Chapter 2 #

Elliott

“So wait, who was the girl who was yelling at you last night?” My roommate Jack asks as he pours himself a protein shake out of the blender.

“Which one?” Luis laughs, shaking his head.

I adjust my barstool next to him at our kitchen counter. “Laugh all you want,” I say. “But she’s our neighbour. If I’m in the doghouse, we as a collective are all in the doghouse.”

“Oh, no.” Luis’s eyes grow wide with fear. “You cannot date our neighbour. Please tell me you didn’t hook up with her?” Out of all the guys on the team, he’s the one who’s had my back the most this past year, so I can’t blame him for his concern. A mistake for me is a mistake for everyone, and if there’s one thing that’s actually off limits, it’s a repeat of last year.

“What happened to your ‘no dating’ pact?” Jack raises his eyebrows at me.

“Nothing is going on with her or any girl for that matter,” I clarify. “Nor is there going to be. As long as I’m playing baseball, dating will not be in my vocabulary. Our neighbour was pissed because of the party.”

If anything, last night’s party reinforced the reason I took a break from dating. It was full of mutual friends, including many single girls. As tempting as it would be to hook up with one, I know myself, and I’ve never been great at keeping things casual. I actually like being in a relationship. Or at least I used to before the last one almost ruined me.

“First of all, that was a very generous surprise party I threw for you,” Jack says. “Second of all, we shut that thing down by midnight.” When Jack was fourteen, he was sent from his home in Japan to boarding school on Vancouver Island where they had nine-thirty bedtimes with supervised check-ins. The early bedtime habit is something that’s stuck with him for the most part, so if a Jack Yoshida pre-season party bothers our new neighbour, then I don’t even want to know what kind of wrath awaits us if we ever come back to celebrate after a big win. The whole point of us getting this house together was so we could have a few fun nights throughout the season instead of living in a nice condo building and bothering even more people. It’s just my luck we’d end up next to the one person in downtown Toronto who cares about noise.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know she was even more pissed at you for opening up her things.”

“I told you not to do that,” Luis mumbles. Even though he’s only been on the team for two years, he’s been in the MLB for almost six and has taken on the role of big brother not just to me, but to most of the people in his life. He says it comes naturally to him, having grown up the oldest of five and the main caretaker for his siblings.

“That jacket was sick,” Jack says. “I got at least ten compliments on it before you made me take it off. Besides, it was literally Falcons' colours. What was I supposed to think?”

To be fair, I can’t blame Jack for mistaking Tessa’s jacket for merch. Abstract designs mixed with trees and flowers were painted onto the faded denim in forest green and beige - our team colours. Aside from the fact that none of our stuff would ever look that artsy, I’d probably have thought the same if I were him.

“Does she live in that place by herself?” Luis asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “All I know is that she was very pissed and very rude. She called me an asshole.”

“Oh shit.” Jack points a finger towards my chest. “Usually that’s what girls call me!”

“Why don’t I go over this week and introduce myself?” Luis suggests. “Make a better second impression and try to smooth things over on our behalf, you know?”

It’s not a bad idea, given it means I don’t have to be the one to engage with Tessa again, and Luis can probably do a much better job of keeping the peace than I can. At this point, I just want to forget about the interaction. I don’t need any distractions, good or bad. And based on the way last night went, there’s no way more time with her could end in anything good.

“Yeah, I’m cool with that.”

“I can come with you,” Jack tells Luis. “If she has hot roommates, no way am I letting you take dibs.”

“THAT’S NOT HAPPENING!” Luis and I both say unanimously.

My phone pings with a reminder that it’s time for me to head out. Practice doesn’t start for a couple of hours, but I have therapy, which was a condition of my staying on the team. The goal when I started was for it to help manage my anxiety. So far, seeing no progress is causing me even more anxiety. The issue with panic attacks is that you can’t know if the work you’re doing is paying off until the moment one comes at you. To me, the best strategy seems like lying low. If I can avoid drama, I can prevent a panic attack. And if I can do that, we might have an actual chance at making it to the playoffs again.

“Anyways, I’ve gotta get going.”

“Therapy?” Jack asks. “I’ve been meaning to ask how that’s been for you.”

Luis looks up. He was the one who spoke to Coach Nadeau about keeping me on the team. He convinced him that with a bit of therapy, my panic attacks wouldn’t interfere with a game again. That’s why even on days like today, where I feel like I’m doubting it, I have no choice but to show up. Playing baseball is all I ever wanted, and now that I’ve made it this far, I have to live up to my potential. I don’t even care about winning anymore so much as just not failing, which makes me feel even worse because going out there and playing my best never used to be an obstacle.

“It’s been fine,” I lie, ignoring eye contact with Luis, who I know will catch me out if I linger much longer. “Making lots of progress.” I stop myself there because the fib is already big enough. Yes, I’ve been showing up, but truth be told, I’m not entirely sold on therapy at this point. I’ve given it my best shot, but the reality is, I feel like the exact person I was a few months ago.

