Jet Set

[KenH]

It was known for a while now. The rumors swirled at the international complex. Sanchez was one of the guys that was seen as a “trade chip.” One of those words that is somehow lauded and feared at the same time. No one wants to start over. It’s hard enough to figure out how to make it in the bigs – the last thing you want to do is be traded to a new squad and start that whole damn process all over again. Regardless though, Sanchez was staring down what many considered his final few days in the Niihama organization.

Passing the through the still-new halls of the international complex, he popped down to his coach’s office. He was nervous.

The still-new halls had been constructed in the last five years to house the “international” rookies that made their way to their PEBA squads through the “untraditional” method of try-outs and unaffiliated little leagues. The Ghosts had already matriculated some great talent through this place and it had slowly built a reputation as being a place where you could grow and become your best baseball self.

State of the art exercise equipment, ever-smiling staff always ready to assist with stretching or to give pointers on nutrition. Vitamin-D eschewing over head lighting and giant glass windows that could open fully, turning a stuffy yoga studio into an outdoor oasis with the click of a button.

For the past two years, the young boy from Arcoverde had made friends and learned so much about the game that he always wanted to play that the nagging suspicion that this might be the last time that he strolled these halls was enough to almost drive him to tears.

The rules were simple enough… you could stay at your team’s international complex for as long as you and your team wanted to keep you there, but eventually you had to get going. It wasn’t always the most simple transition – going from living with your mom and dad to all of the sudden being told to treat this like the job that it was would be tough on anyone… much less a 16-year-old kid who came from a one bedroom casita and had become a part of the Ghost organization on a whim – he had been so surprised at the offer, he didn’t even request a signing bonus!

“Any news?” a voice from behind him asked. It was Picaluga. His friends called him ‘Ice Water’ thanks to an unfortunate prank one of his first days at the complex. Sanchez immediately took a liking to the kid – a Brazilian like him, Picaluga had a fire to him that despite his young age, seemed to promise great things for him… much more so than Sanchez’s beginnings, Picaluga had even managed to secure three point five million dollars! It helped that he had a lawyer for an uncle – all of Sanchez’s uncles were goat farmers.

“Nothing yet,” sighed Sanchez. “honestly, I hope you never have to go through this – this is no fun.”

Picaluga considered that for a moment. “It may not be fun, but it is exciting, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a brand new step that is going to start you on a bunch of other brand new steps! Once you start on the road up, it’s like a non-stop dash, you know?”

The 16-year-old always did this. He took the most scary, awful thing that you could think of and infused in it so much excitement that you almost felt stupid for ever seeing it any other way than the way he saw it.

“I guess in a way I can see that,” mumbled Sanchez. But that still doesn’t change the fact that… I don’t know… I grew up here, you know? What am I going to do without you to boss around?” They both forced a laugh.

Winter meetings had started in earnest and his wranglers had been in closed door meetings several times. When they left the office where the meetings were taking place, they looked.. sad? Was that the emotion? It was hard to tell.

“C’mon,” Ice Water said, “when you’re feeling down, I know what you gotta do… let’s go practice!”

Sanchez scoffed. “It’s not even fair bro. I strike you out like every time.” He grinned wide, thinking of the first time Picaluga saw one of his 94 mph cutters and damn near peed himself.

“Ha! Well if this is our last time being able to do this, I better make it count then, huh?”

The laugh caught in Sanchez’s throat. The last time? He wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with all this. It was too much… Enough of that for now. It wasn’t all that bad… regardless if he got traded or not, he still got to play baseball. And besides, someone had challenged him – no, not just someone… his little bro did and so he was decided: if this was his last time, he would make it count.

“Coming up to bat in the bottom of the ninth inning, the all-star, all-leather award winning, royal raker finalist and sexiest man in PEBA Jose Picaluga steps up to the plate,” Ice Water’s false game narration in a hilariously stereotypical white man accent was enough to make even the most stony-faced wet blankets crack a smile. Tonight, it was all a show for Sanchez. They were the only two on the field. “In game seven of the Rodriguez Cup against his long-time best friend and once voted ugliest man in PEBA, Jose Sanchez, to decide this clash of kings… whoever wins this at-bat, WINS. THE. SERIES!”

