An Unknown Journey - 1. Chapter 1

The count was 2-2. There were no outs and the bases were loaded. I was pitching for the Sunville Tigers, but having a hell of a time finding the zone. Normally, I was a stud. Threw strikes, struck kids out, had a low ERA… but tonight, something was just… different. We were losing to the Spartans 4-0. Our offensive production was extremely low. My frustration was permeating out of my veins as much as the sweat was pouring out of my pores. The sweat made my eye black run down my cheeks. I just seriously couldn’t find the zone…

“Ball 4,” came the all too familiar words from the home plate umpire. I walked another batter in. The score was 5-0.

“Fuck,” I said as I slapped my glove against my legs and nervously lifted my hat off my head. Coach Johnson peered his head out and asked the umpire for a timeout. He began a slow trot out to the mound and called in the rest of the infield.

“What’s going on Andy,” asked a clearly frustrated coach as he patted by shoulder.

“I can’t get a call. The only strike I can get called is when I throw it right down the middle, and when I do that, they crush the ball,” I screamed flustered and looking for an excuse to fall back on.

Johnson shot me a stern glare. He hated when we tried to blame the umpires for our mistakes.

“You’re kidding right? Get in the dugout. You’re done. I really hope Ford will have a better attitude. For Christ’s sake… blaming the umps… That’s just like you Bolton…”

I was pissed. Johnson was cutting me down in front of the entire team. I wanted to punch something. I began my walk back to the dugout, clearly fuming. I threw my glove against the wall and jumped up to the bench scraping my cleats on the hard lumber.

“Hey, you couldn’t get a call man,” said Steven. He had been sitting in the dugout during the little tirade out on the mound. “Really, you were pitching fine. Hitting the corners, mixing in some off-speed pitches. You just couldn’t get a strike called.”

Steven was patronizing me. He always did. I didn’t want to hear it today though. The fact was, I had been pitching like shit. I knew it. Steven knew it. Everybody fucking knew it. We all just thought it’d be much easier to pussyfoot around the facts and blame the umpires… it’s always easier to blame the umps.

“Hey, keep your head up. Watch the game and cheer on your teammates. Quit the selfish act and start acting like a ballplayer,” said a disgruntled coach Anderson. He was the first coach to ever really give me a chance pitching. He worked with me on some off-speed pitches when I was a freshman. After working with me for only a week, he knew I had a lot of potential.

I knew I needed to get my head out of my ass and watch this game. Cheer my team on. Act like a leader. Even as a sophomore, I could be a leader.

“C’mon kiiiiddd,” I said, “throwing strikes here now two-twwooo. Let’s go kiiiddd.” Baseball talk… Everybody is a kid, or a bud, or a number. Ya never really go with someone’s first name. That’s just too… too mainstream I guess. You also have to drag words out, prolonging really simple words—or, hell, maybe you prolong everything. Kinda depends on the day.

“Here we go orrrannnggee!”

Alex was on the mound now. He was a strong pitcher too. He could throw hard and he had a deadly changeup that could get even the best hitters off balance.

Slowly, Alex worked us back into the game. He took care of batters quickly. He was on today. Our bats began to come around. We earned our runs back slowly, taking 6 innings to get 5 runs. We were trailing 5-6 in the bottom of the 7^th. This could be our last at bat of the game.

Johnson turned to me and told me I was going to reenter at 2^nd base for Taylor. That meant I was due third up this inning.

“Shit,” I said to myself as the first two batters of the inning struck out. It was up to me to keep the game going. I dropped the on-deck bat and started trotting towards home plate. My heart beat obnoxiously as Matt tossed me the bat he just struck out with.

I stepped up to the plate and raised my right hand in a fist calling for a time. I dug out a little bit of the batters box, more out of routine than necessity. I looked at Johnson as he swiped his hands across his body, giving me the hitting signs. He ended it by clapping.

“Be confident Bolton! On any way here,” he said. I couldn’t believe he had put me in in this situation.

I put my left foot into the box and turned my head to face the pitcher. A bead of sweat hung on my eyebrow. I wiggled my fingers on the bat and lined my knuckles up concentrating on having a loose grip around the bat. I twitched my right foot in the batters box as the pitcher began to wind up. As he began to release the ball, I lifted my left foot up a few inches from the ground. The pitch whizzes by and makes a loud thump in the catcher’s mit.