I can feel Luis’s eyes on me. “Just give it time,” he nods. “It’s all going to work out.”

“Of course it’s going to work out,” Jack says. “He has some of the best post-season batting stats.”

Yeah, if you leave out the most important game of the season and disappointing everyone in Canada, I’m a real star.

“Thanks, guys,” I say. “I’ll see you later.”

For all his joking, Jack still has my back just like the other guys on the team. The only silver lining to my downfall last year is that it revealed who my real friends were. To my surprise, no one ever made me feel bad about myself. They came together to try to figure out ways to help.

Unlike me, when Jack was recruited to join the Sky Falcons, his was one of many offers, and he was being pulled in every direction. He could have stayed in California and been closer to his college friends, but despite hating the cold, he still chose to play for Toronto. He says that the first afternoon he spent with the team, he knew these were his people and that at the end of the day, the winners are the ones who have the most heart in them.

I throw on a toque and my black wool coat, followed by my headphones, before heading out the door. We were supposed to pick our walkout songs by last week, but I still haven’t settled on one. Last year, I went with Sweet Child O’ Mine, but only because it’s my mom’s favourite. Even the pressure of choosing the right song that won’t even play for more than fifteen seconds seems bigger this year. Every move I make ends with me picturing the worst-case scenario, and I still can’t seem to shake the image of seeing Ana up on the screen with that guy.

For now, I put on a playlist Jack made me in an attempt to help, but it’s basically just a mix of Taylor Swift, Sabrina Carpenter and Chappell Roan. It may capture his pop-loving personality, but it couldn’t be further from mine. I’ve always been the type to throw on a mix of mellow music, most of which doesn’t really translate to hyping people up before a big game.

I pass by the house where Tessa lives. Our interaction last night is just another example of me trying to do the right thing and ending up getting shit on as a result of it. But it’s probably better if she hates me. Hate means she won’t be bothering me, and as much as I'd like to ignore it, she’s hard to look away from. Even her ratty, stain-covered sweatsuit couldn’t take away from her deep, hazel eyes. The image of blonde curls bouncing in her ponytail as she stormed off has lingered in my head since last night. Clearly, my type is girls who want nothing to do with me, which is probably something else I should chat to my therapist about.

I force myself to stay present for the walk. This route is one of my favourites in the city, and no matter how chaotic life gets, it’s the one part of my routine that I always look forward to and well worth the detour to the Stadium. Sometimes I think the walk is more healing than the therapy itself. Lord knows it would definitely be easier on my wallet.

I take a shortcut through Trinity Bellwoods Park, where I can finally see some of the grass peeking out through the half-melted snow. It makes me even more grateful to have spent the last few months at training camp in Florida, but no matter the weather, nothing beats being back home near my mom and sisters. Carley, my middle sister, won’t be back in the city until she comes home next month for Easter, but even at that, she’s less than a three-hour drive away. She’s studying media and communications at Western University, which means she can still come in for games, as she not-so-politely demanded tickets for last week. Contrary to our entire childhood, I suddenly became cool to her last year when I made it to the big leagues.

She’s probably the one person whose excitement for the sport grew despite my epic failure. Her take is that she has the best time out of anyone because she couldn’t care less who wins or loses. I wish I could think that way, but unfortunately, I’d be out of a career if I adopted her ‘I just hope both teams have fun’ mentality.

The park’s path leads me to Dundas Street. It’s early enough that the traffic is light and the sidewalks are quiet. My time of wandering around unrecognized went from abundant to rare after last year, which is why I wear my cap extra low these days. Anytime I get approached, tension builds inside of me until I know what’s coming out of the other person’s mouth. Sometimes it’s a friendly local with a ‘I’m so glad you’re on the team’, but other days it’s a ‘sucks about last year, man’. And that’s one of the nicer ones.

I make it to Laurie’s with a minute to spare. Her office is in a modest two-story walk-up that’s shared with a few other colleagues in her practice. The warm yellow walls feel a bit cheesy to me, as if they’re trying to force happiness on everyone who comes in here. If it were that easy, none of us would be here to begin with. Until I can look up at the scoreboard at the World Series and see a win for the Sky Falcons, I can’t be happy. But apparently, this is the key to that happening.

The door to her office creaks open. “Come on in,” she says. Her steady voice is so consistent, I still haven’t been able to figure out if she even likes me or not. I mean, I know that’s not the point, but I’d ideally like the person whom I’m spending multiple hours a month with to at least find me tolerable.

After all, I do like her. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s in her mid-forties. There are photos on her desk of her and her husband on their wedding day, as well as two young children whose copper hair is identical to hers. She’s closer to my mom’s age, but somehow feels more like a big sister or an aunt. So far, she’s been a unique combination of firm and understanding. Always challenging me when I express doubts about being there, but never in a way that exerts judgment or malice.

“How does it feel to be back in town?” She asks once I’ve settled into the brown leather sofa. It’s been worn in enough to feel comfortable, but not so much that it feels gross. Truth be told, the sofa might actually be my favourite part about coming here.

