The Gift

CHAPTER 3

In practice the next day, Skeeter grabbed Tommy in the bullpen and ushered him to the mound, sidestepping the puddles from an early morning rain.

“Throw a few pitches for me,” he suggested. “Bucky, come on over here and catch Tommy.”

George “Bucky” Beavers hustled his stocky body over and squatted behind home plate. Skeeter watched silently with arms crossed as Tommy threw three fastballs and a pair of curveballs to the plate. “Curveball’s not bad, but lawd we gotta do something about that heater,” Skeeter commented.

For the next half hour, Skeeter adjusted Tommy’s arm angle, release point, and the length of his stride, digging into his bag of pitching tricks designed to add up to ten miles per hour to a lazy fastball. They got mixed results. While the pitch may have gained a little speed, it was also harder for Tommy to control. Bucky blocked balls in the dirt and let several fly past him, nowhere near home plate.

Through the catcher’s body language, Tommy could tell that Bucky was losing interest. He grew more and more lackadaisical in his efforts to glove the deliveries. That lack of enthusiasm infected Skeeter as well.

“Keep working on it,” Skeeter said before departing for greener pastures.

“I gotta take batting practice soon,” Bucky said, minutes after the pitching coach had left. “Maybe you can find another guy to catch you. If not, you can grab me after BP.”

Tommy grabbed him by the shirt before he could leave. “Bucky, what do you think I should do? Any advice?”

“Try steroids.” Bucky smiled playfully before departing.

There were no other catchers around, just pitchers. Tommy shrugged in frustration and went to shag fly balls in the outfield. The bullpen session seemed like a complete waste of time. It was even a step backward.

In his three-year professional baseball career, he’d never felt so low.

When practice ended, Tommy mounted his bike for the ride back to the “broom closet.” He passed a statue in the square of Little Richard, the Macon native who was one of the architects of rock ’n roll, and he thought about getting something to eat at Subway but kept riding instead. After the late-night pancakes, he didn’t even have money for a lousy sandwich.

However, an office with the words “Career Counseling” stenciled on the door brought him to a quick stop. Why not check it out?

He opened the door and found a middle-aged lady in office attire locking a file cabinet. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Uh, yes ma’am. I just want to ask you a couple of questions if it’s all right?”

The lady glanced up at the clock on the wall, which read 4:55 p.m. She placed her keys down on her desk.

“Sure, why don’t you have a seat,” she said with a smile. “My name’s Janice Meadows. And you?”

“Tommy. Tommy Browning.”

“Are you currently employed, Mr. Browning?”

“Right now I am, but that could change at any time,” he replied, lowering his head. “I play for the Peaches.”

“I see,” she said with a slight chuckle. “You’re not alone. I see ballplayers come into my office all the time. I know it can be a fragile career.”

“Yeah, there’s not a lot of job security.”

“Well, I don’t want to crush your dreams, but if you’re looking for a new career, I might be able to steer you in the right direction. Do you have a high school or college diploma?”

“Just high school. I signed when I was eighteen and went straight to the minor leagues.”

“Is that so,” she said in a sympathetic voice. “Well, what could you see yourself doing outside of baseball?”

“I don’t know. I’ve done some substitute teaching. Maybe I could teach full time.”

“You could do that,” Miss Meadows said. “But the state of Georgia requires a teaching certificate, which usually entails college credit hours. However, there are alternate routes to certification that attract candidates based on related experience. What would you like to teach?”

Tommy gave her a puzzled look. “I really don’t know.”

“How about going into coaching?”

“That could work,” he replied. He was pleased to have at least one viable option.

Then came the damper. “Some schools prefer their coaches to also be Phys-Ed teachers at the school, but not all.”

There was a moment of silence as Tommy weighed his options, before the counselor looked up at the clock and ushered the conversation to a close. “Why don’t you contact the Georgia Department of Education to find out more about teaching or coaching?”

Tommy got up from his chair, thanked Miss Meadows for her time, and slid toward the door.

“Stop back in if you would like to talk some more and we can make an appointment,” she said. “In the meantime, I hope your baseball career takes off.”