Chapter 4

There's a crisp aroma in the air.

It's the smell of freshly mowed grass, raked clay, and worn-in leather.

It's the smell of determination, hard work, and passion.

Spring baseball season is officially here. But baseball never sleeps, especially with fall ball league and winter conditioning.

This weekend is our first tournament which means The Spring Showcase is upon us. This tournament is the first chance we get to show everyone that Central Texas University means business this season. Any motherfucker that gets in our way better watch out.

"Jacobs!" Coach Callan Weber yells as he makes his way up the steps of the dugout. Tilting my head from side to side, I enjoy the creaks and cracks the bones make. It's a warm day for January. Even though Texas doesn't get much break for the winter, it's still unseasonably warm.

With a nod, I address him. "Yes, Coach?"

"Elbow still treating you good?" His eyes are hidden behind reflective lenses, but I can feel them boring into me, reading me, looking for any hints that I'm lying. Lucky for me, my elbow has been feeling great.

"It's feeling great, sir. Ready for this weekend."

"Good, I'm glad to hear. Keep an eye on it. I don't need you going all tough guy on us this season. Jacobs, we know you're resilient, but I'm going to need you one hundred percent. If it starts to bother you, get it checked out."

I nod my head in response. At the end of last season, I was pitching one of our last games and felt a sharp pain shoot through my arm. I thought it was the famous "Tommy John" injury, most often a tear to the ulnar collateral ligament. Thankfully, it was just a slight tear in the ligament and wasn't anything that a minor surgery and some physical therapy couldn't fix. But the scare has everyone on high alert, making sure that it's not a full Tommy John injury.

"Throw a few." Coach Weber directs me. Standing on the dirt mound, I get into position on the rubber. My body goes into auto-drive as I follow the same routine I do before every pitch. I kick my left foot back and forth in the dirt until I have it smoothed out where I want it to be. I lean my body forward, bending at my hips, bringing my gloved hand up to cover my mouth. Squinting to read the hand signal Nolan—my catcher—gives me. I shake my head—one, two, three times—before nodding in agreement.

Standing, I bring my arms to my front. With my hand gripping the ball, I feel the laces. The scratchy material grazes over my fingers until I've settled my digits in the correct position for the pitch.

In fluid movements, I reach back and cock my arm before slinging it forward. The ball sails through the air in the perfect curveball, the sound of the ball hitting the leather ricocheting through the field. It's the best sound in the world.

"Hell yeah, Cody!" Hudson yells from the outfield where a few of the guys are running through drills.

Coach claps a hand on my shoulder. "Nice, Jacobs."

And with that, the man of few words walks away.

Coach Callan Weber has been one of my favorite coaches I've had the privilege of working with. He has a tough exterior that hides his charismatic ways.

Weber was the youngest coach in our conference to be hired on as a head baseball coach at the ripe age of twenty-six. He helped his college team win two National Championships before he played three years in the major leagues where his team was a runner-up in his last season.

During the off-season, he suffered a career-ending knee injury on a ski trip with some buddies. Coach Weber encourages us to go out and have fun because you never know what's going to happen next—his exact words. But while he wants us to have fun, he still rules with an iron fist to make sure we are keeping our heads in the game and focused on what's at stake.

Reaching into the bucket at my feet, I grab another ball before going through the exact same motions I did when Coach was standing next to me. Even though he's not beside me observing, I take it just as seriously. Like Coach, I have that passion, that love for the game, that drive to win. I'm eager to bring home the hardware, and I refuse to be distracted. It's why I don't fuck around like the rest of the guys do during practices.

When we step between those painted-on lines, it's time to get serious. No talk of girls or partying.

I want to win. I want to be better than my dad. I want to strive to be the best and accomplish my dreams. But if that doesn't happen, I don't want to live my life knocking others down like my father. I'll support my teammates from the sidelines.

He had his chance, but arrogance got in his way. When he was in college, Dad thought he was the best thing to grace his university. While playing—the few games he played—his cocky, holier-than-thou attitude got him nowhere. He made enemies with his teammates, his coaches viewed him as problematic, and he wasn't playing enough to gain the attention of scouts. This was all before his career-ending injury.

