Page 34 of Out of Left Field

“Nothing. Just…I’m tired of feeling like I’m directing a play that’s already written by somebody else. There’s no feel for the game.”

Gordo pushed off the ground again, sending the chair over to my desk, and put his feet up. “So do it your way.”

“I’m not Stirling. I’m not going to abandon what’s working.”

“Using someone else’s playbook isn’t going to work either, boss. You don’t become great by copying. You become great by blazing new trails. And those guys out there? They can be great. Again. In a new way.”

It was weird to see a system that works and not know how to implement it. But Gordo was right too. I wasn’t Rookie of the Year because I was just like every other outfielder to come before me. “So what do you suggest?”

“Trust your gut. Like you used to.”

Gordo and I played together in college. I got drafted and he moved into coaching. He molded and mentored these players better than anyone, including me. “Like I used to, huh? The old Anson instincts?”

He shrugged. “I’m talking about on the field, Anson. No one wants or needs another of your last second road trips.” With a swipe of his hand we both remembered and then promptly forgot the summer of junior year and the road trip that shall remain nameless.

“Here’s my problem: it’s too much. I look at this shit and I know it’s important, but once I go out on that field, my instincts kick in. I want to believe I can go with my gut knowing all that data is sloshing around in the background, but the fact that those stats are sitting around, full of good info, that I might be ignoring, is killing me.”

“You need a nerd.”

I balked. Gordo was the last person I would have expected to use a word like that.

He shook his head and waved at me. “Don’t do that. It’s what they call themselves on the third floor. I didn’t make it up.”

“The research room?”

He nodded. “I personally call them the Big Brain Bandits.”

“Can I have one?”

“We have a Mental Performance coach.”

And Liam was damn good at his job. But it never occurred to me to appoint someone as my mental assistant. “Gordo, you are a very smart man.”

“Just doing my job.” Nothing usually phased Gordo, so it was extra shocking when he jumped out of his seat as Nathan Baker, the assistant hitting coach, came flying through the office door.

“He’s here!”

“Who’s here?” Gordo swept his hands down his clothes, attempting to right them.

“Eli Stirling!”

At first I didn’t react. Stirling wasn’t a phenomenon to me anymore. If anything he was a thorn in my side. But since he got my players signed I decided to stay out of his way. Until I heard her voice.

“It’s not the end of the world to admit you don’t know something,” Kate said. Probably to Stirling.

And then the man filled my doorway. He wore a suit, like always. A contrast to the t-shirt and warm-up pants Gordo, Nate, and I wore. Then right behind him came Kate. She wore what seemed to be her work uniform of a t-shirt and blazer, jeans, and sneakers.

Suddenly I was all reactions. My heart rate shot up as did my excitement level. I didn’t think we’d see each other until Loretta’s, but now, thanks to Stirling, she was here. In my office.

“Anson!” He said, hands stretched out wide as he took in my bare office. “How’s my team?”

Kate rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth.

It made me smile. “Coming along.”

“Have we cleared up third base?” He began strolling, examining the bare walls and furniture.

“Not yet.”