a, but we’re sure he’ll be adding a lot of fodder to our column. Let’s just hope he knows that we love him dearly and enjoy his dating habits.
The BoRe Blogger
Chapter 23
Cooper
The Renegades are winning. It’d be nice to say that I’m part of that, but the truth is…I’m riding the pine. In fact, my ass is starting to hurt, and I think I might have a sliver or two from sitting on the wood so much.
But this is my fate. I earned this because I had my head in the clouds during spring training and didn’t focus on the prize in front of me. At the time, I thought I was invincible, that my talent from Triple-A would carry over, and I could easily take the starting spot from a veteran player like Steve Bainbridge. I know that I’m wrong now, and, sadly, it’s taken me too long to realize the error of my ways. At best, each game gives me hope that I’ll see some field time, and if I don’t, I’m there cheering on my teammates because that is what I’m supposed to do.
Accepting that I may have fucked up my career hasn’t curbed the longing I feel for Ainsley or the memory of how she looked when I last saw her. That day in the hospital will forever be one of my worst. I thought that it was going to be the last time I ever saw her until she showed up at my apartment that night. Not an hour after she called and I blew her off. The look on her face, the sadness and shock in her eyes—I knew I had hurt her—even though I didn’t do anything wrong.
I had never been told not to suit up before for a game until that encounter with Ainsley. When I arrived at the clubhouse, I had missed our mandatory meeting, and Diamond pulled me into his office. He never raised his voice when he told me how disappointed he was in me and asked if I even wanted to play baseball anymore. My answer was an automatic yes, but he didn’t believe me and suggested I take a day or so to truly think about what I want out of life. It took me all of five minutes of watching from the dugout to realize that baseball is my life and it’s what I want to do.
It didn’t take the guys long to figure out that something went down with Ainsley. Kidd was the first one to bring it up, along with something about having a party later. As much as I balked at the idea, I had no choice once Wilder and Guerra invited everyone over to our apartment. To make matters worse, I was tagged by the women at the party as the guy with a broken heart. It’s crazy to think about all the women who wanted to listen to my story, offer a shoulder to cry on, and even cook me some meals to help mend my broken heart.
I took one woman up on her offer to listen, and that’s when all hell broke loose. Ainsley showed up, assuming the worst when she saw me in the kitchen talking with another woman, and stormed out of my apartment yelling that her mother was right and all athletes are pigs.
And I didn’t chase her when she left, which is probably one of my biggest mistakes. I wanted to, but something held me back. Maybe it’s knowing that nothing was going to change. The fact is I am leaving in a few weeks, so I let her go and part of me still regrets it every day, but the other half of me knows it was the right decision for both of us.
Getting dumped by Ainsley sent me into a tailspin. My numbers didn’t improve, I started committing fielding errors, and my bat was all but nonexistent. I was a guaranteed out when I stepped up to the plate. Each time I heard another skipper say something to his pitcher, my love for the game died a little bit more. They were right, though. My timing was off, I couldn’t see the ball, and when I did, I watched it land right into the catcher’s glove. During spring training, I was nothing but a liability.
Each day I waited with bated breath for Diamond to call me into his office to deliver the words that would send me back to the minors, but they never came. Instead, I received nothing but encouragement from him, spurring me to add more practice time and to work harder. All of this despite my father’s nagging voice demanding that I ask to be traded because I wasn’t playing. I couldn’t tell him that I was content with where I was at right now because I still had a job. Being sent back to the minors, without an injury, would be a slap in the face, and that was something I wasn’t ready for.
The only saving grace about leaving Florida is that my dad is still there. He’s cozied himself up in a nice apartment on the ocean, far away from me. It would be nice to have family around, but I need a break from him. I know he means well, but I just don’t think I’ll ever get over his ill feelings toward Ainsley. I don’t know if she was the reason for my poor performance at the start of the preseason, but she was definitely the cause of the last half.
Another thing I’m getting accustomed to: the BoRe blogger, who apparently used to be a fan of mine, now finds it comical to poke fun at me. I suppose it’s not fun, per se, but whoever that person is has no qualms about pointing out how shitty I’ve been playing, or not playing, for that matter. I get it, I do. I’m a public person so nothing is off limits, but throw a guy a bone every now and again. Unfortunately for me, I spent hours combing over the blog posts, reading about how poorly I’ve performed since I was called up. As if I needed a reminder. I’m actually grateful for all the negative attention: It just makes me determined to prove them wrong. Luckily for me, though, I’m not the only Renegade subjected to the fodder—it’s dished out equally—I’m just not in a position to change their views of me yet.
The clubhouse is empty when I arrive. It’s not uncommon, but it’s also nice to have a workout partner every now and again or at least someone to shoot the shit with. Branch Singleton told me the stadium is haunted, going so far as to scare the shit out of me one night. It’s rookie hazing, and I’m the subject of a lot of it. Thankfully, the guys have stayed away from putting itching powder in my shorts or dye in my shampoo bottle. Wilder used to have dark hair and he’s currently platinum blond.
From eight o’clock to five o’clock the stadium is bustling with activity from the office staff, and on game days, it’s even crazier. Our trainers are usually here by midafternoon when most of us roll in, but on occasion, they’ll be here early to catch up on injury reports and make sure everything is stocked.
We’re eleven and nine and facing a National League team, the Atlanta Braves, this evening. We are home after being gone for five games, and every part of me wishes we were still down south. It’s damn cold in Boston right now, and the weather is temperamental. One day, the sun is shining, and the next, it’s snowing. This has to be the only drawback of playing on the East Coast; other than that, I love it, but I do miss the ocean views of Rhode Island, where I played Triple-A.
Traveling with the Renegades is a complete luxury, with our chartered plane and custom coach buses. It’s a definite perk of being in the majors. As much as I hate flying, I’d rather get there faster than sitting on a bus for hours, delayed in traffic or having to smell the stench from the toilet that your teammate clogged up.
I change quickly into my workout clothes, grab my headphones out of my gym bag, and head off to the weight room. Everything I’m doing today is to strengthen my core with sit-ups, push-ups, and wall squats because I didn’t ask any of the guys if they’d want to come in early and spot for me. I figured since we just got home last night from our road trip that they’d want to spend time with their families. I know I would, if I had one waiting for me at home.
Working out keeps my mind off my life…and Ainsley, for the most part. I miss her, and the nights are the worst when I’m sitting alone in my apartment. When I need to hear her voice, I call her work number and wait for it to go to voice mail, only to hear the same recorded message over and over again: “You’ve reached the voice mail for Ainsley Burke. I’m currently on an extended leave of absence. Please press one to be connected with my assistant.” There are times that I hang up and dial again, praying that she doesn’t answer.
When I enter the gym, Davenport and Kidd are there with heavy-metal music blaring through the speakers and weights clanking against each other.
“What you guys doing here so early?” Even though Kidd is single, he’s always romancing some lucky—or maybe unlucky, dep
ending on how you look at it—lady. Coming in early to workout isn’t really his cup of tea.
“Diamond asked us to come in and keep you company,” Kidd says as he sets his weights down. Davenport punches him in the arm and rolls his eyes.
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“He’s not implying that,” Davenport states. “He wants to make sure you don’t get hurt lifting without a spotter.”
“What’s it matter if I get hurt? That’d be an easy way to put me on rehab assignment.”
Davenport shakes his head while coming over to talk to me. He places his hand on my shoulder and looks me square in the eye. “Bainbridge is taking the next few nights off, and Diamond is giving you the start instead of putting Singleton out there. He wants you ready for tonight.”
“Wh…what?” My tongue is tied as I say the word. I’m having a hard time comprehending what Davenport just told me.