“I mean, I just got back a few days ago,” I say. “Not much has happened yet. The home opener isn’t until tomorrow.”

“That’s got to be weighing on you.” Laurie crosses one leg over the other. I normally feel underdressed compared to her, but today she’s donning jeans with her blazer. “Have you tried any of the strategies we talked about last week?”

I bite my lip, contemplating whether or not I should fess up to the fact that I wasn’t into any of them. Breathing extra deep through my diaphragm feels pointless considering I’m pretty sure I already do that. Or at least, I do it anytime I don’t have an anxiety attack coming on. And don’t even get me started on this 5-4-3-2-1 crap. After trying to name everything I can see, touch, smell and feel, I can confirm I felt no different.

“I did,” I say. “But I don’t think those things are for me. It doesn’t feel…” I bite my lip, steering my glance away from her.

“You can be honest,” she says. “If you aren’t, then I can’t help you.”

“To be honest,” I say. “It feels kind of pointless.”

“How so?”

“I mean, I’m not…doing anything.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” she smiles. “Not everything in life has to be about accomplishing something. The goal of these exercises is to add to your toolkit, so you have a strategy the next time a panic attack comes up. But it’s been two months now, so if you really don’t feel like those methods are for you, we can come up with some other ideas.”

“That would be great,” I say as I breathe out a sigh of relief. “I’d almost rather relive last year’s World Series than make one more list about my ‘triggers’ or ‘allocating worrying time’.”

Her sideways glance is a reminder that I did say the last part out loud. “Sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t trying to insult your profession.”

“It’s fine,” she smiles. “And I think I have a good idea of what might work for you. You need to feel a sense of accomplishment, which I shouldn't be surprised about given your career."

Phrasing it in that way begins to make sense. The other strategies felt pointless because I had nothing to show for. Like she had told me in past sessions, there’s no way I can know if they're working until I’m in the middle of a stressful moment. At least if I have something to help keep the momentum up, I’ll be able to make it to that point.

“Have you ever tried knitting?”

I let out a laugh. One of my favourite parts of our sessions is the odd time one of us will make a joke. During my first visit when I was even more resistant, it was us cracking up at texts from my family group chat that made the idea of coming back feel like less of a chore.

This time, however, Laurie isn’t laughing.

“You’re not actually serious, are you?”

“I am,” she insists. “And before you disregard my professional advice, let me explain. Knitting is meditative and is proven to help quiet the brain and block out stressors and negative thought patterns. Not unlike baseball, you’re using your hands to work towards a goal that will bring you a sense of accomplishment. It might actually be perfect for you. ”

I take in her words as I weigh my options. “But isn’t knitting for old people?”

“I don’t think any hobby should be restricted to one group of people. Isn’t that like saying women can’t play sports or adults can’t go jumping on a bouncy castle?”

Last week, I remember telling Laurie about how I got into baseball. My mom grew up playing, but by the time she was in high school and realized how much sexism existed in the sport, she gave up any dream of playing it professionally. Instead, she decided to coach junior teams in her spare time. She taught me everything I know, and most importantly, that gender and societal norms mean nothing when it comes to who is capable of succeeding.

I hate when Laurie uses my own words against me, especially when they’re the reason she wins the debate.

“I guess you have a point,” I say. “I just want it on the record, though, that I am not going to be good at this.”

“That’s the best part,” she says. “You’re not supposed to be good at it.”

We spend the rest of our time talking about how I feel going into the season, and when I have to go over everything, it makes me wish we were still talking about knitting. What I omit from our session is how it will be a miracle for Coach Nadeau to play me at the home opener, and I really can’t blame him. If I screw up, it’s going to look horribly not just to him, but to the team.

She lets me know that we can move my session to an earlier day next week, depending on how I feel after the game and then proceeds to write down a few websites and stores where I can pick up knitting supplies.

“There’s really nothing else you can think of?”

“That’s not what I said,” Laurie says as she hands me the paper. “I said, knitting would be a great fit for you. Everyone is different, Elliott.”

“I can just already picture the shit I’m going to get if any of the guys find out about this,” I say. “I have to be the biggest loser if the only thing that can save my career is a pair of needles and yarn.”

“Maybe you should think of it as being the only player who was worth taking a second chance on? What was it you said earlier?”

“That most players would never be let back after what I pulled?”

“Exactly,” she says. “Which probably means you have to be twice as good for them to take a second chance. Remember that.”

I nod. “Thanks, Laurie.”

“I’ll see you next week,” she says. “Until then. Keep calm, and carry on.”

As I push myself up from the couch she adds, “Or should I say…carry yarn?”

I shake my head at the absurdity of the situation. I may be doubtful about therapy. And I sure as hell am doubtful about Laurie’s latest strategy. But if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I have to be the first player in the history of Major League Baseball whose career depends on the act of knitting.

In other words, I’m quite literally hanging by a thread.