Page 68 of Elevator Pitch

When the game begins, my enthusiasm for the season spikes as the Anchors start off strong until a pop fly arches toward centerfield.

Ford Sylver rushes forward from his position. Romero Valdez hightails it backward from his spot at short stop, then he spins to face Ford. Somehow the ball drops between them like something you’d see in a little league game.

Within seconds, Ford is in Romero’s face, finger pointed at his teammate in a move that can only be described as aggressive.

My head is already shaking, recalling all the shit that has gone down so far this season between these two men over a woman.

Then, Romero reaches out, captures Ford’s hand and twists. Ford’s left arm is behind him in a move where I can imagine Romero demanding that Ford cry ‘uncle’. Only his left arm is his bad arm. Ford drops to his knees.

“Aw, fuck,” someone yells within the dugout.

“What the fuck?” another cries out, while a few of the guys empty the bench.

The animosity between Ford and Romero has placed a divide of loyalty among the men. Most favor Ford, as one of our captains and a veteran of the Anchors.

“Get back,” I yell, clearing the dugout myself while Dalton Ryatt, my bench coach, tries to hold guys off, warning them to stay put.

As I cross the field behind the team trainer because my star centerfielder isn’t standing up, my stomach flips. I only have a few seconds to make a decision here.

“What happened?” I snap before asking if Ford is okay. The pinch in his face and the way he’s gingerly supporting his left arm, his throwing arm, already answers any question about his condition. He’s in pain and has been since training started. I’m cognizant of Ford’s medical history. He had extensive rehab over the last season on his left shoulder but he’s creeping toward the need for corrective surgery. His age isn’t helping either. He’ll be turning thirty-eight this summer.

“I shouldn’t have gotten in his face,” Ford grits through the pain, accepting his responsibility in the wrong that happened. However, the altercation didn’t stop with words.

We’re men. We get heated, especially under the guise of competition. Typically, that competitive spirit is between teams, not among your own teammates.

I appreciate Ford admitting his fault but more happened on this field than a few harsh words and a pointed finger. Valdez responded.

And his physical reaction needs to be dealt with next. Valdez has been a thorn in my side since this season started. Taking liberties he doesn’t have. Treating others with disrespect. Rude comments. Lewd motions. He doesn’t represent someone I would consider a team player, nor is he someone I want on my team. However, I didn’t make the initial choice to hire him. He was here when the team became mine. Now I’ll have a potential investigation into intentional harm to determine if Romero purposely twisted Ford’s bad arm.

“Thoughts?” I snap at the team trainer.

“He’s out.” A simple nod suggests we discuss the damage to Ford later.

With Ford closing his eyes, he knows the truth is as plain as the ivy on the wall behind him. He’s finished for this game, and out for the foreseeable future, if not the entire season.

With the assistance of the medical staff, Ford stands and the crowd claps in relief when I’m certain most fans are still stunned.

How often does one see player against player from the same fucking team?

Trying to keep my head up, I follow behind Ford and the medical team who assist Ford to the dugout before he slips into the tunnel leading to the locker room.

For now, I have eight other guys to focus on and a substitution to make.

“Dane,” I call out as I near the bench. “You’re up.” I hitch my thumb toward the field. We only have a few seconds to warm up the rookie we pulled up from the minors to shadow Ford for this type of incident.

Not necessarily one where his teammate takes him out, but Ford’s arm not being at its best has been a concern, especially after a collision between the same two men caused an issue during the training season.

Stedman Dane is as green as they get. Small town kid in a big city. Almost as young as my sons.

“Think he’s ready?” Dalton mutters beside me as I take my position in the corner of the dugout, up against the fence.

“He’s gonna have to be, isn’t he?” We don’t have a choice because Ford is finished.

Dalton scoffs. The game recommences and while my heart goes out to Ford, because the older one gets, the harder it is to play this game, my thoughts rush to Vee, wishing I could talk to her about my concerns.

The Anchors are not off to a good start this season.

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