Guys like him are a dime-a-dozen.
Kenny Morrison drove his fist into his mitt and prepared for another groundball off the bat of Cisco Guerrero, Okinawa’s bench coach. He watched as Guerrero tossed the ball into the air and swung his fungo hard. Water spun from the ball as it skipped through the damp infield — the morning sun still yawning into the new day over the horizon. Morrison was the first player on the field. He asked Guerrero the night before to meet him for some extra grounders an hour and a half before the official practice began. He wanted to be crisp. He wanted to be ready. But, most of all, he wanted time to quiet the echoes of doubt in his mind.
Organization depth. Nothing more.
Morrison charged the ball, counting the hops, just as he was taught way back in his first year in the minors nine years ago. Four. Five. Six. Like a simple dance he’d done countless times, he brought his glove forward to the ball. Fielding it cleanly, he mimicked the footwork for his throw, then tossed the ball towards a bucket near second base. Morrison trotted back to his spot at short. He looked back at Guerrero and hit his mitt again.
He’s tapped out. It’s time to go younger.
-----
March 2nd, 2030
I can feel the old man eyeing me from somewhere inside my head. He has a smirk on his face. He knows I’m nearing the end. He’s loving watching me struggle. All the litter and all the trash I’ve tried to forget – the poor at-bats, the misplays in the field, the looks of managers and teammates who gave up on me – the old man collected. He followed the thoughts as they whipped in the winds of my mind, gathering them up after they became stuck on a fence or in a tree. His bag overflows now. I’m 27-god-damn-years old. I’m a fringe guy. That’s all I am.
And that bastard knows it. I can feel it. My day even went well today. I wasn’t rusty. I hit well in the cage. But, I can sense the lack of expectations around me. I’m not an idiot. I know I’m headed to some triple A team in a city I’ve never heard of. I’m the third shortstop in camp. There’s no denying that fact when you look at the money they’re paying Eddy and Pablo.
I’ve had my chances, though. Bakersfield gave me a ton back in 2027. And, how did I reward them? I fielded ok, but I hit like garbage. I guess just more fodder for the old man to collect. Then, out of the blue, Hartford trades the Bears a high end starting pitching prospect and a 5th rounder for me, despite my .156 batting average in 2028. Shit, the league should have looked into that trade.
Of course, because this game has a terrible sense of humor, Hartford waived me a week into last season and I was picked up by the Scottish, where I finally hit a bit better as a damn backup. But, maybe everyone’s right. Maybe I am just a dime-a-dozen guy. Maybe I am just organizational depth. Maybe I am tapped out.
I can hear the old man laughing. I can feel him getting comfortable. He no longer needs to wander around picking up rank thoughts. He has enough. He has more than enough.
No.
Screw him.
Screw everyone.
-----
I can do this shit.
Morrison slammed his fist into his mitt. The ball drove hard off Guerrero’s bat and through the dew-covered grass to Morrison’s right. He stalked the ball. Three. Four. He back-handed the ball smoothly, then planted his right foot and rocketed the ball towards first. The ball sailed over the empty first base bag and skipped hard into the empty camera well next to the dugout.
I’m not god-damn done.
He hustled back to his spot at short. He turned and slammed his fist back into his mitt. Guerrero smashed a ball up the middle. Morrison’s instincts took over. Like a flash, he was moving towards the ball. He dove, reaching, but the ball skimmed off the tip of his glove and into center field. He jumped back to his feet and ran back to his spot without brushing himself off.
He was breathing heavy. His eyes narrowed. And, he drove his fist hard into his mitt.
“More!”