“Sttrrriiikkkkeee,” came the shrill cry from the ump.

I stepped out and looked at Johnson again. This time, he didn’t have any signs for me.

“You know what to do—confidence kid!” he said, clapping his hands out of nervousness I presumed.

I stepped back into the batters box being sure to take a deep breath beforehand. The pitcher winds up and chucks the ball towards me. It whizzes past, hitting the catchers mit. I step out before the call is made. I knew it had to be a ball.

“Stttriikkeee,” came the low call from the ump. I turn to him, shocked as I hear the fans sitting behind home plate break into an uproar. The ball was practically three feet off the plate… “What the hell is he thinking,” I thought.

“Alright now, ya gotta protect,” said Johnson. “Anything close here. Lets go now.”

Once again, I step into the box. The fans from the Spartans were on their feet. We were down to our final strike. The pitcher winds up and throws the ball. It is a nasty curve that breaks too soon. It kicks up some dirt and gets behind the catcher.

“Ball,” said a less than enthused ump. I was sure he had a vendetta against me. This prick wanted me to fail.

“Alright good eye, good eye,” said Johnson. “Same thing here. The count is 1-2. Still protecting. Be smart up there.”

I step back in, taking a huge breath as I do. The pitch comes. This time it went sailing above my head. I watched it go by.

“Ball 2,” said the ump. “That was a shit pitch,” I thought.

“Nice peepers!” I hear from the dugout. That had to be Taylor, I thought. Taylor was the only one to ever really say that. He was so damn ADHD…

“Alright, keep fighting here kid,” said Johnson.

I step back in. The pitcher winds up and throws in a pitch. I see it perfectly and take a step. Just as I’m about to swing, the ball starts to dive down. “Shit, a curve,” I think to myself. I put the brakes on hard and try to hold my bat back as the ball dives into the dirt.

“Ball,” says the ump. “He didn’t go.”

The catcher quickly stands up and points to the field umpire. All eyes shift to him. He quickly waves his hand making the safe sign. A sigh of relief is audibly heard from the home field fans.

“Alright, keep battling in there. We need ya here!” says Johnson.

I step back into the box. It was a full count. I needed to get on. My right foot begins to twitch. I bob my knees up and down, trying to stay loose. I keep wiggling my fingers reminding myself to keep my grip loose. As the pitcher steps onto the mound, I look around the field noticing the intensity of all the players. I see the giant scoreboard out in right center clearly showing me the full extent of the situation. Full count. 2 outs. We’re down by one… But damn. I wanted to win this game.

As the pitcher takes his signs and brings his glove up, I feel a sudden urge to throw him off his rhythm. I wait until he’s just about to start his motion and quickly throw my right hand up calling for time.

“Tiiimmeee,” the umpire yells as he throws his hands up and I step out of the box.

Johnson gives me a sly grin. As awkward as that grin was, I knew it what it meant. He thought I had been clever. He always told us to be willing to take control. Don’t let the pitcher dictate our actions. I was determined to follow that rule. I took a few quick practice cuts before heading back into the box. My confidence felt great. I felt great.

“This is it,” I think as I take a deep breath in and then let the air escape my lungs, puffing my cheeks out in the process. I look down at the pitcher and give my cleats a tap or two with the bat. Some dirt falls off into the box, and I retighten my batting gloves. This routine had to be top notch. I settle in, and stare down at the pitcher who was taking his signs. For some reason though, my intensity frazzled… I just started laughing… I couldn’t help it. But my smile broke over my face, and I was giggling uncontrollably. The catcher hopped up a little ways.

“No way…” I audibly say to the catcher. “You think I’m going to chase something upstairs?” My voice came across more facetious than I had expected. I normally wasn’t one to talk to the opposing players, but something about this entire situation was killing me. You’d think we were all playing in the World Series…

I laughed as the pitcher wound up. I took a small upwards step with my left foot as the ball was released from his hand. I almost broke down as I saw the pitch coming in high.

“YOU DID,” I bellowed at the catcher, laughing somewhat uncontrollably now. “You actually thought I’d chase that???” I trot down the first base line, laughing the entire way.