A long time ago, I vowed to walk the fine line between cocky and arrogant.

And to be better than him.

And dammit, I will be.

The clinking sound of weights hitting the racks fills the space as I walk through the state-of-the-art weight room doors. Practice was quick since we are hitting the road for our first tournament this weekend. Coach wanted everyone to get some reps in before a mandatory gym session to get some light lifting in. Everyone is feeling the buzz in the air.

Ty's music is linked up to the room's Bluetooth speaker. I watch the jackass attempt to bust out some trendy moves he probably saw on social media. Ty Billings is an excellent baseball player, but the dude has no dance moves. He's one of the only guys on the team who will do anything the CTU Athletics social media team asks him to do, including viral goofy dances.

I make my way over to my favorite bench that the guys leave open for me. They know I'm a superstitious fuck. If I don't follow my routine, I'm fucked for the week.

It's ridiculous, but it's how my brain ticks.

"Clear the way for King Jacobs as he makes his way to his precious throne." Ty hollers, taking a break from the dancing. I flip him off over my shoulder as I keep striding to my spot. Reaching up, I pull my Bluetooth headphones up over my head, drowning out the distractions around me. There's no way I'm listening to trendy pop music right now, not when I need harder music to get me in the zone.

Taking a seat, I lay back under the bar just as Drowning Pool's ‘Bodies' starts to float in through my headphones. Hard rock will always be the best weightlifting playlist, and that's a bet I'm willing to take.

Reaching up, my fingers grip the cold metal bar as I begin to lift it from its position when Hudson appears out of fucking nowhere, almost causing me to drop the damn bar.

"Fuck," I hiss. The motherfucker just laughs. Hud always helps spot me, but I didn't see him in the weight room when I walked in. Since I'm just doing light reps, I didn't think about a spotter.

Bending my elbows, I let the bar drop before I power it back up.

Bend. Press.

Repeat.

Bend. Press.

Repeat.

Lifting is such a repetitive action, but it's my favorite way to calm my nerves. There's nothing like a good weightlifting session to drown out the noise.

The guys and I wrap up our reps in the weight room before we all make our way into the locker room. CTU received multiple donations to revamp the locker rooms for all major programs. This is our first year using the improved space. Not only was our locker room renovated, but CTU's entire baseball facility was revamped in a multi-million dollar project.

There have been so many changes starting with the exterior and moving throughout the entire building. But the hallway that leads to our locker room is one of my favorites. Lining the walls are photos throughout the entire CTU baseball history stretched to be the wallpaper. At the opening of the hallway, on one side are older photos from the beginning of the program which get newer as you continue down the corridor. The last photo on the wall is from last season, supposedly the photos will change every year. The opposite wall is a minimalistic design of the CTU Eagles logo throughout the years.

But it's what's at the end of the hallway that always catches my eye.

At the end of the hall, on the wall facing the hallway is a large photo with the word "OMAHA" written above it.

Omaha is home to the College World Series and it serves as a constant reminder of what our end goal is: win a National Title.

Turning right, past the Omaha wall, is another hallway. This space is lined with jerseys from CTU players who have made it to the majors. Inside a large, glass frame their rookie jersey is displayed with their baseball card attached below with a plaque that includes their name, years at CTU, and the date and team name of their debut in the league. It doesn't matter if that person played an inning, day, month, or year, their jersey is on display.

It's great motivation for me to work hard because one day I want to come back here and see my jersey on this wall.

Moving past the wall, I enter double doors that lead to the locker room. As I enter, I take a glance at the bulletin board which is always updated with information that the coaching staff or university wants us to know. There's usually information for away games: what time the bus leaves, where we are staying, how we are getting there—plane or bus, what we need to wear or pack, and any other pertinent information.

Attached is also a photo of how the locker room is supposed to look which acts as our guide to keeping the place in top shape. The university offers paid stadium and facility tours so it's crucial our locker room always looks showroom ready. Coach rotates assigning players to do certain tasks during the week such as dusting and vacuuming. It's his way of teaching additional responsibility and reminding us that it's an honor to play for this program.

