I didn’t need an image consultant. Even if that consultant came in the attractive shape of Andrea Diggers. Her dress had been one of those shapeless conservative ones that don’t usually do a thing for me, but with her height and a hint of a tight body underneath, her dark brown hair and blue eyes that seemed to pop against her lightly tanned skin, I wasn’t going to lie—I was intrigued. She was also one of those women with looks and a brain, who didn’t rely on her superficial assets to get by. She didn’t wear much makeup, and she didn’t need it.

My sister Eva had mentioned having to face off against Andrea in the College World Series. She was tenacious on the field, which made her all the more attractive to me. On the way out of the locker room, I had pulled up an image of her playing on Twitter, and I’d nearly turned to steel in my car just staring at her curves in her sexy softball pants.

But then I remembered what she did for a living, and I was annoyed all over again.

I didn’t need a goddamned image consultant. My image was fine. Was all that shit the media spun about me remotely true? Sure, some of it—although parts were total lies or exaggerations to create sensationalized clickbait. I didn’t have the time or energy to constantly fight it just so I could look like a Boy Scout twenty-four seven.

Besides, the things that were true were harmless. I wasn’t breaking laws or doing anything truly bad. Yeah, I played the game hard, but who ever said I had to be polite about it? I drank. I partied. I hooked up with girls. I did things every single guy in America did. I wasn’t going to apologize or over-explain something that was quite simple. If someone posted a picture of me, what the hell was I going to do, rip their phones from their hands? If someone cried foul over a few meaningless pictures, it was their problem, not mine.

Still, I didn’t like being blindsided with this image-consultant bullshit. So I ignored the fact that Mr. Yerac, a few of my coaches, and even my agent had all been harping on me lately—and now Andrea.

I shoved all that noise aside because right now, that world didn’t exist. Just some neighborhood baseball.

“Home, Tate, throw home! Home!”

The little guy launched the ball as hard as he could from right field. For being eight years old, his arm really wasn’t bad. No eight-year-old could throw it all the way home from the outfield. But he at least threw it in a straight line.

“Jackson! You’re in the spot for the cut off! Come on, you gotta get there!” I shouted.

I made a conscious effort to soften my yell. These aren’t big leaguers you’re playing with, Jake. Take it easy.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been a hothead. On the mound in the big leagues, it’s a great tool for intimidation. When I was coaching kids, though, I would just be a heartless, insensitive asshole if I kept up my inflammatory attitude.

Tate threw the ball to Jackson, who turned around and threw it ten feet off from his target at home base. The runner from the other team came around the bases and scored, ending the game. The little guys began to jog in from the field.

At least, I thought that was the game winner. We hadn’t really been keeping perfect score, and I had arrived late to the game since I’d played my own game today for the Jaguars. That was another thing I loved about watching these kids play. They were so damn good at playing for fun and with passion. It was never about winning. It was about sunshine, hanging with good friends, and pretending for a little while that they didn’t live in a shitty neighborhood.

The lights from the field had turned on now that it was hitting evening, but it didn’t really help much since half the bulbs were out. I swiped at my face, grimy and sweaty again, but none of that mattered for the twenty grinning faces in the dugout or on the field. Their black-and-white pinstriped uniforms were dusty, but they wore them with pride.

“Okay boys, that’s a wrap,” I shouted, clapping my hands then drawing the boys together. “Shake hands now.”

They formed a line and slapped hands with the other team, then headed to the dugout to pick up their things. A few odd parents in the stands stood up from their places in the bleachers.

This particular patch of the South Side of Chicago was, sadly, a place where a lot of kids grew up fatherless. Motherless. Parentless. Having come from a very broken home in Blue Island myself, I could relate to how bleak some of these kids’ lives were. Even if they had a shitty home life for the rest of the week, they were damn well going to enjoy those two hours they spent playing baseball with our team on Saturday.

As a foster kid, I’d bounced around enough times that the idea of stability had been a joke to me. It was scary and frustrating, never knowing what was going to happen, and most of these kids were experiencing the same thing, just different circumstances. The one thing that had always been a constant in my life was a simple baseball field like this one, or an open space and some kids who wanted to play.

I’d even played on this very field growing up. Baseball had taken my mind off my troubles and burned some pent-up energy, though not all of it. Being good at the game, or even winning, had been the furthest thing from our minds. We had fun, took our anger and fears out on the ball, and that was all that mattered to us at that age. I was one of the lucky few who had possessed the kind of talent that had gotten me noticed by major colleges during high school.

Getting traded to my hometown team had felt like fate, and sometimes, a curse. Because with every good thing, there was a struggle to overcome—public or private, past or present—but I’d decided a long time ago that it’d all be on my terms. No matter what.

Seeing these kids, seeing how happy they were right now, was one of the few moments I had to myself…one of the few things I did just for me. I felt grateful that the parents didn’t make me into a celebrity sideshow when I came here. In fact, I’d talked to the kids and made them promise to keep my coaching their team a secret. They were just happy that someone—anyone who knew the game—treated their kids with respect and took the time to coach.

