Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
The goddamn yips got me, and I couldn’t throw a strike to save my life. I went down hard and took my entire team with me, during the World Series.
Did you get that? The World Series.
After that, the narrative about me changed—I went from hero to head case.
“What the fuck, Shaw?”
“Why can’t you just throw the ball?”
“Are you injured?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Is it because of your mother?”
“Is it because of your father?”
“Is your jock strap too tight?”
“No comment,” I repeated over and over to the sports reporters greedy for the scoop.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I said to the pushy cameramen jostling for the shot.
“Just leave me alone,” I said to teammates who offered to play catch where no one would see. “I’ll fucking figure it out.”
And I’d tried. Every single day, all I’d wanted was to wake up from the nightmare and feel like myself again—I wanted my arm back, not this alien stone limb attached to my body at the shoulder that wouldn’t do what I told it to.
But it never came back. My pitching career was over.
Which meant my life was over.
Humiliated and pissed off, I quit baseball and spent most of my time hiding out in a cabin I bought in the mountains, brooding about what the fuck I was supposed to do with the rest of my life. I had money, sure, but I also had time stretching out like a fucking eternity ahead of me. I wasn’t even forty yet.
Then, as if the universe hadn’t crushed me hard enough, that damn documentary came out, the one about stellar sports careers that ended because of mental breakdowns, and the spectacular implosion of my career was plastered all over the media again. Not a day went by when some jackass didn’t see fit to give me his opinion on what I’d done wrong, what I should do to fix it, or just generally tell me I sucked.
People. I wasn’t a fan.
“Tyler Shaw?” The guy at the car rental desk looked down at my driver’s license and then up at my face.
“Yeah?” From beneath the brim of my cap, I gave him my meanest stare, the one I used to give batters before throwing a fastball right by them.
He turned his attention to his monitor. “And you’re renting . . . an Elite Luxury SUV for five days? Returning on Sunday?”
“Yeah.” I relaxed a little. This guy didn’t recognize me. He was just doing his job.
“Great. Just give me one minute.”
“No problem.”
His fingers tapped away on his keyboard for about fifteen seconds. And then, “You’re not the pitcher Tyler Shaw, are you?”
“Yeah,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Oh, shit.” The guy shook his head. “I saw you play all the time in high school. I was only in Little League back then, but my brother and I used to go to all your games. You were amazing.”
Were. “Thanks.”
“We just saw that documentary about you. Brutal, man.”
“Can we just finish up with the rental please?”
“Oh, sure. Sure.” He went back to typing again, but kept talking. “It’s just so crazy, you know? One minute you’re, like, one of the greatest pitchers in the game, and the next minute, it’s all gone.”
“Yup.”
“I mean, what happened?”
My hands curled into fists. My left eyelid twitched. “Wish I could tell you, buddy.”
“Seriously, that had to suck so bad.”
Fighting for control of my temper, I took a breath. “Look, do you need me to sign something? I’m in kind of a hurry.” Actually, I wasn’t—I didn’t have to be anywhere until six o’clock and it was barely four, but fuck this guy.
“Yeah, it’s printing now.” He gave his keyboard a final tap and looked at me again. “Did you ever try meditation? That worked for my mom when she kept forgetting where she put her car keys.”
I glowered at him. Steve, his name tag said. “Yes, Steve. I tried meditation. And I tried tapping and hypnosis and psychoanalysis and cognitive behavioral therapy and celibacy and Jesus. Nothing worked. I didn’t forget how to pitch—I just can’t do it anymore. Now, I’m happy for your mom, but right now I’d really like you to mind your own fucking business and give me a set of car keys so I can get the hell out of here!”
Steve looked offended. “Geez. Maybe you should try anger management.”
I backed away from the counter so I wasn’t tempted to throw a punch. “I’ll be outside.”
“Tyler!”
The second I walked into Hop Lot Brewing Co., I heard my name. I took off my sunglasses and saw my little sister Sadie rushing toward me. When she reached me, she threw her arms around my neck and held on tight.
Although we didn’t see each other often enough, my sister was the most constant presence in my life, the most supportive, the most loyal. She could read me better than anyone, even over the phone, which was both annoying and reassuring. I’d been fiercely protective of her since the day she was born, and she’d idolized me. We’d lost our mom in a car accident while Sadie was still in diapers, and we’d lost our dad to pancreatic cancer eight years ago, so she was the only family I had left.