Out of His League. Cathryn Parry
for him. “It was a last-minute decision.”
His dad was gone, too? Why not, Jon thought. His dad had probably left after it had been clear the Captains wouldn’t be in the playoffs. Dad would have been bitterly disappointed. Jon wasn’t feeling so great himself.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said to his neighbor. This was stupid of him, but... “Did I ever help you when I was a kid?”
“Help me? You helped everybody.” Mr. Yanopoulis pulled on the leash again. “Why? What’s this all about?”
“I’m just wondering...what do you remember most about me from those days?”
Mr. Yanopoulis smiled. “You know what I remember?” He pointed at the narrow strip of grass—barely the width of a dugout bench—that separated Jon’s family’s driveway from the Yanopoulis house. “You, at about ten years old, out there for hours, hurling a baseball against that screen thing.”
“The pitch-back net,” Jon said.
“Yeah, the pitch-back. You threw baseballs at it every night. Jean stayed up late, worrying. She wanted to complain to your father, but I told her, no, leave the boy alone, he is going to be a star someday.” He pointed at Jon. “And I was right.”
Jon felt shaken. He remembered perfectly—the glow from the reflective tape of the strike zone he’d measured out, the squeak of the springs when the ball bounced back on the net at him, the satisfying feel in his muscles of hurling the ball with all his might, getting out his frustrations.
At first, he’d shredded those pitch-back toys. There hadn’t been just one; there had been half a dozen he’d gone through, at least until he’d figured out how to reinforce the sides with PVC piping and duct tape. To make them, he’d saved up bottle-and-can collecting money, plus payments for neighborhood shoveling and grass cutting, and bought the equipment at a sports store downtown, hauling it home on his bike with Frankie’s help. Jon had needed that ritual. His mom was gone—dead from bone cancer—and his dad was in a serious state of depression. His father had been—still was, in a sense—a lost soul. Francis, even more rage-filled back then than he was now, was constantly in schoolyard fights, and Jon had felt compelled to defend him. Bobby, the baby, had needed Jon’s help with everything—getting dressed, getting fed, being told to brush his teeth and to turn off the TV. He had been very much like Brandon in that respect.
Those hours with the pitch-back—that had been Jon’s outlet for blowing off steam. His way of calming himself down. Getting centered so he could sleep.
It had only been an accident that he’d turned himself into a pretty good pitching talent. A talent that, luckily, some world-class coaches along the way had noticed. They had seen enough potential in Jon to take him on board and train him seriously. After that, life had gotten measurably better, for everyone in his family. He’d brought them hope.
He didn’t want to lose that.
He blew out a breath. Everything felt clearer. Maybe there was even a reason he’d met Lizzy. He’d needed that message—her message—to focus on himself.
No highs, no lows.
“Thanks,” Jon said to his neighbor. “You take care.” He turned and stared at the narrow strip of grass one last time.
After Mr. Yanopoulis had left with his dog on the leash, Jon climbed back into this SUV and typed out a text message to his agent.
I need to give the team reason to sign me again. I’m adding a fourth pitch this winter, a changeup. I also need to do some visible fund-raising with Vivian’s charity at the hospital. Call me back and tell me what you think.
Then, and only then, did he reply to the text from the young guy he’d been mentoring. This would be the last time Jon would expend energy on a fellow pitcher for the foreseeable future. Jon had his own work to do.
Talk to your agent. Listen to whatever advice they give you, and follow it.
Then Jon took his own advice. He set his phone in the SUV’s cup holder and, while he waited for Max to call back, he headed home to Boston. He was trying a new way of living. Not helping, he would call it. Focusing on himself and getting his own work done.
“I am not a helpful guy,” he said aloud to himself.
“Jon?” Max said when he finally called Jon back, as he was driving across the Zakim bridge. “That sounds like a good plan you came up with.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“We made some calls,” Max continued. “Management is marching to the drumbeat that they’re blaming the team’s collapse on the pitching falling apart.”
Little surprise there. Jon pinched the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his good hand as he fixed his gaze on the headlights and road before him. “Yeah, I heard the gist of it from the call-in program.”
“Your pitching staff,” Max said. “So you’ll be painted with the broad brush. It won’t be smooth going.”
“I know.” Jon turned the wheel with his left hand. “That’s why I’ll be working on my changeup pitch again.”
“It can’t hurt.” That was Brooke speaking. “But we think you should focus most on appealing to Vivian. She’s hosting a charity fund-raising event early next month. I can get you an invitation near her table.”
“Max,” Jon asked, “are you passing me on as your daughter’s client?”
“How’s your finger doing?” Brooke asked, unperturbed by Jon’s question.
“Fine.” The over-the-counter painkillers Elizabeth had given him had finally kicked in. “The surgeon called me and said everything is fine.” He paused. “Max, are you fine? What’s going on? Why is Brooke with you?”
There was only a slight hesitation. “I’m headed into surgery myself,” Max said evenly. “It’s routine—nothing for you to worry about, but Brooke will be in charge for the next few weeks while I recuperate. Pay attention to her—I’ve taught her everything I know. Don’t discount my daughter. Do you hear me, Jon?”
He was really being tested today. “Yeah, sure. As long as you’re the one negotiating my contract.”
“Of course,” Max answered. “But in return, I want you to implement Brooke’s ideas with Vivian.”
Jon grunted into the phone, paying closer attention to traffic in the intersection as he stopped the SUV at a red light. “I already do fund-raising for Vivian’s Sunshine Club project.” Such as, writing lots of checks behind the scenes. “I just don’t trumpet it.”
“Well, now you’ll be trumpeting everything to the high heavens,” Max said. “Vivian may be the team’s majority owner, and as such, normally stays away from operational issues, but she’s taken it upon herself to give input on contract decisions. If she likes you personally, you stand a better chance of things going your way.”
“And you shouldn’t have any worries in that department, Jon,” Brooke interjected, “but just in case, I’ll work on other ideas for your fund-raising participation.”
Jon hated having cameras in his face. But for the sake of getting serious... “Yeah, sure, everything is on the table.”
“Excellent,” Brooke said. “I’ll talk to the program directors at the Captains front office and at Wellness Hospital.”
Lizzy’s hospital. But knowing Lizzy, she didn’t get involved with the public programs.
“Fine,” Jon said. “Sounds good.”
“All right,” Brooke said. “I’ll float some ideas when I have them.”
“Great.” In the meantime, Jon would line up his changeup coach.
Jon