I huddled the boys up in the dugout, and they looked out at me through the chain-link fence.

“You played really well today, boys. Really well. I’m very proud of each and every one of you. Now, can you all point to what part of you got the biggest workout today?”

They all pointed to the left side of their chests, just like I’d taught them.

“That’s right, you played with your hearts today, and that’s the most important part of the game.” I paused, chuckling at one of the boys. “Hey! Will somebody show Tate where his heart is?!”

Tate was pointing to the right side of his chest instead of his left. I smiled as Jackson pointed out his error.

“All right, perfect. Now, who wants pizza?”

“Yeah! Pizza!” the kids roared.

Right on schedule, I saw my old buddy-turned-pizza-delivery-man, Fred Bigginton, rolling in with a stack of ten boxes from the parking lot. I opened the dugout door, and the kids ran toward the outfield. It was our weekly tradition, win or lose. Fred placed the pizzas on the bleachers and got the hell out of there, because one of the most dangerous places you could be was in between hungry kids and their pizza. He was liable to lose a hand. A couple of the parents got the boxes—and the boys—in order before they were allowed to dig in.

“Bigs!” I said as I slapped his hand, calling him by the old high school nickname our coach had given him. He walked over to where I stood by the dugout.

“Unit.” He smiled back at me, coming in for a half hug. “Good to see your tall fucking ass again. How was the East Coast road trip?”

“Long,” I said, putting my hands in my pockets.

“Judging by your Instagram, you were having a hell of a time in New York. You hung out with Jeter and A-Rod?”

“I did.” I smiled. “And…I got that autograph for your kiddo. Here.” I dug into my workout bag and tossed him a ball. Fred had a ten-year-old son who, for some reason, had a strange obsession with the Yankees’ former shortstop.

Fred caught the ball. “You kidding me? From what I saw online, you were drunk as fuck with those guys.”

Internally, I rolled my eyes. For all the buzz surrounding my Instagram account, few people knew that I took the season so seriously that there was no way I’d go out and get hammered on a game night. I’d had maybe three beers, tops, and just enjoyed hanging out with people. And besides, you know what’s more fun than drinking every night?

Winning every day.

I don’t know why I didn’t correct people like Fred. Admittedly, I didn’t mind that there was a legendary image around my name. Even if it wasn’t a saintly image.

“What good is a man if he can’t remember a gift for an old friend?” I said, neither confirming nor denying the rumors.

“Thanks.” He smiled. I handed him cash for the pizza and a healthy tip.

“So, how are things with you?”

I hadn’t meant it to be a deep question, but the wind seemed knocked out of him. “Been better.” He didn’t elaborate, but based on the look of his haggard face, it was an understatement.

“Shit, well, let me know what I can do to help.”

“You good, Unit. All good,” he said, looking away.

The moment became awkward, but the kids stormed back over, interrupting us, and it was a relief. I wanted to help him, but I didn’t know how to broach the topic in a more forceful way, or if I even wanted to get that involved. I’d known him for a long time, but we weren’t super close, not like when we were kids. I didn’t dwell on the fact that I wasn’t close to anybody. Because of that, probably, he’d never ask, and I knew pride got in the way of admitting you needed help. I knew that better than most.

I had gotten a text from my teammate, Clay, as I walked to the parking lot, and as I checked my phone, I saw one of my players still waiting for a ride. Out of all the kids, Tate Straub reminded me most of myself at his age, which was ironic since he was the most even-keeled kid on the team, and I hadn’t been in the least. He was pretty much on his own most of the time, just like me growing up. And it sucked not having anyone have your back. Even though he had his aunt, she rarely showed up for games or practices. I used to see an older boy, sixteen or so, drop him off, but not since the start of the season. From what I’d learned from him since he’d joined Little League, his parents were long gone, abandoning him to his aunt when he was young.

Just like Tate, my mom had been out of the picture for most of my life, more interested in her drugs and boyfriends than two growing kids. I hadn’t known who my father was up until a few years ago, and what a huge disappointment that had been. We had more in common than I cared to admit. Now that I knew him, I knew better than to get close. It was best to keep things impersonal. I liked my life simple, no fuss, no complications.

“Tate, you still waiting? Where’s your aunt?”

He didn’t make eye contact with me, and he kicked the dirt with his spikes, which I noticed had to be at least two sizes too big for him.

“She’s comin’.” He looked off towards the street then went back to kicking dirt around. “I think she’s comin’ soon…”

I was about to ask him if he had a cell phone when I realized that was a stupid question. He had only one thing on him, his baseball mitt.

“You sure she’s coming?” I asked, knowing he usually got rides from someone on the team, but as I glanced around, everyone was gone at this point.

He kept his head down, making patterns in the patchy dried grass. He mumbled something, but I couldn’t hear what.

