Chapter 22: Kelley

Chapter 22

Kelley

You know things are dire when you’re two runs down, it’s the bottom of the ninth, our bases are loaded, and the only available batter left is … the pitcher.

All I can say is thank fuck I don’t have to go out there. Hooray for designated hitters.

Not that I’m terrible at batting, but like most pitchers, when discovering my arm was my golden ticket, I focused mostly on honing that talent. I might not be able to hit a home run, but I could bunt the shit out of any pitch.

Considering we need all three runners to make it past home plate to win this game, a bunt isn’t going to cut it. We need a miracle here.

I’m keeping my arm warm in case we manage to get two bodies across that plate and we head for extra innings, but I’m on the edge of my seat watching Zaka move to bat.

I have a baseball in my hand, gripping it tight and then releasing, spinning it in my hand, and doing every other fidgety thing I can think of.

It’s the first game of the season, and I’m back in my safe place. Where the outside world doesn’t matter, and the only thing important is the scoreboard. Whether we win or lose, baseball season is back.

I’m not going to lie though, walking into spring training was difficult. I didn’t know how everyone would look at me, but the majority of my teammates acted like they always did around me. One said it wasn’t a shock, considering who my agent was, and he never had a problem before, so he doesn’t have a problem now.

Cooper basically ran from the room anytime I entered it, but he didn’t say anything overtly to my face about his disapproval. The running away, I can deal with. Not wanting to punch my teammate for being a dick is more difficult.

As long as he stays out of my way, I’ll stay out of his.

So no, it doesn’t matter if we win or lose this game, but a win would be a nice way to start the season and maybe help us with team bonding. We have a few rookies on the team, and then veteran Frederik Zaka signed as a free agent after playing with Kansas for a couple of seasons. He’s an amazing switch-hitter and will be good for the team.

I just hope he can do his thing out there right now.

I almost don’t want to look. In fact, as he steps up to the plate, I close my eyes and can’t make myself open them again to see it unfold.

There’s a laugh beside me, coming from Hunter Berkley, our shortstop. “Worried?”

I smile and open my eyes but make sure I don’t look onto the field. I look at him instead. “Terrified. I know in the big scheme of things, our first game doesn’t matter, but it starts off the season on a good note, you know?”

“I get it. But you also gotta think that only fifty percent of teams get that first win, and first wins don’t mean shit by the time the World Series comes around.”

“I know. I just really want this for us.” Because if we can win, I can show everyone that I’m doing it. I’m being an out and proud athlete and still succeeding. Sure, their four runs to our two could be put down to me not being able to strike them out, so it’s actually my fault we’re behind, but it’s a team effort. Maybe if Forsling got to the ball quicker, we could’ve gotten an earlier out. If Hunter here called for the ball to be thrown to third instead of first, maybe that player wouldn’t have made it across home plate. There’s a whole lot of things that could stand in the way of us winning, and it’s not entirely on me, but it is entirely on me to show that queer men in sports can win.

It’s a lot of unnecessary pressure to put on me and my team, and to some, it’s probably not rational because me being on a Major League Baseball team at all shows a level of success, but what I wouldn’t have given to have this kind of representation in baseball when I was a scared queer child.

All the players back then who were gay didn’t come out until after they had retired, so in my mind, that was what I would have to do. Sure, there have been out players since, but so far, the track record for how many seasons they’ve stayed after coming out stands at two. There are the “he wasn’t good enough” excuses all over the internet, but I can’t and couldn’t help thinking as I was coming up through Little League that if I came out, I could give myself two seasons until I’d be pushed out.

I don’t want that to happen, and I wouldn’t have come out during the season break if I wasn’t prepared for the reality of it possibly happening, but this win would make me feel better about it all.

As irrational as always, my brain doesn’t see facts. It only sees worst-case scenarios. I hate that my anxiety is creeping into baseball in this way when this is supposed to be my safe place, but this has nothing to do with the actual game. It’s about what happens outside of it.

The comments, the public opinion, team management’s view of me. Is me being gay a liability for them?

This is why I struggle and have been struggling with it all. Brady was able to convince me to come out, and I’m happy that I can be here as my authentic self, but it feels like I’ve turned up the pressure on my career. Before, I only had to be good. Now, I need to be outstanding.

Irreplaceable.