I was so giddy with my cleverness that I slowly came to terms with the fact that I hadn’t really heard the call. I look around, starting to feel terrified…

But, that fear and knot in my stomach only lasts a few seconds as I see the Spartans players still chilling on the field waiting for the next batter to step into the box.

I get down to first and toss my batting gloves to Coach Anderson. He reminds me of the situation and reminds to look at Johnson for signs. We’re at the top of the order now, and Johnson wouldn’t risk me stealing. I glance over and notice he is just clapping. Jake was a great batter… And he was clutch. This kid had come through multiple times for our team.

I take some steps, grabbing a comfortable lead. It was nothing that would get me into trouble if the pitcher tried to pick me off, but it was enough to get a pretty good jump off the bat.

“2 outs here Bolton… You’re running at the crack of the bat.”

I nod, feeling like I perfectly know the situation. Don’t get me wrong, I loved having Anderson there giving us little reminders like that, but at that moment, my intensity had returned and damn… I just wanted to cross home plate.

The first two pitches whiz by Jake, both strikes. We were down to our last strike… again. Fuck, I think to myself. I hated this team. I just wanted to beat them. If I had only pitched better earlier we wouldn’t be in this situation.

The pitcher throws a hard pitch… but it was a mistake. Jake takes a powerful step and turns his entire body into it. I was off. Before I knew it, I’m rounding around second kicking up thick pieces of dirt. I made a slight hissing noise with every exhale I made… kinda that same sound boxers put into their punches when they were becoming visibly tired. I see Johnson jumping at third base, visibly excited. He’s rounding me in to home.

“Get going Bolton, get in there, get in there,” he screams.

My head instantly tucks itself deep into my neck. My arms pumped. My legs burned… but I felt like I was floating. I see Alex waiting at home giving me the sign to stay up. No need to slide. I cross home and smack Alex’s hand, a huge smile forming across both of our faces. The fans are all jumping around cheering wildly. Our dugout is going crazy. Once again… you’d think we’d just won the World Series.

As I trot into the dugout, we’re all jacked. This was a comeback. But it wasn’t just a comeback. It was a comeback against the Spartans. The passion between these two teams was evident to everyone. Hatred fueled these contests. It wasn’t a friendly competition when we met them… it was blood and glory. Either team would do anything to win.

Alex stepped up to the plate with Jake getting a comfortable lead out at second. We were home… if Jake added a run to this contest, the game was over. That’ all we needed… a base hit from Alex.

The first pitch came up and Alex wasted no time. He took a powerful cut sending the ball flying off the bat. We all jumped out and craned our necks to see where it was headed. The crowd began cheering in anticipation. It soared out into left field sailing over the fielders head. It kept rising and we all screamed and paraded out of the dugout as we watched the ball fly over the fence. Jake came across home and we all slapped his helmet. Alex continued running the bases even though we won when Jake crossed home. We didn’t care. He deserved the glory of stepping on home and being jumped on by all of us.

As Alex rounded third and neared home, the bliss still hadn’t settled. A smile slowly crept out of the corner of his mouth and he put his head down, obviously giddy with emotion. The Spartans fielders were moping off the field as Alex crossed home. We jumped onto him as the fans still cheered obnoxiously. The emotion was radiating off of all of our bodies, and any baseball fan could appreciate the sight we were giving them. True, hard competition with one of the most exciting finishes to a game one can imagine… A walk off homerun.

We lined up to shake hands even though neither team really cared to. We had won. We just wanted to celebrate. The Spartans had to cope with a tough loss to their bitter rivals. Handshakes were not something we wanted at this point. But, we all went through the line emitting the classic “good game” and gave a quick handshake as we passed each player. Coaches congratulated players, and Johnson talked to the Spartan coach for a bit as we all headed back to the dugout.

As we were all still on a natural high from the more than exciting win, Johnson comes over to us, clapping his hands and breaking a smile.

“Atta way to pull it off boys,” he yells as he nears us. “You guys fought hard today. I’m proud of the way none of you gave up. You were here to play today, and that was evident to every person here. Enjoy this win for 12 hours, and then get ready for a good practice tomorrow. We’ve got the Knights on Friday, and it would be awesome to pull off a win. In my 6 years coaching here, we have yet to beat them… but I think you are a team that could do it,” Johnson said more than enthusiastically. He was jacked up. “Now go on out and clean the field. I’ll drag it tonight guys, just grab the bases, rake around home and do the mound. Don’t forget a breakdown before you all head out!”

