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“In the spring and fall,” he states then laughs. “Not why I called. Wanted to say good luck and let you know you’re still my favorite athlete.”
“Thanks, Hud. I’ll hit you all up in the family chat when I’m done.”
As soon as we disconnect the call, Mom buzzes.
“Hey, Mom. How are you?”
“Good. Very good. Jillian and I are so excited to come watch you play next week. Are you sure I can’t send you any money?”
“Linda,” I sigh out, “stop ask?—”
“I’ve accepted that you kids don’t call me Mommy anymore, but I refuse to accept your use of my first name.”
“Mom,” Jillian tsks, “he only does that when he’s annoyed with you.”
“Love you, ladies, but I’m about ready to pull into the parking lot, and I need to deal with security, so?—”
“We won’t hold you up. Please send me a first-day picture.”
“Oh my God, Mom,” Jillian groans.
“I could drive there. It’s only?—”
“Rome,” Jillian cuts her off, “send her a picture, or she’ll be waiting in the bushes outside, like she was with me on my first day of college.”
“I was not in the bushes; I was in my car,” Mom defends herself.
“Will do.” I laugh. “Talk later.”
“Grandma Hart would be proud of you, Roman,” Mom says.
“Yeah, I know she would. Chat later. Love you.”
I might not feel like I’m going to throw up like Hud did, nor am I half as anxious as I was the first time I showed up for spring training, but Grandma Hart, her passing, that fucking crushed me. It crushed all of us, even though we knew she was on borrowed time.
At the traffic light, sitting behind a Porsche, I inhale a deep breath, hold it for the count of four as I white-knuckle the steering wheel, and then exhale slowly. The light turns green, and I coast forward, rounding the bend in the road. That’s when Revolutionary Field comes into sight. Three lights up and on the right, the giant complex comes into full view.
Yes, I’ve been here—hell, I live less than two miles away—but today is the day I get my parking pass from security, park in the parking lot designated for players, slide my key over the sensor, and walk in the players’ entrance to the stadium. Today is the day that I really feel like screaming, “Hey, look, Mom, I made it.”
I stop at the guard station and quickly read the name tag on the security guard’s shirt—Ramirez. Not sure how old the man is, but he’s a big motherfucker with a rugged, don’t-fuck-with-me appearance. His uniform is immaculate; he probably has it pressed.
Before he has a chance to ask, I hold out my license, and he takes it with a lift of his chin. He turns around and heads back into the guard station, where I assume he’s checking my identification.
Less than a minute later, he walks out and hands over my ID. He gives me a nod as he hands me a parking pass and security card, attached to a Jersey Jags lanyard.
“Now that you have this, you’ll just swipe this pass at the entrance to the players’ lot.” Ramirez points toward the right. “Your rookie spot is in the very back row. They’re big on seniority here. Gonna have to do your time to get a better spot, but it’s close enough to the entrance. You’ll see your name.” He offers a smile. “Welcome to the Jags, kid.”
“Appreciate it, Ramirez. You have a good day now.”
I was lucky enough to have Amias Steel give me some pointers when his old man offered me a contract. Told me to never take the elevator if the veterans are on it—they see it as a sign of disrespect. He’s been on the team for three years; his family now owns the team.
He told me a few of the things that he dealt with his first year. He explained that the Jersey Jaguars have a no-hazing policy, but shit still happens. He remembers being told he had to carry the veterans’ equipment, and at times, he fetched food and drinks for them when in the clubhouse. His suggestion was to just stay the hell out of there if they’re all peacocking. There was also taunting and teasing about his performance, which is completely normal. I knew this from playing D1. When coaching, I did not allow it. And he told me they informed him that he was getting off easy since there was no longer a rookie-hazing day, in which they were required to wear a costume of the veterans’ choosing and perform a skit in front of the team, or worse—the fans. He suggested going with it and admitted the only thing he put his foot down on was when they talked shit about his girlfriend at the time, who is now his wife and happens to be our team physical therapist.
After finding my spot, I throw my Chevy in park and grab my duffel bag. I slide out of my truck, shut the door, and hit the key fob to lock it. Then, yes, I hold up my phone, take a selfie of me standing in front of my sign, and send it.
Me
Hey, look, Ma, I made it.
