Long Ball(9)

“Ha ha.” I wave them off and collapse on the bench with a fist full of sunflower seeds and a brain full of fuzz.

What they don’t know, what they’ll never know, is how being with a woman is like drugs to my system. When I’m in love, it’s like I’m high all the time. Some of the guys on the team, not that I’d ever name names (cough, Knickers, cough) have an issue with drugs. Some may just chill out with off day weed, no big deal, but a few others really let loose in the off season with shit that gets out of control.

When your life lacks privacy, you constantly search for something to make you forget it, for something that can give you that next great high. Baseball isn’t enough. Our love of the game is quickly overshadowed by endorsements and contracts and fan obligations and a bunch of guys in suits who always demand more, more, more. End the year with a .280 batting average? Why can’t you hit .300? Silver bat nominee? Next year: win it.

It’s stressful. It’s chaotic. You can only love something for so long before it turns into a job. Once, when I was a kid, I met this older couple at the resort. They worked at Disney World, which was the mecca to all us poor country kids in South America. Mickey Mouse! Pluto! I followed them around everywhere, desperate for some little drop of magic.

Before they left, the old man told me that no matter how magical Disney World was, after a while, it was just another job that caused stress, and that it took leaving and going back for him to remember how much he actually loved it. “Don’t ever let work kill your desire for something,” the man told me. “Everything is ‘just a job,’ but it’s up to you to love it through the hard patches.”

I’ve loved baseball since I was shorter than a bat. It’s my life. But it’s also my job. Much as I try, the pressures of being a major leaguer are often too much to keep that excitement alive. So we look for other things.

My other thing just happens to be falling in love, even when I know it’s inevitably going to end in heartbreak. When I’ve got someone waiting for me, I run faster, hit harder, field better. I don’t need steroids because I’ve got a woman. I’ve got love. It’s cheesy, maybe, and something I’d never tell the guys, except maybe Kemp...maybe. I’ve sworn off of it more than once, but I can’t stay away for long. I miss it. I crave it.

I didn’t have this issue in the minors. No one cares about AAA ball clubs and players. We’re nobodies. We’re chasing a dream never likely to come true. Do you know how many careers start and end in the minors? A lot. A whole lot.

But the majors, Jesus. You get the money, the cars, the fame. You get the baseball cards and the autograph sessions. You get the interviews. Everyone wants you on their fantasy team. Every girl wants to brag about touching someone famous. It’s a great way to meet girls in bars.

It never lasts. The fa?ade with these girls burns out hot and fast. They’re just in it for the money and the fame. They use you for expensive dinners and bottle service at clubs. God forbid you hit a batting slump, and suddenly they are looking to jump ship with someone on a hot streak.

It’s never felt right after those first few dates. I get the high, I play the game, and I crash. Hard. I’m tired of it. I want the real thing that lasts. I want my blood pumping all the time, not just a quick hit like an addict.

If I’m being real, what I want is what my grandparents have. I grew up on my abuelita’s stories about how my abuelo wooed her. They have the most classic love story in the world, the kind of thing Hollywood should write movies around.

She said sparks flew from the moment they met, and she knew. She knew she would be Sra Bonilla for the rest of her life. My abuelita worked in a little café near the university. She wanted to go to school, to make something of herself. After the first time my abuelito laid eyes on her, he returned every day, sitting in her section, and just watching her. He didn’t say anything at first; just came, ate, and left. The next day, he’d start asking for her section, but never saying a word. He just watched her serve coffee and golfeados with a smile.

My abuelita said everyone knew why he was there, even if he didn’t say a word. She started picking up extra shifts, just so she would never miss a day where he might come in and sit in her section.

Finally, after four days of this, he brought her orchids and asked her to join him for a coffee. Her manager made her sit because she was so nervous. They stayed there for hours, talking about everything under the stars—their families, their dreams, how many kids they wanted. She said it was magic. They stayed until the café closed and they were kicked out.

The next day, my abuelito was back with more orchids. He arranged with her manager to have the day off, and he took her around the entire city. They ate empanadas and drank coconut milk and played tourist in their home town. My abuelita was balancing on the edge of a fountain to show off, and she tripped, spraining her ankle so badly that she couldn’t walk. My abuelito ripped off his shirt and used it as a bandage to wrap her ankle before carrying her the mile back to her house.

She didn’t see him for two days after that. She was convinced she ran him off with her brazen behavior and the accident, and she cried the whole time. She thought she’d lost her soulmate.

Until her next shift at the café, where she hobbled around on her sore ankle. My abuelito came in with more orchids, dropped to his knees, and begged her to marry him. He said he couldn’t stop thinking about her from the moment he bought her home, and knew in his heart he couldn’t spend another day without her.