Jack packed up his equipment as the sun began to set, having cleaned his glove and spikes after dinner, then stuffed the bag on a shelf in the garage.
Maybe one day he’d dig out his mitt, have it sealed inside a cube of plastic or something dumb like that. Then he could put it on a shelf in his den, along with the trophies, plaques, his uniform, a few balls, and whatever else he kept now in his condo, and stand around, beer can in hand, talking about the good old days with a bunch of pals who’d stopped in to watch a game on the tube.
But not just yet.
Still, he felt all right. It was amazing, more than shocking, but he really did feel all right. He’d given it his best shot and it hadn’t worked.
So okay. So it was over. Hey, he’d had a good run. A great run.
He was going to be all right.
Right after he called Mort.
Jack pulled the cell phone from the front seat of his car and punched in the code that dialed his agent’s cell phone.
“What?” Mort yelled into the phone a few moments later. To Mort, cell phones were tin cans with long, invisible strings on them, and to be heard, he knew he needed to shout.
“Mort, it’s me, Jack.”
“I’m not talking to you, kid,” Mort Mortimer said, then proceeded to make a liar out of himself. “You turned it down? You don’t turn stuff down, boy. I turn offers down, and then I let them swing in the breeze a little, so they come back with a better number. Then we say yes. And the only reason I’m talking to you now is because they already came back. Five million for two years. Chicken feed, I grant you, but better than I’d hoped. Plus a signing bonus, and another one if you help them get to their version of the series. They yelled, they screamed, they moaned and groaned, but I kept squeezing until I got ’em. Your contract with the Yanks is done as of July one anyway, so there’s no problem there. Now all we need to do is see the contracts and it’s Sayonara, Uncle Sam; hello, Tokyo.”
“I don’t want it,” Jack told his agent as he slammed the door of his car and began climbing the sloping hill toward the back of the house. The sun was lighting up the entire rear of the house, glinting off the water in the pool. A great big chunk of the world would give its right arm to live in this house. Hell, he had given his right arm to live in this house.
An unexpected calm enveloped him, and he actually felt a new spring in his step. His arm still hurt like a bitch, but it would feel better tomorrow, and feel even better the day after that.
“Jack? Jack?” Jack took the phone away from his ear; Mort was really in full throat now. “Jack? I didn’t hear you. I mean, I couldn’t have heard you, could I? Jack! You can’t turn this down. Nobody turns down five million dollars! Damn it, Jack—talk to me!”
“See you in Arizona next week, Mort. Fax me the particulars. Oh, and the Corvette? I want a red one.” Jack flipped the phone shut and kept walking.