Each player has their own locker—a huge upgrade from what we were used to in high school. Our lockers are open, wooden spaces which look more like a display than a typical storage compartment.

I remember one time when I was really young, maybe five or six, I got to go on a stadium tour with my dad to see inside the Atlanta Braves locker room. Since that day, I've dreamed of having my own "special" locker.

In the center of the wooden locker is a large opening where we keep jerseys, CTU windbreakers, and pants all in a variety of CTU color combinations. Keeping everything hung to the left side of the opening, it allows coaches to make sure we are keeping our locker clean and we have a place to sit.

Above and below the opening are smaller cubbies where we store uniform-issued hats and each player's bats, storage drawers for storing undershirts, belts, cups, or anything else that is needed, and lastly, a drawer where a variety of cleats are stored and where we can put our day shoes to keep the clutter off the floor. Everything has to be folded and organized.

"Boys, grab a seat," Coach Weber says as he emerges from his office with some of the other coaches. We do as we're told, finding seats in our assigned lockers. "The games we face this weekend will be challenging. We are facing some great teams who are going to give us a run for our money. They want to win as desperately as we do, which means I need heads in the game. Don't be picking fights with your girlfriends this week or whatever drama you boys find yourselves in usually. This is our opportunity to show the league we are here to win."

Heads nod as we listen to Coach give us the talk. It's the same he gives us before each game. Tried and true. And one we know we better follow or the consequences won't be fun. "Check the board for details as it'll be updated by Wednesday with the final plan for traveling. Oh, and we'll be having a new reporter from the Eagles Gazette trailing us this year. I don't have any additional details, but treat them with respect and help answer any questions they have. And for goodness' sake don't make yourself look stupid. You all have the right to not comment on something if you're uncomfortable."

And with that Coach dismisses us. I reach for the small bag of toiletries I keep in my drawer before stripping out of my athletic shorts and tight-fitting workout shirt. Ignoring everyone around me, I head to the bathroom to grab a quick shower before breakfast and class.

I stand under the hot spray for a few minutes—just letting the water trail down my body—before reaching for my soap. I'm so ready for the season to start. To feel the dirt under my cleats as I mentally prepare to throw pitch after pitch. Baseball is a mental game, and I've got to keep my head straight. Rinsing the soap off, I reach for the towel on the ledge. Quickly drying off, I wrap the towel around my waist and head back to the main room.

Hudson, Nolan, and I get done at the same time so the three of us head to the breakfast room. Coach doesn't allow the use of cell phones in the locker room or breakfast room. It's his way of making sure we not only stay focused but make the effort to talk to each other.

"Think this newspaper reporter will be as wild as the ones who covered the football team?" Hudson asks from beside me.

"Dude, I don't think anyone will be like those two," Nolan adds with a chuckle.

Last year the two reporters who traveled with the football team were fired for misconduct. No one knows the specifics, but the rumors have been circulating since. I've heard anything and everything from secret sex parties with hookers to ragers with massive amounts of illegal drugs to even underground poker games where people would bet on the outcome of the football game. The university has been trying to keep the full story under wraps.

"I heard they were getting expelled from CTU."

"Hookers and blow will do that." We chuckle at the blatant comment from Hudson.

"I don't really give a shit who it is. Hopefully, it's someone who isn't an idiot and knows what the hell they're doing. We don't need someone who is in the way and pulling away our focus," I say as I open the door to the breakfast room.

The dining room isn't nearly as big as a dining hall on campus, but it's large enough to fit two round tables with chairs, a long bar with CTU logo barstools under a TV, and lower cabinets that run the length of two connecting walls.

Buffet trays are set up with scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon, hash brown patties, and trays of fresh fruit, while inside the fridge are a variety of bottled drinks and yogurt. While we always have a team breakfast when we are in season and a team meal before any home game, the room is for us to keep whatever food we want—as long as it's labeled.

"I'm sure the paper and coaches won't let a rookie reporter join us. They won't want the distraction," Nolan adds as he fills his plate.

"I hope you're right," I grumble.

I have no room for drama and distractions.