“Really laying it on there thick tonight, huh?” Sanchez laughed.

“Hey, you gotta give the fans what they want bro! Now c’mon… let’s do this.”

Jose remembered the lessons as he rocked back on his left foot. No, you’re losing your balance like that his coach had taught him the first time he threw a ball at the facility. Try going more to the side, like 45 degrees instead of straight back. See? Stepping back is what they teach you because they don’t know any better… but here? We do. He rocked, placing his right foot parallel to the rubber and swept his left leg in a dramatic fashion, toe sliding and kicking up little granules of dirt in a wide arc out in front of his body. Now hold that for as long as you can. I don’t want you throwing another baseball until standing like an ostrich is just as comfortable as standing like a man, ya dig? He drove his left foot down, heel first, waiting until the perfect moment where his hips, torso and shoulders all exploded at the exact right moment. I want you reaching out. I want you taking the ball and almost trying to place it in the catchers mitt. Extend and release. When he felt the ball leave his hand, he already knew that was a damn good cutter.

His friend swung and got nothing but air. “My man!” Picaluga said, “you got it going on right now… can’t you just throw some meat up here? Fastball right down the middle? Why you throwing me impossibilities right now??”

Sanchez smirked. Where’s the fun in that?

The next two pitches were back-to-back knuckle curves. They made Picaluga’s knees buckle, but since they weren’t strikes, it didn’t get the job done. Ah well, back to the hard stuff, he supposed.

On the 2-1 pitch, Sanchez let a fastball fly just at the letters. Ice Water swung even though it was outside of the strike zone. Sanchez smirked. He knew his friend almost too well. He was physically incapable of not swinging at high altitude stinky cheese.

“A two-and-two count to our universally beloved Jose Picaluga,” Ice Water drawled. “The hopes of countless beautiful women across the world watch in anticipation. Surely he will not succumb to this brute on the mound. This oaf who calls himself a ball player. A guy whose only love is bugs and trash.”

Sanchez’s concentration broke. “Come on man,” he said laughing. “If I did this to you, you would be pissed.”

Picaluga held his hand up behind him, a performative gesture to an incorporeal umpire, and stepped out of the batter’s box. “My man, we gotta up the suspense! It’s game seven of the Rodriguez Cup! We can’t have this be just any other at-bat… this is the at-bat.”

“Yeah,” Sanchez said, “and I’m about to strike your ass out… again.”

“Hey man,” Ice Water said, “it’s 2-2, not 2-3. You gotta do it one more time.” With that, he adjusted his helmet and dug his foot into the box.

His mind raced. A 2-2 pitch. He would be expecting a changeup or a curve. Something off-speed. Something down. Something away. The answer was, therefore, the exact opposite. He was going to give him a front-door cutter. To the untrained eye, as it left his hand, it would look like the ball was hurtling right towards his abdomen, but at about midway through its flight, it would break sharply towards the center of the plate. If he aimed it right, the ball would graze the black of the plate, leading to an incredibly embarrassing backwards K in the record books. If this was his last pitch he would throw as a Ghost, he would make it a good one. He rocked. He fired.

The pitch was perfect. Starting three inches inside, he soon tailed toward his glove side in a sharp cutting action and on a slightly downward plane. His coaches said that sometimes he relied too heavily on his cutter, but it was just so satisfying to watch batters pirouette out of the way of nothing, never seeing where it ended up and only seeing the umpire call a strike.

Therefore, it was surprising when Picaluga didn’t pirouette. In fact, he stayed right on it. He swung.

Crack!

Watching the ball sail over the left field fence, right along the foul pole, both of the boys could barely believe what they had just witnessed. Shortly though, Ice Water’s face, burst into excitement, yelling and running around the bases, arms held high. Jose Sanchez also started yelling and laughing. He joined his friend as he rounded the bases. “I can’t believe it! The hottest man in the world has finally defeated the swamp monster! The curse is lifted!”

