Page 34 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
“You might want to be . . .” He trails off like he’s searching for the word.
“Be what?” I bite out.
“More outspoken,” he says.
That’s odd. “About what? What kind of sponsors want me to be more outspoken? On issues, you mean? You want me to write in my Twitter bio that I recycle, I support marriage equality, I like adopting shelter dogs?”
“All good causes, but not exactly what I had in mind. I mean, talk to the press more. You’re kind of the king of ‘no comment,’ Kingsley.”
“And you damn well know why, Summers.”
“I do know why. But it’s good when the watchmaker or the dog food company or the sneaker maker sees you talking to the media. Even platitudes like ‘It was a great game’ or ‘I’m just happy to be here.’ That’s literally all you have to do.”
“And when they turn that into ‘My mom snorts lines with her latte every Thursday night,’ what should I do then? I hate lying, so it’s easier just to say, ‘No comment.’”
“Just try. Try saying something about playing. About loving baseball.”
“Talking to the press is my least favorite thing to do,” I spit out. The memory of the Seattle hatchet job still stings.
“But is it really? You’d rather, say, have your balls waxed than talk to the press? You’d rather do sprinting drills, burpees, bear crawls?”
“Yes, to all four.”
Josh laughs. “You are a special kind of ornery. Think about it, Holden. Just think about it.”
“I will,” I tell Josh, then end the call.
I wasn’t always ornery when talking to the media.
I was the opposite.
But I don’t think about the press when I head into the gym to hit the weights.
Instead, I work on word games in my head. I toss out a six-letter word, and I make as many combos as I can while I lift.
I like to work my mind at the same time as I train my body. It’s one of the tricks and techniques I’ve perfected over the last few years. Rather than turning my mind into a blank, I ask it to work as hard as it can.
Then, when I’m at the plate, I can zero in on details like possible pitches, where they’ll land, where they might go.
Same thing applies to when I’m fielding second base.
All of that thinking helps my body and mind to work together on the diamond.
To focus all my energy on baseball.
It’s my special skill—No Distractions Holden.
The press is a distraction. So, I don’t think about it.
Later that evening, I grab some chow with Crosby before the event he talked me into attending with him. He drags along Chance too, his closing pitcher on the Cougars.
We’ve just arrived at the Legion of Honor, and Crosby has just turned his car over to the valet, when my phone rings with a call from Josh.
I answer at the speed of light. “What’s the story?”
“The manager is in, and the news is golden.”
That piques my interest. “Yeah? Who is he?”
Crosby’s eyes are wide—he can hear Josh’s end of the conversation.
“Former major league utility player. He was a minor league manager, and he’s been a sportscaster for the last few years. Great track record. Edward Thompson.”
A grin takes over my face. Something terrible just turned into something awesome. “Excellent choice.”
I thank Josh for the news, then turn to my friends. “Thompson is the guy who gave me this great piece of advice a couple of years ago when I was in Seattle. I’m indebted to him.” I scratch my jaw, amazed at the luck and coincidence. I tell Crosby and Chance about that Webflix-movie moment in the Seattle ballpark. Who’d have thought he’d wind up as my manager?
“He sounds like a Baseball Buddha,” Crosby says, unruffled as always.
“That’s exactly what he was. In thirty seconds, he knew precisely what I needed to do to improve my game.”
Chance taps his chin, his dark eyes going thoughtful. “I’d like to meet this wise man. See if he can tell me how to pick up two miles per hour on my fastball. I’d be throwing at Mach speed then.”
In a much better mood, I bound up the steps. The guys and I are hitting the tail end of the cocktail party, but that ought to be just enough socialization for me. Behind me, Crosby tells Chance, “You’d be unhittable, man,” and rubs his palms together at the prospect.
Chance raises his chin. “You mean even more unhittable. Especially if you’re Holden.” Chance shoots me a smirk. “If memory serves, aren’t you oh-and-ten against me at the plate? I threw to you when you were on the Bandits. Got you out every single at bat.”
I sneer. “I hit you once.”
“Fine. Once, but it was a tiny little piddle to first,” the confident closer says with a laugh. “I got out of the inning unscathed.”
