Second Chance (4 page)

My roommates don’t know
today is my birthday
.
I haven’t told anyone
because
I don’t want to be congratulated
.
It’s my second birthday without her
.
And I’m supposed
to celebrate
?

I
kick
off my covers
and
grab the nearest T
-shirt
lying
next to my
bed
.
I pull it over my head and
throw on a pair of jeans
.
I run my fingers through my
dark, curly
hair
but
it’s a
lost cause to try and tame my morning afro,
so I
slide
a
UNM
baseball
hat
on backwards
.
I brush my teeth
and meet my reflection
in the mirror
to see streaks of
dark
purple under my e
yes from the lack of sleep
.

I head
downstairs
,
and
Miles is sitting in the kitchen
eating a bowl of cereal and
studying
.
His shoulders lean
over a pile of notes spread out on the table
.
He looks up when I walk i
n
,
and there’s an edge to his eyes
.
I open up the cupboard and grab some Pop Tarts
.

Miles clears his throat
.
“
Gray
, do you mind
not smoking
pot
in the house?” he asks
.
“I could smell it in my room last night.”

I
glance at him over my shoulder and apologize as I slip the Pop Tarts into the toaster
.
He exhales a long breath and
I turn to face him
,
wait
ing
for the lecture
.
Miles has a huge heart
and he’s
become a good
friend,
but sometimes his need to be the paternal
voice of the team is a buzz kill
.
Miles admit
s
he’s clueless about
a lot of things
, most of all women, b
ut one area where you can’t
doubt
his knowledge and dedication
i
s baseball
.
Our household abides by
one rule
:
b
aseball
c
ome
s f
irst
.
Those words should hang over our
front
door, just to warn people
.
Baseball
comes before sleep and school and
friends and
girlfriends
.
Bubba and Todd, my other roommates, are happy to oblige
,
but
I’ve become the black sheep of the team for
daring to have interests outside the
baseball
field
.

M
iles
frowns
.
He’s
clearly disappointed in me
, and
I can understand why
.
We’re supposed to stay clean during the season
.
No drinking, no smoking
.
We’re not supposed to show up at house parties or be out at the ba
r
s
.
On game nights we have a curfew
.

“
When are you going to give that up?
”
he asks me.

I shrug
.
“It helps me sleep,” I say
.

“
It’s Saturday
.
We have a game
in a few hours
,” he tells me
,
as if I forgot
.

“I’m not pitching this game,” I remind him
.
Coach
Clark rotates
the starting
pitchers
,
so I only
throw
every third game.

“That’s not the point,” Miles says
.
“We signed an athletic agreement.”

“No one actually follows
it
,” I argue
.
I point out Bubba still chews
all the time.

Miles ignores this
.
“We sign it for a reason
.
Somebody wrote those rules.”

“Som
ebody
who doesn’t understand
moderation,” I argue
.

He shakes his head and
eats another spoonful of cereal
.
I
tell him I’ve cut way back
, which isn’t exactly true
.
I still smoke every night
.
And most mornings
.

“You’re supposed to be one of the
best pitcher
s
in the conference
this
year,” he reminds me
.
“I don’t want you to throw it
all
away be
cause you’re depressed
.” 

I stare back at him
.
“I’m not depressed.”

“Gray,
you’ve perfected the art of
sulking
.
If you need to talk about it, I’m here
.
Bu
t there
are
other ways you can deal with it.”

I
pull my Pop Tarts out of the toaster and burn the tips of my fingers
.
I throw them on a napkin
.
“
Thanks a lot,” I say
.

“Look how far you’ve come since you’ve been here,” he reminds me
.
“
Coach was
going to
red-shirt
you
this
year, but
you’re throwing
better than
any
pitcher
on
the
team.”

      
Miles is right. I became the team’s number one starting pitcher by the time we hit conference games this spring. Coaches and reporters predict I’ll only get better. In interviews, everybody asks me my secret for success. Is it my die-hard dedication? My rigorous training schedule
? My dream of playing pro?

I
n all honesty, I
don’t
really
think about it
.
Baseball’s
just a game
.
I
t isn
’t my life
.
It doesn’t define me
.
At the end of the day, i
t’s
just a sport
I love to play
.
It was
t
he perfect excuse to get out of Phoenix
, to go to college,
to be part of a team, and
most importantly, to m
ove on
with
my life
.
I think
the fact that
I
don
’t
consider baseball the mean
ing
of life and death
and everything in between
, like
most of the guys on my team,
gives m
e a
n
advantage
.
I never ge
t ner
vous before games
.
I never feel pressure
or tense up
.
I thr
ow technically perfect
because
pitching is one of the only parts of my life where I have complete control
.
I stand
on
top of the
mound and for those sacred few hours,
my life is fenced off
.
I can finally stop thinking and just
be entirely in the moment
.