When Picaluga touched home, he turned to Sanchez. “that was an amazing pitch dude. I honestly do not know how I hit it… much less how I hit it.” Sanchez congratulated PIcaluga and, as they walked back, empty from the excitement and feeling, for the first time since this whole “trade” business started, just a little bit OK.

That is when they saw a trainer running towards them. The trainer had a purpose… and he was looking right at Jose. “Sanchez,” he said, only moderately winded. “News just came down…”

***

It was considered bad luck to keep gear from the old team. He knew that, but he was kind of a sentimental guy. Anyone who knew him, knew that. That’s why, as Jose Sanchez was packing his belongings, he kept on going back to

The old bed creaked as he threw his luggage on it. It was the same suitcase he had shown up to the facility with three years ago. Back then, it was new. Shining brass buckles snapped shut smartly and a professionally embossed monogram reading “JR” along the leather handle. His father had bought him that suitcase before he had left. A week’s of salary just to send his kid off in style.

Now when he popped the well-patinaed clasps, it answered with a lethargic ker-plunk. The leather embossment all but evaporated through use and love. Another trip, yes, but this one was different.

It could have been worse. Toyama was a good club. They had just made it to the Rodriguez Cup, so he figured Vail could have done worse. There was, at least, this consolation. Maybe one day I’ll get to face off against his Ice Water and strike his ass out, he thought with a smile.

It had been insinuated that this was a real possibility — that he may indeed be traded – he still couldn’t come down of the shock of it all. He packed his room in a haze of disbelief. This was the room he had lived in all three years of his time at the Niihama facility. He remembered his first night here when he cried himself to sleep – scared, excited, nervous, petrified. He’d grown so much since he arrived with his brand-new suitcase that he could barely believe he was the same person.

As he snapped the final latches closed, he hefted his luggage onto the rolling cart, remembering all the moments. He would miss his coaches and teammates. He would miss this – his home. His “little brother,” Jose ‘Ice Water’ Picaluga, 3 am eggs and toast, playing hackey-sack while drinking scalding hot coffee… no matter where he went, he realized, these were still his memories – still his home.

It was a cold morning as he stepped out onto the tarmac where his plane waited to take him to Toyama. He was supposed to go be present at a press conference about the trade that acquired his services. He had never liked the sensation of suits – the starched collar chafing his recently-shaved neck – and, while he had never felt it before, he suddenly felt very much like he was in a business instead of playing a game, having fun with his friends. All of this felt very much real in a way that it hadn’t before.

As the small prop-plane took off, he watched his old home fall away and disappear past the horizon. He had a sudden urge to vomit. Quickly, he reached over to a bottle of water and chugged it. What an impression he would make showing up to his first press conference covered in his own chunks. To calm his nerves, he practiced the breathing exercises his pitching coaches taught him. Breath in. Count to Five. Breath out. Count to Three. Repeat.

The plane landed around lunchtime. A small contingent of front office-looking people greeted him as he disembarked. “Welcome to Toyama, Mr. Sanchez. I trust the flight was comfortable?”

Sanchez nodded. He hoped it was believable, but to be honest, he didn’t care all that much what they thought of him in that moment. He was just trying to survive.

“Good,” said the man who had asked him the question. “We had better get going – I know this has already been a long day for you. Hopefully it won’t be too much longer and we can get you to your hotel room in a few hours.”

Sanchez took the back seat of a large black SUV and they took off, heading towards the Wind Dancers HQ where the press conference was set to take place. “We are very excited to have a player of your calibur here in Toyama,” the driver said over his shoulder. “Any time that we can get another couple of pitchers, the better I say and from what I hear, you’re one of the best young arms in PEBA!”

Sanchez didn’t know what to say to that. He knew how he stacked up against the limited competition he had faced before, but that was the extent of it. Now that he was thinking about it, it was strange that he didn’t have a good grasp on how good he actually was – only that other teams had asked about him. Just one more thing I have to figure out, I suppose, he thought.

The press conference was, blessedly, over without too much fanfare. It mostly consisted of him sitting and smiling while the GM sung his praises. After, he found himself again whisked away to a hotel close to the Toyama HQ where, finally, he collapsed into bed and succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

***

Until he was woken up by the sound of someone knocking on his door. “Mr. Sanchez?” a small voice sounded from the hallway. “Sir? It is important that you pack up your things.”

