1
Wes
In years past, spring could never come around fast enough. I would spend all winter getting myself ready, staying in shape and prepping the new baseball gloves I would use that year. I’d watch out the window from my home in Pennsylvania as the snow and ice would slowly start to melt. Eventually the winter would give way to the signs of spring that erupted from the trees and ground. That joy has been with me since the time I was a teenager up until now.
As much as I wanted the winter months to end, it was also the only time I would get to spend with my daughter, Isabelle. Time with family when you are a professional ballplayer can be fleeting, and I wasn’t even there the day Izzy was born. I was still young, only twenty years old, and was working my way through the minor leagues. We were on a road trip in Texas, heading to Round Rock or Corpus Christi, or any one of another dozen minor league towns that I passed through over the years, when I got the call that Rachel had gone into labor and was on her way to the hospital. Back then, players didn’t get the opportunity for paternity leave, especially if you were a minor league player. You hoped you would be nearby when it happened so you could jump home for a day and then get back on the road. With my luck, I was 2,000 miles away and didn’t get to see my daughter until weeks later when we had a day off.
When I turned twenty-two and finally made it to the major leagues, I had a bit more security, could take better care of my family, and saw how important those few months in the winter were to be with my daughter. It became even more significant to me when Rachel left me after seven years of marriage, taking off with an old high school boyfriend and leaving Izzy in my care. Thankfully, my parents stepped up to help me out, caring for Izzy at their home in Pennsylvania while I was off playing. It took some real adjustment on all our parts, and Izzy went through some times of real resentment with me, hating that I was gone for months at a time, that she was uprooted from the life she knew to live with her grandparents, and to basically be apart from her parents all the time.
I did my best to make up for it when I had the time to do it. Playing in the majors gave me a lot of perks, including a very good paycheck so I could provide well for Izzy and make sure she had everything she needed and then some. There were times when I clearly overcompensated, buying her things that she never really needed to make up for not being there, but I felt like it was something I had to do.
Years go by too quickly for all of us, and it seems even more so when you are a professional athlete. Now I look around and see that Izzy is fifteen, growing into a young woman, and I am thirty-five, an old man by baseball standards. It takes a little longer for me to get going when spring rolls around now. It’s harder to get out of bed, my muscles ache after a workout, and coming off a second left knee surgery over the winter certainly didn’t make things easier.
By the time I got to Bradenton, Florida for spring training this year (the spring home of my team, the Pirates), I knew things were going to be difficult. I had been the starting first baseman for the last thirteen years, putting up good numbers along the way. I was no Hall of Famer, but my bat and glove had done a steady job, and I even got to go to an All-Star Game one year. This year, however, things were different. The team knew I was coming off an injury, my contract was up at the end of this coming season, and all I kept reading about in the newspapers was how it was time for the team to move on from me and give some younger guy a chance.
I tried not to let it all get to me – the constant hounding by reporters, the blog articles on the Internet saying I was done – but in the back of my mind, I could feel myself questioning whether they were right. Those feelings affected my play, and I had a terrible first few weeks of spring. Every time I was in the lineup, there were more strikeouts or soft outs, and more aches and pains to deal with afterward.
When the end of March came, I had hit .150 for the spring with no home runs. Most of my playing time had gone to a couple of young kids that the team management was high on. Even teammates I had for years shied away from talking to me about it, unable to come up with the words of encouragement that things would be alright.
And then the day came where I was called into the office. The manager, Tim Newhouse, who I had played with in the minors years ago, was there with the new general manager, Steve Goodson. He was a smug, young guy in his twenties who was glued to his laptop all the time, looking at figures and numbers that meant nothing to guys that played the game.
“Have a seat, Wes,” Tim said to me, pointing to the single chair positioned in front the small, wooden desk that was crammed into his office. Steve Goodson stood, his laptop resting on the file cabinet in the office. He stared at the screen, glancing over at me after I sat down.
“We’re coming to the end of spring training Wes,” Tim started, barely able to look at me as he spoke.
“I know Tim,” I said to him, hunching forward, closer to his desk. “I know where things are at. You know what I can do and have done for the team for years now. Spring training numbers don’t mean anything.”
“You’ve always come through for us Wes, year after year, and I’m sure you could do it again with more time…” Tim’s voice started trailing off before Goodson interrupted.
“The fact is Wes that from a numbers standpoint, Bill Thomas is a better investment for us at this time, so we’re going to have to release you today,” Goodson said to me bluntly.
“You feel that way too, Tim?” I said, trying to get Tim to look me straight in the eyes while he spoke. I saw him rubbing his hand over the stubble on his chin, searching for an answer that would appease Goodson and me, but we both knew there wasn’t one there.
“It’s alright Tim, I get it,” I said to him, standing up from the chair. Goodson walked over and stood in front of me.
“It’s nothing personal, Wes,” he said to me with a grin that I wanted to punch off his face. “The organization thanks you for all the years you have given us.” Goodson extended his hand to me, and I just stared at it.
“Nothing personal?” I said angrily. “It’s personal to me since you just took my job away.”
I stormed out of the office and went to my locker. I began to clean everything out while the few teammates left in the locker room watched on. Hank Swan, a pitcher that had come up just a year after me in the organization, walked over to me as I packed the last items away in my duffle bags.
“Wes, you okay?” Hank said to me, putting his arm on my shoulder.
“It’ll be fine Hank,” I told him, giving him a hug.
“I’m sure you’ll land someplace,” Hank replied, trying to lift my spirits. “I’ll be pitching against you in no time.”
“We’ll see,” I said to him as I carried my bags out into the hot Bradenton sun and over to my Lexus SUV. It was the only luxury car I ever bought with the money I made. I tossed my bags into the back and slammed the trunk closed. A couple of kids ran up to me, holding baseballs in their hands, asking for autographs. I gladly signed the balls.
“Thanks, Mr. Martin,” one of the young boys said excitedly to me as they looked at the ball with my signature scrawled on it. “I can’t wait to see you playing up in Pittsburgh this year.”
I just smiled and nodded at the kids as I climbed into my car before heading out towards the hotel I always stayed at during spring training so I could collect the rest of my things. I reached over and pressed the autodial button on the steering wheel and called my parents’ house. The phone rang once before it was answered.
Hey, Wes,” my father said cheerfully. “What’s going on? You usually don’t call until the evening.”
“I’m coming home Dad,” I said to him as I pulled out of the stadium lot for the last time.