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PART ONE
LET’S PLAY BALL!
ONE
GUNNAR
I LAY on the hotel bed; my feet on the wall while the team publicist, Melinda, sits on the chair beside the bed with the binder that she always carries around. The night before the opening day game, I have a superstition that if I stay in a hotel room the night before, my game will be better and not just my game but also the season will be better as well. It has worked for me the past three years, so my motto is why mess with a perfect system. My first year playing in the big leagues, my condo had a flood from the one and only neighbor on my floor, so I was relocated until the flooring of my place was redone. My game was enhanced the next dayat our home opener, and I made staying at a hotel stick with me moving forward.
“Gun, we set up a marketing plan for the team this season, it’s a contest for one lucky fan that will spend an entire day with a player. They will get to live the life of a major leaguer for the day and ending with a night game. Fans won this contest at our Fanfest in December. The team will be working with a new marketing firm and this will be a monthly event that the team will do. You’re the lucky one to go first.”
“Cool. Just let me know where I need to be,” I say tossing the ball at the wall and catching it as it comes back to me only half-listening.
“That means that none of your chasers can be hanging with you, and you’d have to be PC,” Melinda reminds me with a roll of her eyes and pure disdain for my attitude.
This is a weekly conversation we have. I like to call it the ‘Coming to Gunnar’ moment, where I’m supposed to remember that I’m a role model and not just a self-professed sex god.
“I can curb my extra-curricular activities for a day, no fear. It’s not like I’m that bad.” I smile not even looking at her.
“That also means, no getting wasted.”
“Dude, it’s only a day. And it’s not like I’m an alcoholic.”
“Says the guy who nearly got a DUI this summer.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m an alcoholic, just that I made a shit decision. I got out of it, didn’t I?” I question.
A knock echoes through the hotel room, and Melinda answers the door. With a groan, she opens the door all the way and then lets in two blondes, twins.
“Gun,” Melinda starts her voice full of disdain as she juts her hip out. “Really?”
“I can’t help it if I’m a popular guy.” I stand up to greet my guests. Each kisses me on the cheek, so I’m a sandwich between them.
“You need to be resting up, tomorrow starts the series against the Chicago Skylines, you’ve got to be on top of your game, it’s the season opener, and it’s here at home. This is important to the team that we get a win and Coach expects you guys to kill it for the next few days. We need these wins to start out the season on a good foot.”
“It’s the start of the season, there are 162 games, and we’re not going to win all of them, you know.” I remind
“Gunnar, that’s not the type of talk Coach likes.”
“You aren’t the skipper,” I retort.
“Just make it an early night. We don’t want any bonehead plays this season from your extra-curricular activities,” she says opening the door, eyeing my guests and exiting.
“You know as well as I do, that my focus is always on the game out there,” I shout after her.
The girls haven’t moved from my side and are giggling as Melinda leaves.
“Now ladies, what are your names?” I say turning them around and leading them to the sitting area of my suite.
I STEP out of the dugout and onto the warning track. The dirt crunches under my cleats until I hit the chalk of the foul line as both sides of players line up on opposite sides for the national anthem. I pull my cap off and place it over my heart, the music starts, and this signals the start of opening day.
My mind wanders as I look out along the crowd. My eyes drift over the faces that are singing along, fiddling with their already impatient kids, and people with their cell phones up. A moment later, the song wraps up and cheers erupt throughout the park.
It’s game time, and I’m ready to rock this day. I wave to the crowd before I jog to the catcher’s box behind home plate. I stretch my hamstrings a few reps while I wait for my buddy Bently to take his place on the mound. Derek Casters, the second baseman of the Skylines practiced his swings fifty feet from me. Bently approaches the mound and rotates his shoulder, nods to me and takes his position to throw a few warm up pitches.
THE BREEZE of air from a swing of the bat, the whoosh of a ball landing in my mitt, the blue calling the plays and the roar of the crowd - it’s all part of my blood. I come from a middle class family, one that put all their money on their only son and faithfully followed me around the states once I made it to the big leagues. I have lived and breathed baseball since before I could remember. This is my third season with the San Diego Hornets, and I am finally out of rookie status.
I am known on the team as a playboy, and the cleat chasers know this. In the tunnel. I have a steady stream of them lined up eagerly waiting for me to choose one of them to take home with me after a game. With my crazy schedule during the season, it’s almost impossible to cultivate any sort of relationships, so those women who know the score, who are down with a little fun here and there and who don’t ask for any commitments, are the type of women that I spend time with.
