Really didn't think it was going to happen. Even wrote in my journal that it was over. Even athletes sometimes keep journals. We're not all dumb jocks.
I've been keeping a journal since the elbow surgery in 2016. Had to process those days, all the doubts that come up during the rehab. And don't give me advice on how I should promote myself with blogs on social media or some bullshit. Nobody gives a shit about an old reliever unless you're a closer.
It's a practice like any other. With my morning tea. Before the eggs. I write with a nice Pilot pen on one of those black and white composition notebooks. Think about my life and how I'm going to face the rest of it after the playing days are finally done.
Anyway, it was about a month ago, early-February, less than a week away from pitchers and catchers reporting down here to Arizona. My agent Hank hadn't so much as texted me since October. I told him not to bother until an actual major league offer came in. He knew I wasn't interested in overseas leagues or any independent ball. Finally, I called him and asked if any team had inquired.
Hank said two teams had called in January about minor league deals, no MLB guarantees. I've lived in Texas for the last five years or so. Didn't want to be too far away from Kayla or the two young girls. One of the offers was close enough so I took it. Two-hour flight. Came to camp and did just well enough in the Cactus League games to win that final spot in the bullpen. Last night the GM called me and offered the deal.
One last contract. One more year for the minimum, which is more like maximum for everyday folks. I'll take it with open arms, or my left arm anyway. A final guaranteed year of pay. My 16th in the majors. Seventh team. In baseball parlance, I'm a "Situational Lefty." Got a situation in the late innings involving a couple of lefty hitters? I'm your guy.
They call me and tell me to warm up in a hurry. A few minutes later I'm trotting in to the mound. Then I'm standing alone out there, atop that same mound of red dirt, like I'm 10 feet tall, blocking out the noise, focusing on each breath and the catcher. I'm digging in. Getting the sign. Checking the baserunner, if there is one. Going into my slide step delivery, the quick bend and then fire. I'm a pitcher. Been doing this for 25 years now.
Most days there's a dull ache from inside the shoulder. Some days an especially sore elbow after a rougher outing. I'm used to the minor aches and pains by now. I still enjoy the perfectly manicured grass. Sometimes I'll walk around without my cleats or socks hours before the game. That soft lush grass. I don't need the huge stadiums, the loud fans, or the bright lights. I'm over the dugouts and bullpen benches. Heard enough clubhouse talks, been in more than enough weight rooms and laid on too many training tables.
The world of planes and hotels and team buses and all the waiting. I won't miss any of that. I know complaining about the logistics of being a millionaire ballplayer makes me sound like an entitled jerk. Made a lot of money in this game. Makes me and my family very lucky. I know it. Plenty of guys have the talent, but the arm or the head, or both, something goes wrong somewhere along the way. Longevity is a reward for the arm that stays strong and the mind that stays focused. The young guys ask me questions like I'm Yoda. I guess it’s the wisdom of nearly 5000 outs.
From my early memories on the diamond, I could throw harder than everybody else, even the bigger kids. Little mountain town in East Tennessee. One Little League field. Only enough kids to make four teams. My mom played catch with my older brother and me. She was a softball catcher in her time. Dad wasn't much interested in baseball. Preferred hiking and fishing. Both sets of my grandparents were German immigrants. Before they threw baseballs, I'm sure they threw other things. Sticks. Boulders. Probably even children.
Scouts came to sit in the bleachers when l when I was 14. I was already 6'2", all legs and arms. My left arm was what got their attention. I could throw just over 90. I could snap off a mean curveball. That scared the heck out of most hitters in my neck of Tennessee. Once I got on the Southeastern summer circuit, after 10th grade, I saw some big dudes and gave up some long homers that had me questioning my future.
Thought about pitching in college, in the SEC. Had a full scholarship to pitch in Knoxville. Then I was drafted out of high school, end of the first round. Wasn't expecting that at all, even though the scouts liked me. Suddenly, baseball made me rich. Enough to forget about college.
Spent three-and-a-half years learning how to pitch in the minors. How to control the curve. How to be okay with mistakes and flush the bad outings. Single A at first. Double A for next two years, including some minor shoulder trouble. Then started in AAA, good April and May. I was 23, finally made my way to the majors.
June, 2009. Got that dream call from Oakland. The AAA manager just put the phone on speaker after he called me in. The GM was brief. “Congrats. You're in the Majors. Fly on out to Tampa tomorrow.” I was in disbelief and called my parents. Hooting and hollering on the other line. The team was on a road trip. Two more in Tampa and then headed to Baltimore. Manager said I would debut there.
My parents and my brother made the eight-hour drive. Met me at the hotel. My mom was more nervous than I was. Truthfully, I've never been the nervous type, but damn if I wasn't full of butterflies the night before. It was an afternoon game. Barely slept. I must’ve been out of my body that whole game because I don't remember much. I made it to the sixth. Gave up just one run on a solo homer. We won the game in extras. I'd arrived in the bigs. That was 17 years ago. Life moves fast.
Maybe it was too early. Nobody knew about pitch counts back then. I had a few up-and-down seasons as most do when they're young fireballers. Then I learned how to keep guys off balance. Mentored by a great coach. Developed a change-up. Had some of my best years. My name even came up in the Cy Young conversation one year. The winter I turned 29, finally a free-agent. That contract set me up for life. I never focused on the money. It was all surreal. Don't like big houses or luxury cars. Nice never to worry, though.
The elbow finally blew out right after my 30th birthday. All that rehab. The journaling. The doubts. After 20 months, I did finally find my way back. The club was struggling, out of the postseason picture. They converted me to closer. It was a demotion. Out of the rotation. Never knowing when it's your turn. At least the closer has some cache. If you do it right, you don't just get saves, you can become something of a savior, coming in to get those final outs with the whole stadium amped up. Feeling that energy and unleashing the curve. Freezing guys at the plate. Ending the game on a called strike three was my favorite.
You begin to feel like a superhero until you blow the save. Then you're the target of fan ire and managerial doubt. The rollercoaster of closing. Changes you after a while. Crazy guys sometimes handle it better than us cerebral types. I did it for three insane years. Eventually, they gave the closer role to a younger guy who threw 99. I never got higher than 94. I was relieved.