Him Who Strengthens Me (eBook)

Joseph Emerson (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2019 | 1. Auflage
285 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-5439-6970-2 (ISBN)

Infos

Political decisions have consequences and the consequences of Virginia Governor Richard Baine's slashing funding for his state's colleges and universities has forced Donald Ross to think about life other than being a student-athlete. However, using his prowess and ingenuity, Donnie finds a way to play baseball with other student-athletes in a summer wooden bat league. As the season progresses, the decisions of each character during that tumultuous summer force their families and friends to deal with deep psychological wounds necessary for everyone's healing to commence.

Textauszug

Chapter Two

The day before Mother’s Day and most of the state’s college students’ thoughts are turning towards the various commencement ceremonies being conducted this morning. Or, like my fellow underclassmen, just getting ready to start a well-deserved summer break. But not Baynham students. We graduate, and vacate, the weekend after Mother’s Day. Normally, I’d be the first in line to complain; however, today’s the day of my tryout with the Duttonsburg Greyhounds. Thankfully, that Monday was already designated as a reading day. So, that only gives me two days to cram. I hate cramming. I never found it effective. Plus, it makes me feel like I’m taking on some of Alden’s study habits.      

After a quick shower, I pulled on my marriage equality t-shirt and my favorite pair of sliding shorts. Standing half naked in front of my gym bag, I found myself futzing over the most minor of issues. “What’s the problem, now?” Alden asked.

I don’t know why I didn’t answer, but I didn’t. Alden plays lacrosse, so he wouldn’t understand.

My dorm mate propped himself on the edge of the bed, and said, “You’re really stressed about this, aren’t you?”

I flung the gym bag over my shoulder and picked up my bat bag. This Coach Sheffield was not very specific.” I glanced over my shoulder and saw my roommate staring at me. “What? Did I forget something?”

Shaking his head, he ambled across the cement floor. Kicking empty beer cans, he cleared a path in my direction. He cupped my shoulder and said, “I can’t believe you’re going through with this.”

I adjusted the gym bag, and picked up my keys, phone, and wallet. “This is my last chance to play ball again. I mean real competitive ball.”

“Well, I’m happy for you. I really am.”

I flashed a confident grin, and said, “Well, wish me luck.”

He shook his head. He reached over and slapped me on the back. “No man, I’m wishing them luck?”

“Why them?”

“‘Cause, Dude…I’ve seen that look of determination in your eye.”

“Do I have it?”

He flashed his signature grin and said, “Donnie, it’s written all over your face.”

 

My drive from campus to the ballpark took nearly four hours. First, I missed my turn off the interstate, and had to backtrack for another thirty minutes before finding another exit. When finally on the main drag, I got lost once again when my GPS felt the need to take me down Reese Boulevard rather than Reese-Way Drive.

Wayne Memorial Athletic Complex, the home ballpark for the Duttonsburg Greyhounds, is apparently an historic landmark. Built during the Great Depression as part of the Works Progress Administration, I couldn’t help but notice how the architecture paid homage to the old fields my grandfather starred on when he played semi-pro baseball. In spite of the rustic appearance of cinder block and wood, the park did have lights for night games, and a modern electronic scoreboard. Thankfully, there was a Wi-Fi icon affixed next to the POST NO BILLS sign.

I parked my truck and cut the ignition, only to see the team already taking infield practice. I sauntered onto the field, holding my bat bag in one hand and my gym bag flung over my right shoulder. A burly man with an enormous belly and a walrus moustache caught my eye and waddled over towards me. “Can’t be here kid,” he said. A thoing of a baseball being struck in the batting cage diverted my attention.

Confused, I said, “I’m looking for Mowe Sheffield.”

He spit a fresh steam of saliva on the dirt before pretending to cover it up with his cleat. “Ballfield’s for players only,” he said, trying to lead me out.

I dropped my bat bag and said, “I have an 11:00 appointment with him.”

“For what?”

“A tryout,” I swallowed.

The burly coach spit another stream. He took an immediate inspection, glanced over to the players taking infield practice, and started laughing. “Kid, this isn’t some charity. We play real baseball here. Some of the finest college kids in the country.”

“I know, Sir. That’s why I’m here,” I said confidently. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the bottom of my t-shirt.

The walking walrus giggled so hard his belly shook like Jell-O. “What’s your name, kid?” He finally asked.

I gave him a firm handshake and said, “I’m Donald Ross.”

