Reno Spring Training Facility – March 27, 2033

“I feel good, Dad,” he said, peering past the dusty carpeted support beam that was currently hiding the Niihama third basemen from the pair of reporters currently barraging Darius Freeman with another round of the same, tired questions. One of them was going to be the Ghosts third basemen, the other was not. Simple as that. Of course, if it were the upstart and rookie, Freeman, that would mean that Davis was headed for the waiver wire and God knows who would give the 30-year-old his umpteenth shot at the majors. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own, but Davis knew he was running out of opportunities. It had been some time since he ran out of contract options. At the time, he was happy about it, figuring he’d finally land a full-time roster spot after having been drafted in the first round way back in 2021. Since then, he’d learned the harsh reality of PEBA – absolutely nothing is given.

It wasn’t a lie, that he felt good, not really. He only had one plate appearance today, but he’d laced an RBI double to left center and raised his Spring batting average to .357. He was pleased with himself, but at the same time, furious. It took most of his willpower to not hate himself for taking this long to just FOCUS. The last twelve years were full of every excuse a ballplayer had for not quite getting it done. He was drafted out of high school and the leap to A-ball was catastrophic for his confidence. It took years before he could hit at that level. In the meantime, he’d blown through his substantial signing bonus. He didn’t regret paying off his parents’ mortgage, per se, but those lean years following the high of being drafted and handed $850,000 as a teenager were soul-crushing.

“Did you see that double? The kid tried to sneak a sinker over the corner but I was ready,” Jason smiled as he recalled it. He was seeing the ball well recently. He’d started the Spring pretty hot and hadn’t slumped. He was sure he’d get one more chance to prove himself to the baseball gods after his disappointing first full season last year. But then, the kid…

Freeman had started off slow, but this last week he was doing things Jason couldn’t. He was drawing walks and stealing bases like a man possessed. He was playing with a mix of patience, confidence, and aggression that made Davis think he may have had his last chance already. Until today, he was able to maintain his focus and drive largely by telling himself that he could hit for more power than the kid, but then today… damn. The kid hit a shot to straightaway center and was now neck and neck with Jason’s OPS. Power, speed, patience, defense – Freeman had a bit of it all. And he was playing every bit like the #16 overall pick from the 2025 draft that he was.

Freeman’s career mirrored Jason’s a bit – a high school kid drafted high, thrown a stupid amount of money, then told to compete with twenty somethings just months after finishing high school. He’d flamed out in Kalamazoo before getting picked up by the WIL Ghosts a few years back. He’d failed to crack the roster much there, too, but at 25 was starting to come alive. He’d won the Ghosts minor league hitter of the year last year, tearing up AA pitching while the Ikari Warriors went to the championship in their first season of existence. In the meantime, Jason was squandering his first full-time PEBA gig on a dreadful 35-win expansion Ghosts squad. He hit just .192/.234/.561 in 387 plate appearances. Those opportunities nearly doubled his career PEBA plate appearances to date. And he had -0.3 WAR to show for them. He was worth less than a replacement level player. “Whatever the fuck that is,” Jason caught himself mumbling aloud.

“Nothing, Dad, sorry. Hey I gotta run – time to check the locker,” Jason said coolly. “Dad… Dad, I know. I know. It’s okay. I’m okay either way. Promise,” Jason spoke with a calm that surprised him. The day he was cut had become an annual ritual: play decently, get cut, down a fifth of swill vodka, refuse to shower before showing up to whatever goddamn affiliate squad he’d waste his life on.
This time, though, he thought he might really be okay. He’d never handled the rejection well before. He hated PEBA for creating a rookie league years too late. He hated the Evas for trading him to Reno for German Hernandez. He hated Reno, and then Duluth, for releasing him. He really did hate the Evas – they traded him a second time after welcoming him back with a signing bonus of just barely over a grand. It was $1,111, to be exact. As if whomever did the paperwork were too lazy to switch to typing the zeroes required to offer the already-insulting $1,000 bonus at which they valued. He was a throw-in in that trade that swapped Maruyama for Santos. A goddamn throw-in. “Sure, take him, why not?” Assholes.

Niihama, though, had given him his big chance. He no longer felt entitled to their patience. Realizing that was… something. Something to build on, maybe. If not, maybe we skip the plastic bottle vodka this time. “Yeah, Pop. Love you too,” Jason strode toward the media huddle surrounding Freeman as he ended the call. One of the local beat writers took notice and drew in her breath in an effort to launch the first insulting, exhausting question at Jason. The narrative was as old as time, and just as tired. Old man versus young kid. Pretty odd, considering they were just five years apart in age. Jason, though, was a veteran, and cut her off at the proverbial knees, “Did you folks SEE this man’s MOONSHOT? My goodness, a thing of beauty, Sleepy!” Jason slapped Freeman on the back with enough force to cause him to stumble forward, before grabbing his shoulders and shaking them wildly and playfully. “No time for questions, folks, I think I need to go clear out my locker!” That caused two of the three to run to the manager to verify that Davis was being cut, while the other used the opportunity to monopolize his time with Freeman.

As Jason approached his locker, he paused, breathing once, deeply, in and out with intention, before opening the locker door. There was no tell-tale note. Jason couldn’t help but smile widely, a grin he was sure looked every bit as dumb as it felt. He didn’t care, though, and decided not to repress it. At least one more day of ball, old man.