What? He was promised that he wouldn’t have anything to do until noon and here it was not even eight am. “I don’t understand,” he said, turning over, and untangling himself from the sheets. “What’s going on?”

The voice on the other side of the door didn’t respond right away. When it did, it said: “Would you please come to the door, sir? This is important and cannot wait.”

A sudden fear gripped him as he decamped from the plush king-size bed. He threw on sweats and a beanie. Important? What could have happened? He didn’t hear his phone ring… surely his family would have called him before calling the team offices… His mind raced as he took minimal steps to make his way all the way over to the door and threw it open. There, a mousy woman with large glasses stood holding a tablet computer. When she saw him, she gave a pitying grin, turning the PDA to him so he could read. “Sanchez TRADED twice in as many days!”

What? Equal parts relief and confusion swept over him as he read the rest of the article on the Ghosts fanpage. “Sanchez is heading BACK to Nii-hama. After a very short dalliance with our mortal enemy, we are excited to announce that he is making his way back to the Good Side and will be joining his teammates in Gohueng! To secure the trade, the young outfielder Jing-bo Tsu is making his way to Toyama…” He stopped reading… heading back to the Ghosts!

He needed to sit down. What was the past twenty-four hours even for, anyway? He laughed, breathless. “Is… is this normal?” he asked the woman who still stood at the open passage to his room.

She shook her head. “To be honest, something seems weird. I know all of us here in Toyama were very excited to have you in our organization. I think something is up.”

Well, whatever it was, he could deal with it. Being able to see his old coaches and play with the guys he’d grown up with the past few years would be amazing. “You can get some more sleep if you want… we have a plane coming to pick you up at noon – so feel free to try and rest.”

There was no time for rest. He was going home. He would rest later. He grabbed his belongings littered around the hotel room and took a quick shower, before making his way down to the lobby for a quick breakfast of fruit and eggs while he waited for his ride to the airport.

Here, he enjoyed the anonymity. He had heard “horror” stories in the past of top prospects being accosted by the locals in hotel lobbies while they tried to eat breakfast or read a book. He had never been considered a top prospect – at least not yet – so he never had that burden… Ice Water would probably have that when he started traveling, but for him, he ate in peace. Just another kid eating breakfast. In some ways, he wanted that fame, but growing up he had learned that it wasn’t all glitz and glamor. It was a lot of people trying to tear you down and take advantage.

As the plane left the tarmac, he recounted landing here less than twenty four hours before. Then, he had figured his whole life was bound to be different. A new journey. Now, it seemed as though he was going back to his original journey – perhaps wiser than before.

When he arrived back at his home in the Niihama international complex, several of his friends were there to greet him. “Just in time for some dinner!” quipped Ice Water. He embraced the kid like a brother. He couldn’t believe it. This time yesterday he was hugging his friend goodbye – maybe for the last time – and now he was embracing him in greeting.

***

As the sun sank below the horizon, Sanchez and his friends stayed up late, dreaming about their futures. Felix Marin, a known greedy sonofabitch told everyone his plan to purchase a Maclaren when he signed his first seven-digit contract. “If you want to play good, you gotta look good,” he said. They talked about how, if all went according to plan, they would all be on the team that saw Niihama lift their first PEC trophy. In that moment, Sanchez knew it was true. These were his brothers. He was going to do this thing with them. Together.

It’s no surprise, then, that by the end of the very next day, as Sanchez was placing a Farstriders cap on his head, that the boy was a bit numb to the whole thing. Standing next to the magnanimous owner of the Florida baseball team, he wasn’t even given the forewarning that he was going to be thrown to the wolves immediately. “We are beyond excited to have this young pitcher join our near-to-bursting stable down in Port Sudan! He’s here in Jacksonville to set some health baselines and then will be allowed ot return home before making his way to Port Sudan to start his exciting career that we will all be watching with great interest.

And with that, he was whisked, once again, off to a hotel where he would collapse. Sanchez would not be traded again. He was a Farstrider now… but before he threw a baseball, he’d have to get on a few more planes.