The team scattered. I grabbed a rake and went to the mound. I paused to reflect on the game. The scoreboard still showed the final… 6-4. I grinned and shook my head. I didn’t want this season to end. The time here, with these guys… It was great. We were a true team. We looked out for one another. We didn’t take shit from others. We ate a brunch every Sunday as a team right after most of us went to the church of our choice. Some of us were Catholics, some Lutherans, some Methodists… some really didn’t care. But we always made it a point to eat together early Sunday afternoon.

“Nice work today Andy,” I hear from behind me. It had to be him. Eric… Eric was mostly our center fielder. He was fast. He was a golden hitter. A great glove… a stud, by all definitions. This kid… he was a quality ball player and I would not be the least bit surprised if his skills took him somewhere eventually. I turn to face him, and he has his golden smile on.

“Seriously, you were great. And dude! You were flying on the bases today… When you were rounding third, all the guys in the dugout were like, ‘shit, look at Andy go!’”

I shrugged off the compliment and kinda laughed. “Well, ya know, duty called. We needed a run, and, well, I wasn’t gonna just halfass my way around the bases,” I said with my normal facetious attitude.

We both laughed and worked on the mound together, scraping and pushing dirt from here and there. Generally, just making it look nice. It was a routine, and honestly, for me, it was pretty relaxing. And, it always gave me a good time for some post game reflection.

“Say, I have a question,” Eric started to say. “Whatcha doing this weekend?”

“Uhhh, nothing that I know of… Why?”

“Well, I was planning on having some buds over on Saturday and thought you might be interested in coming over? If you’re free, it’d be pretty nice to have ya. My cousin is coming up for the weekend and we all just kinda wanted to chill,” Eric said.

I gave it some quick thought. And no, its not that I didn’t want to go, it’s just I had to make sure…

“I’ll let ya know,” I said, slipping a smile in.

***

On my walk home, my thoughts were consumed with images of the game. I selfishly thought about my shit performance. Seriously though… I played terrible.

How the hell am I so bad?

I’m never going to amount to anything.

I should just quit.

I can never hit the zone.

Fuck it all.

My thoughts began to take over the post game high I had naturally been feeling. And I wasn’t surprised. This happened after every game. And I liked it. It fueled my fire. My hatred for myself. As sick as it might sound… I loved hating myself.

Baseball is my short-lived vacation from the thoughts I feel. It keeps them away for just long enough to keep me sane—keep me from doing something really stupid. But, hey—that’s all you really need, right?

“Hey Andy,” I hear as I step through the front door. My dogs all jumped onto me as I dropped my duffel bag onto the floor. Zeke gave me his stupid dog smile.

“Hey mom,” I respond, less than enthused.

“Sorry I missed your game bud. Had to work a little late,” she says, her sincerity evidently clear.

“It’s okay, really. I played like shit anyways and Johnson had to take me out in the 2^nd inning. I couldn’t find the zone tonight,” I said.

“You have that right! You pitched like shit,” I hear my father say from the kitchen. The words shoot through me like a cold sword. He shot me down almost as much as I shot myself down.

“I’ll do better next time I pitch, I swear,” I quickly say as he walks into the room. A stern look washes over his face. He’s clearly disappointed, and he should be. I embarrassed him. I let him down. His star son wasn’t such a star. He was shit today.

“Grant…” my mom said, challenging his authority and over zealousness.

“Well Shelly, I just would like to see Andy amount to something one day,” he says beginning to raise his voice. “I’m so fucking tired of being satisfied with mediocrity. We’re the Bolton’s. If we’re going to do something, we’re going to be damn sure we do it right!”

“Calm down Grant. Jesus,” my mom says with annoyance in her voice. She knew that he could get like this. It was frustrating for both of us to hear. But, we both lived through it.

“Hey—I’m going to take a quick shower. What’s for dinner,” I say, genuinely curious. I needed some food.

“Leftovers,” my dad says, crumbs falling out of his mouth.

“Sweet,” I mutter to myself already walking to the bathroom.