And if Zaka can’t get this done, they’re not going to look to him for fault. They’re going to look to me for the four runs New York has scored. Not that they’d point it out publicly or to the team, but I know they would be judging.

“You know if he strikes out, this loss wouldn’t be your fault, don’t you?” Hunter asks.

What, is he a mind reader now?

“Of course I know that. Baseball is a team sport.”

He leans in closer. “Then why don’t I believe you?”

I slump. “I know we’re not going to win every single game we play. I’m not that delusional. But I thought … that if I could, we could …”

“Could what?”

“If we could win the first few, maybe the headlines would read Having a Gay Man on Your Team is Good for Your Game.”

Hunter laughs until he sees I’m being serious. “Kelley … that’s?—”

“Irrational? I know.”

“No, it’s ridiculous. You know the headline would read Anal Sex Helps Philly Win.”

I snort so loud it almost sounds like I’m choking, and I’m met with glares all around. Right. Focus on the game.

I glance back to where Zaka is, poised at the plate, ready for the pitch.

The pitcher winds up, lifting his leg and leaning back, ready to fire this pitch right down the line.

Zaka doesn’t swing, and the ball hits the catcher’s mitt.

Not a strike. It wasn’t over home plate.

God, this is torture.

Hunter bumps me with his shoulder. “In all seriousness though. If we lose, they’re not going to blame you for who you sleep with.”

As Zaka takes a strike on the next pitch, I have to hope Hunter’s right about that, but I wish I had more faith in the media than he does.

Zaka and Skip signal for a bunt because they’re trying to kill me. They want Zaka to sacrifice himself and maybe our runner on first base for a chance of tying this up? It’s not going to be enough. He needs to swing and hit it as hard as he can.

And when he does just that, I can’t help it when my hand flies out to catch Hunter’s arm in shock. He was told to bunt. He took a risk.

Skip is going to be pissed if this doesn’t pay off.

But as we watch the ball go further and further into the outfield, every single person in this dugout holds their breath. It’s going, it’s going. It has a good chance of getting over the fence. It’s?—

Caught by their right fielder.

He’s out.

Even so, two of our guys have been able to cross the home plate to even the game, and now it’s a race to get the ball back to home before our last runner can get there. That third runner being … Cooper.

“Come on, Coop,” I yell. Because I am a bigger person than he is.

The kicker of this whole stressful situation is that when Cooper slides into safe and we win the whole fucking game, I don’t feel comfortable in joining the others out on the field and lifting Cooper up into the air.

I waited the whole game for this moment, and I can’t even revel in it with the rest of my team. So, I stay behind and celebrate the victory alone. It’s as empty as it is lonely.

I head into the locker room first while the others are still celebrating, and I get started on getting out of my gear and cooling down. As I’m standing at my cubby, shirt discarded, cleats and socks gone, my phone vibrates in my gear bag.

I pull it out and can’t help smiling at the name that’s in the little message preview.

Thad:

Congrats on your first win. You looked hot out there.

Having him reach out, knowing he was watching me, it takes away some of the sting of this moment where I’m separated from my team’s celebrations because of one person’s homophobic comments online. So, I reply.

Me:

It was hot out there. Whose idea was it to make the season start going into summer?

Thad:

Not what I meant, but it’s good to be humble.

Me:

What makes you think I wasn’t fishing for more compliments?

Thad:

Your ass looked amazing.

Me:

Just my ass?

Thad:

Geez, how greedy are you? I couldn’t take my eyes off you, and every time the cameras panned elsewhere, I was yelling at my TV for them to go back to you.

Well, shit. That hits me in the feels.

Me:

Okay, now you’ve made things weird. Why are you so obsessed with me?

Thad:

I can’t win with you.

Me:

Yeah, I wouldn’t even try with me if I were you.

I hit Send before I can really think about what that might say over text. I mean it like don’t try to win, not don’t try with me at all. Do try. Please. I quickly type out another message.

Me:

I mean, don’t try to win. I will always win. But you should try. Uh, with me. Like, messaging me.

Thad:

No, no, I might have to take your first answer. You don’t want me to try with you.

Me:

This isn’t the Price is Right. You don’t need to accept the first answer.

Thad:

Whatever happened to that game show?

Me:

What happened to trying with me? Please?

Thad:

Win the next one, and maybe I’ll text you again.

Me:

And if I lose?

Thad:

Then I guess it will be your turn to reach out to me.

Now, that’s a win-win situation.