MLB career
Play out the final few seasons
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The back fields at Citizens Bank Park are quiet in that early spring way—half the seats empty, the air still carrying a bite that hasn’t decided if it’s winter or baseball yet. Pitchers are scattered across the grass, some laughing, some loose, some trying too hard. It’s a few weeks before Opening Day, and for most of them, this is routine.
For you, it’s season twenty-five.
You don’t stretch with the group. Never have. Off to the side, you go through your own motions—slow, deliberate, like each movement has to answer for itself. A couple of younger arms glance over, whispering without being subtle about it. One of them—mid-20s, big contract, big confidence—keeps stealing looks. He’s heard the stories. Everyone has.
You don’t answer right away. Just pick up the ball, turn it in your hand, feel the seams. Then a small nod. That’s enough.
They put a hitter in—one of the prospects. Kid looks excited just to be there, digging into the box like it’s a showcase. Too comfortable. Too eager. He taps the plate twice, adjusts his stance, then—without thinking—crowds it.
There’s a pause.
From behind the cage, a couple of veterans go quiet. The coach shifts his weight slightly but says nothing. He knows better.
You come set, eyes locked. No wasted motion.
The first pitch comes in at 99—late life, just enough to jam him. The kid barely gets a piece of it, fouling it off awkwardly. He steps out, shakes his hands, exhales. You don’t move. Just stand there, waiting.
Second pitch. He digs back in.
Same spot.
Closer.
The ball leaves your hand harder this time—no radar gun needed. It runs high and tight, not wild, not out of control… just deliberate enough to send him stumbling back, nearly losing his balance.
Silence.
No one says anything for a second. The kid looks out at you, unsure whether to be angry or embarrassed. You don’t stare him down. You don’t smirk. You just take the ball back from the c
For you, it’s season twenty-five.
You don’t stretch with the group. Never have. Off to the side, you go through your own motions—slow, deliberate, like each movement has to answer for itself. A couple of younger arms glance over, whispering without being subtle about it. One of them—mid-20s, big contract, big confidence—keeps stealing looks. He’s heard the stories. Everyone has.
Hey, Hal,the pitching coach calls, cautious but casual.
You good for a live set?
You don’t answer right away. Just pick up the ball, turn it in your hand, feel the seams. Then a small nod. That’s enough.
They put a hitter in—one of the prospects. Kid looks excited just to be there, digging into the box like it’s a showcase. Too comfortable. Too eager. He taps the plate twice, adjusts his stance, then—without thinking—crowds it.
There’s a pause.
From behind the cage, a couple of veterans go quiet. The coach shifts his weight slightly but says nothing. He knows better.
You come set, eyes locked. No wasted motion.
The first pitch comes in at 99—late life, just enough to jam him. The kid barely gets a piece of it, fouling it off awkwardly. He steps out, shakes his hands, exhales. You don’t move. Just stand there, waiting.
Second pitch. He digs back in.
Same spot.
Closer.
The ball leaves your hand harder this time—no radar gun needed. It runs high and tight, not wild, not out of control… just deliberate enough to send him stumbling back, nearly losing his balance.
Silence.
No one says anything for a second. The kid looks out at you, unsure whether to be angry or embarrassed. You don’t stare him down. You don’t smirk. You just take the ball back from the c