As I get into the bathroom, I start to shed my jersey, unbuttoning from the top down. The orange jersey hangs unbuttoned and reveals a black Under Armor shirt. I let the jersey fall to the floor and grab the Under Armor and pull it off, taking a quick peek at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t anything special. Brown hair, blue eyes. My skin wasn’t perfectly smooth—but wasn’t filled with blemishes either. My stomach had some nice definition to it, but I wasn’t really built. My arms showed the early results of early morning lifts with the team. I had my mom’s lips—pretty full—but, my dad’s ears and nose. Not huge where they made me ugly, but not entirely proportionate. They’d probably disqualify me from ever being a model. Overall, I wasn’t too terribly bad looking. I had some girls chasing me here and there… but I wasn’t drop dead gorgeous either.

I quickly dropped my pants and hopped into the shower. I let the water run down my body, running soap over my body. I paid more attention to those parts most guys tend to pay more attention to. I sat down, and looked at the stream of water falling down at me. Thinking. Just… thinking. Why me, I ask myself. This is so fucked up.

Realizing I’d been in the shower much too long, I hop out and towel off. I grab a pair of Calvin Klein boxers and throw some athletic shorts on. It was a comfortable spring day and we didn’t have the air on, so I left the bathroom without a shirt. My hair was still damp and flung up in every direction.

As I step into the kitchen, I hear the infamous crack of a can opening. And then it all happens.

“What the FUCK are you doing,” I hear my mother scream from the other room. “Andy, put a shirt on. Grab a bag, throw some clothes in it. We’re leaving.”

I do as she’s told me. I grab my duffel bag without making eye contact with my father. I glance over and see that he’s working wonders on his first can.

“Hey bitch,” I hear him say. “You think you’re so fucking smart. Leaving because I want a fucking beer? Well, fuck you. You’re a whore,” he screams out.

I shake my head as my hands begin to tremble. I just wanted to get out of this house. My eyes begin to water as I hear my mom and dad getting into it. It had been weeks since he had decided he was going to drink. My dad is a fucking ass to begin with… Get a little alcohol in him, he becomes the spawn of Satan.

“Mom, lets go. I’ve got my stuff,” I say, the urgency in my voice clear.

“Go to the car, Andy. I’ll be right out,” she says, taking a brief pause from screaming at my dad.

I head out the front door, not bothering to look back. This was something I was used to. It never changes. He drinks. Mom gets pissed. We leave for a night, sometimes two—go to a hotel, a friends… basically anywhere that’ll take us. Then, we come back. He doesn’t say a word about it. We don’t say a word about it. But, miraculously, all the alcohol in the house will be gone. He’ll be his normally asshole self, and life will go on… Until the next incident.

I peek up out from the car long enough to see my dad throw his empty beer can at my mom as she storms out of the house. She stomps down the deck and heads to the car. Visibly, she doesn’t appear shaken. She’s a strong women, and I would be the first to admit that I am a ‘mommas’ boy. I love that she won’t take my dads shit. I just wished one of the two of us would work up the courage to approach him when he wasn’t in a drunken stupor.

“Hey bud,” she whispers as she gets into the car. “You doing alright?”

My eyes flash down to my hands. I feel so nervous. “I’m fine… Lets go though.”

“That’s a good idea, hun,” she says as she puts the car into drive and pulls out. “You know, he’s sick. It’s not that he wants to do this to us. He has a problem.”

“Mom, that’s bullshit,” I scream back, more violently than I had expected. “He’s an asshole to begin with. He wasn’t even drunk yet, and he was already acting like a prick. I’m so sick of him talking both of us down. I feel like he expects the world out of me. And I can’t give him that.”

“Andy… You’re a great kid, and I couldn’t have asked for a better son. It might not seem like it all the time, but your father loves you,” she says, trying to make a case for him.

“Fuck that,” I mumble under my breath. Fuck. That.

Hey folks! First and foremost, thank you for stopping by my story! I will be writing on occasion, and will hopefully get chapter 2 out here soon. I hope you enjoyed the story. I'm beginning to really enjoy writing it. And, this is very much a fluid story... I'm writing on a whim, with only skim ideas of where I want this story to go. It will be a journey for all! Keep coming back, and as always... Feel free to message me and talk. I love talking.