his first toss. The ball smacks into the fence, ricocheting off and landing on the warning track.
“King told you to rotate your hips more. You need to power through your swing and use the momentum to move the ball.”
I do as Bainbridge says and recall what Mickey King had said about swinging through with my hips. Ball after ball, my swing feels more natural, much like it used to last year.
“Okay, let’s try the machine again.”
By now, the sun is rising, and the lights are starting to get shut off. The crewmember who was helping Bainbridge earlier shagged all the balls from the outfield and has brought them back for us.
Stepping back into the batter’s box, Bainbridge turns the machine on and shows me the ball before sending it through the chamber. By the time I register the sound it makes coming out of the chute, the ball is soaring toward me. Putting my weight on my back leg, I step into my swing and watch the yellow ball hit against the belly of my bat. I grunt as I swing through and watch the ball sail over the center field wall.
Bainbridge is watching it, too, and when he looks back at me, he’s smiling. “Again,” he says, showing me the ball.
We continue like this until my arm is sore. As we go around picking up the balls, I ask, “Your turn?”
“Nah. I have stuff to do before practice, but I’ll be here tomorrow, same time.” He walks off the field with two buckets of balls, leaving two for me to carry. He didn’t exactly invite me, but it sounds like I’m welcome if I want to show up in the morning. I think he knows I’ll be here. Baseball is in my blood and any chance to practice, especially with Bainbridge, I’m going to take it.
After a quick shower, I head over to my father’s hotel. I’ve been down this road with him before, the one where he’s upset with how I’m playing. I usually just sit and listen—sometimes I’ll take notes—but I always work on the things he points out. He’s not a professional, but he is my dad, and he’s all I’ve got.
I text him, letting him know I’m at the hotel, and he gives me his room number. When I get to this floor, the door to his room is already ajar so I go in.
“Hey,” I say as I enter the room. This is your average hotel with two beds, the standard television set, a table with two chairs, and a nice, large window that gives you a view of nothing.
“What’s wrong with your arm?”
I look at him questioningly, and he points to my shoulder. I shake my head, wondering how he knows I’m sore.
“Batting practice this morning with Bainbridge.”
“Getting to know your enemy. That’s a good strategy.”
Except he’s not my enemy, he’s my teammate, regardless of the situation.
“Anyway, do you want to go get breakfast?”
He stands and grabs his Renegades hat, slipping it onto his head. We walk back to my car in silence, which is perfect for me. I have enough thoughts running through my head as is; I don’t need to add his as well. As soon as we’re in the car, I turn the radio up, hoping he catches my drift that I don’t feel like talking just yet.
“The food is supposed to be good here,” I tell him as we pull into a diner not far from his hotel.