There was another crack of a bat behind me. I think Walrus was impressed that I didn’t flinch because he said, “Wait right here.” During the five minutes he was gone, I took in my surroundings. The sound of baseballs popping inside worn, leathered gloves, the cracking of wooden bats as they connected inside the batting cage, and more importantly, the banter and laughter of camaraderie filled the air. It was spectacular.

I was in baseball heaven.

“Kid,” Walrus said, “you’re late. Mowe doesn’t like late. Go home.”

“Late?” I asked. “How can I be late?” I dropped my gym bag on the ground and began walking in his direction. “I was promised an 11:00 am tryout, and it’s just 11:15. I know I haven’t been here that long.”

Walrus shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, kid. I’m not the head honcho. I just follow Mowe’s orders.”

I stood there. Stunned, disappointed, betrayed, and yes, more than just pissed-off. I was about to pick up my bags when I heard another crack of a bat in the cage. I glanced over and saw the ball fling out the netting, heading straight towards me. I reached out, and caught the ball barehanded.

It stung like hell, but I wasn’t going to let anyone see that. I flipped the ball towards the walrus, and said, “Knock ‘em dead this season.”

I picked up my bags and noticed an eerie silence had consumed the ballpark. “What’s your name again?” he asked.

“I’m Donald Ross,” I answered.

He furrowed his brows. “Hold on, kid,” he said, waddling back to the clubhouse.

Five minutes later, a second man emerged out of the clubhouse. He and Walrus appear to be in the middle of a heavy argument. Finally, both of them stop three feet in front of me. The new guy is wearing a green golf jacket with a Greyhounds logo stitched in silver, and a baseball cap pulled down covering his eyes. With the exception of the weight and the moustache, the new guy looks similar to Walrus.

“You Ross?” he asks.

“All my life,” I answer, throwing the ball back towards the batting cage.

“You’re late.”

“Actually, I’m early. And even if I was late, it wouldn’t be my fault. The trucks on the interstate…”

“Performance without excuses,” the new guy interrupts. “That’s our motto ‘round here. We don’t have time for excuses, and we certainly don’t have time for this conversation.”

He and Walrus turn and start walking back to the clubhouse. I felt the blood pounding in my temples. “You owe me a tryout.”

“Says who?”

“Says you, when we spoke on the phone. Says Dr. Jefferson. Are you a man of your word, or not?”

They stop. The new guy, who I suspected was Mowe Sheffield, stopped his stride, turned and, glared over his shoulder. He spit another stream of saliva. “Fine,” he said. “A tryout you want…a tryout you’ll have.”

“Mowe, we don’t have time…”

Sheffield waved him off. “Go tell Lance to get ready.”

Walrus’ eyes widened. “Do you really want him to throw batting practice?”

There was a glimmer in Mowe’s eyes when he nodded. “Yes,” he answered. I pick up my bags and proceed to follow the coach toward the clubhouse. The coach stops, turns, and says, “Where you think you’re going?”

“Clubhouse,” I answer.

Mowe shakes his head. “Clubhouse is just for the team. Are you on the team?”

I shake my head. “No sir.”

He thumbs over his left shoulder and says, “Get ready in the public men’s room.” I take a heavy sigh, and proceed as ordered. As soon as I’m about to leave the field, he yells, “Did you bring a cup?”

I turn and nod.

“Good, put it on.”

The men’s room was dank, musty, and smelled like three-year-old piss. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that I was transported back to the night where I was sexually assaulted at the homecoming dance my senior year in high school. I quickly change into my cleats, and drop in my cup. I admire myself in the cracked mirror and take a few practice swings. I gave myself a strong wink then say, “You got this, Donald Ross.”

I hustle back onto the field, bat over my shoulder and glove under my arm. I take my stance on the right-handed side, give another couple of practice swings, do a little wiggle, and steady myself-only to find the pitcher with his glove on hip and tossing the ball in the air.

I ignore the jeers from the other guys disrespecting a small school like Baynham and the insolence of the guy on the mound, before taking another practice swing. I steady myself, and mumble, “Bring it on.”

This was the first time in my life holding, much less having to swing, a wooden bat. A quick adjustment in my swing was necessary. The handle, unencumbered by rubber padding, was sleek and smooth. I wouldn’t say that it felt any lighter or heavier, but it did feel different. I took a few more practice swings, before the catcher said, “Get ready.”

I stared directly into the pitcher’s eyes and gave him a slight nod. He nodded back, though I know it...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 4.5.2019
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Sachbuch/Ratgeber ► Sport
• ISBN-10: 1-5439-6970-4 / 1543969704
• ISBN-13: 978-1-5439-6970-2 / 9781543969702