Big Leaguer

A baseball story

Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash

Greg Pickens was a thirty-one-year-old second baseman for the Rail Riders. In his spare time and in the offseason, Greg worked for the Geek Squad at the local Best Buy to make ends meet. He had been bounced around his entire professional baseball career, and it seemed like he would soon meet his end on the New York Yankees’ Triple-A affiliate out of Scranton/Wilkes-Barre. Some dreams never came to fruition, and that’s simply the way things went.

At least he could say he gave it everything he had.

Greg was a solid defenseman, quick around the bases, and a career .260 hitter in the minors, yet he only had twenty homers over the past six seasons combined. He wasn’t as desirable as he might have been thirty years ago. His style of play was old school: he didn’t say much, he slapped the ball the other way, and when an easy opportunity to get onto first presented itself, he laid a bunt down the third baseline.

The timing, the situation, or the sheer luck of making it to a big-league roster never worked out for “Old Man Pickens” – as some of the young bucks now called him. His bench coach, Doug Riley, who had been with the Rail Riders for over a decade, called him Geek for the past three or four years. He often asked him tech-related questions in the locker room or during their pregame rituals.

After an excellent night at the plate where Greg went three for four with a couple of runs scored, Doug ambled over to him at his locker.

“Geek, the skipper has a question for ya,” he said as he smoothed out his mustache.

“Oh yeah?” Greg replied. “About what?”

“I think it was about Spectrum Mobile or something like that, to be honest. Something about technology, I dunno.” Doug was smiling. He rubbed his hand over his mouth again to get rid of it. “But you better not keep him waiting. We’ve got a plane to catch in a few hours.”

Greg nodded and drew in a deep breath before Doug wandered off. Greg took off his cleats and pants, then slipped on some gym shorts and sandals. He’d hit the showers after his chat with his manager.

When Greg opened the door to the office, Mel Brunson was sitting back in his chair, a serious expression on his face. “Hey, Greg,” he said, almost solemnly.

“What is it?” Greg asked. Something was up. He’d seen that look before, twice, in fact, and in both instances, it meant he was getting traded to a different team halfway across the country.

“You’re going to want to sit down for this,” Mel said.

“So…you didn’t want to talk about Spectrum?” Greg asked.

Mel took off his hat, set it aside, and smiled. “No. Not this time. You know I’ve appreciated everything you’ve done for us, right? And everything you’ve done for me personally? You’ve truly made it a blessing to be here.” He paused. “I’m afraid you’re not getting on that plane with us tonight.”

Greg’s stomach turned upside down. “Where am I heading?”

Mel’s eyes glistened. “To the New York Yankees.”

Greg sat motionless. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. From what I hear they’re probably going to need you at second tomorrow. Your plane to LaGuardia leaves in…just about two hours.”

Greg rose to his feet, trying to hold back tears as he gripped his coach’s hand and shook it. He pulled him into a big hug.

“Congratulations, son. You better hustle.”

When Greg stepped back out into the hallway, he had a moment, just a moment, where he thought about one of the few times he had played catch with his old man. He could hear his laugh, smell the leather, feel the pop as the baseball snapped into his mitt.

“I made it, Dad,” he whispered, getting choked up. It didn’t take long for his teammates to see him, whisk him into the locker room, and give him an impromptu beer bath – cheering all the while.

Then it was a blur: a quick shower, packing some bags, and hitting the road, speeding toward the airport.

He could hardly see through the tears that streamed down his cheeks. He could hardly hear over the sound of the radio blasting, or over his own singing – his own laughter.

On and on he drove into the warm summer night.  

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Thank you so much for reading “Big Leaguer” — I hope you enjoyed it.

If you have a minute, tell me your favorite baseball story or memory.

Have a great week!

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