“Tate, if you need a ride home, you just have to ask.”

It took him a long time until he finally looked up at me with big brown puppy-dog eyes and asked, “Can I have a ride home, Coach?”

“Of course,” I said, unable to hold back a soft smile. I hated how uncertain something simple like a ride home was for some of these kids. “Get in the car.”

On the way to Tate’s house we saw three separate crime scenes, which wasn’t a big surprise for either of us. The neighborhood was extremely violence-ridden, and Saturday night was crime night, especially in the heat of the summer.

“Coach, you think I could play in the big leagues some day?” Tate asked me, looking out the window at one of the scenes. He probably had the same thought I had when I was eight. I need to figure out what skills I have that will allow me to get the fuck out of here.

You wised up pretty fast living around here when you kept seeing your friends or family getting hurt, or worse, killed.

“If you’re going to play in the big leagues, you gotta have a hard head,” I said. “You have to practice a lot. But yeah, you could do it if you set your mind to it.” Fuck, I didn’t want to put ideas in his head, but who was I to say he couldn’t make it? Who knows their true potential at age eight?

“Coach, why does my auntie say I shouldn’t be looking at your Instagram page?”

I glanced over at him, a little shocked. “Uh, what did your auntie say about my Instagram page, exactly?” I asked, looking back at the dirty street. I turned my headlights on; the sun was setting quickly, and kids were out playing where they shouldn’t be playing.

“She called you a glam-boy and said you like to drink alotta Guinness. What’s Guinness?” he asked, giving me a wide-eyed look. “Can I drink it?”

Glam-boy. That was a new one. I had to tip my hat to the creativity of Tate’s aunt.

“Uh, Guinness is an adult drink, it’s kind of…”

Tate cut me off enthusiastically. “So if I wanna be an adult like you and play in the big leagues, I gotta drink it? I gotta drink Guinness.” He spoke the words more as a statement than as a question.

My face was actually getting hot. What the fuck? Why were eight-year-olds on Instagram? Shouldn’t his aunt be making sure he wasn’t looking at, you know, inappropriate sites?

“No,” I said. “Don’t drink Guinness, Tate. Just eat pizza, okay?” I gave his shaggy little head a rub. Not that pizza was the healthiest of foods. “Not every day though,” I added.

“My auntie says pizza’s too expensive. She says we can’t afford none a that fancy bullshit.”

Fancy bullshit? I mean, sure, I swear like a sailor, but not in front of little kids. Where was he getting these words?

God help the Internet generation, I thought, and shook my head.

“Here,” Tate said. We pulled in front of some government housing complexes. I wondered if he really had a ride coming in the first place, and I knew the answer to that immediately. Probably not. Or not for a long while. He opened his door, unbuckled, and got out of the car.

“See ya, Coach.”

“Tate, wait,” I said. “I have an extra pizza in the trunk. Take it with you.”

He looked back at me uncertainly. “My auntie says not to take food from strangers.”

Jesus, I’d been his coach for over a year, and I was still a “stranger” to him? That bothered me a little, even though it was kind of true. “Tate. I’m not a stranger,” I said with a sigh. “Just…take the pizza. I’m just going to throw it away anyways.”

That was a white lie. I’d never throw pizza away.

He hesitated, but not for long. The kid was too scrawny, and I knew a lot kids around here didn’t eat enough. “Okay Coach,” he finally said.

I got out, popped the trunk, and let him grab the pizza box. “Thanks, Coach!”

“No problem, Tate. See you next week.”

I slammed the trunk and got back in my car. I took a deep breath after he waved with a big grin on his face and ran inside.

Funny how little kids always speak the truth, and here Tate was talking about how goddamn inappropriate my Instagram page was.

A realization hit me, like the thunder that occurs a couple of seconds after a lightning strike.

Was my image actually affecting these kids?

I sat there in my car for a moment with the engine on and started to recall a few other comments from the kids that I’d ignored since I’d moved back and become their coach last year. And while I might be an asshole sometimes, I do have a conscience.

I had to laugh at the situation. For the first time, I was truly seeing it the way Mr. Yerac, and basically the entire Jaguars organization, saw it. How they saw me. And all it took was Tate. He’d pushed my buttons in a way I’d never even considered, even though everyone in the front office had been saying it for months. This time, for some reason, I couldn’t just ignore it and downplay it as nothing—like I usually did.

I mean, shit, we didn’t need eight-year-olds rolling around drinking Guinness now, did we?

There was enough evil going down on the South Side as it was without my dumb ass influencing them to do even more dumb shit.

I guess I’d actually have to give Andrea Diggers a shot at changing up my social media strategy.

My phone buzzed, and I looked down at a text from one of my buddies: Valentino’s Pub tonight? Off-day tomorrow.

I shrugged. Might as well. Tomorrow was the last Sunday we’d have off for weeks. And with everyone on my case, a couple beers with my teammates felt like the perfect remedy.