10/3/2018
A stabbing pain in TJ Wilson’s right knee woke him up routinely each morning. As he slowly stretched awake, the sharp pain would gradually dissipate, giving way to a dull ache for the remainder of the day. Wilson couldn’t remember a time in his life where he didn’t wake up each morning in pain. He rolled over and grabbed the 500-count bottle of Ibuprofen that lived on his nightstand and dumped a handful out and took them without water. Letting out a grunt as the last pill went down, he blinked the sleep out of his eyes and finally looked around the studio apartment. He looked around like it was the first morning he had lived here although he had called this place home for the past two years. It was only seven in the morning, and the Adelaide Bite had a night game against the Melbourne Aces in twelve hours. The ceiling fan stirred the already hot air and Wilson was uncomfortably hot in the apartment but had nowhere to go until he trudged to the ballpark around noon.
Aiding his right knee off the side of the bed, he sat motionless, slumped over with his elbows on his knees, running his hands through his graying hair. After a few more moments, he slowly stood up and shuffled to the front door where his newspaper would be waiting for him. Sitting down at his kitchen table, Wilson went straight to the sports section.
TJ Wilson had been in Australia for the past two years. The apartment was littered with half-drunk whiskey bottles, empty Advil bottles, old newspapers, dirty dishes, and semi-dirty laundry. On every single wall was a piece of baseball memorabilia – constant little reminders of who Wilson once was. Most of the big milestones he had already donated to the Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown – home run #600, most of his Gold Glove awards – but he had kept a handful of things for himself, promising Major League Baseball that he would donate them to the museum one day when he had no more sentimental use for them. Above his mattress was the World Series plaque from seemingly a lifetime ago, back when he was a spry young third baseman with the Detroit Tigers. His kitchen housed countless Opening Day souvenir mugs from every year and every team he ever played on. Above his toilet, so he would see it every morning when he limped in to take a piss, was his Most Valuable Player award, dulled from years of neglect and lack of polishing. Throughout the rest of the studio were dozens of pictures of Wilson with former teammates, coaches, baseball legends and celebrities; with a family photo from the day he was called up for his very first Major League game in the most noticeable spot on the wall.
Tonight was the last game of the season, and potentially Wilson’s very last professional game. He had signed a two-year contract with the Bite, and over the past few weeks was growing nervous that the team wouldn’t want to make him a new offer for the next season and beyond. Well out of playoff contention, the Bite was a struggling franchise that thought bringing over a former Major League slugger would boost ticket sales. And for the first few months last season, the publicity stunt worked and people came out in droves to see Wilson hit moonshots and field grounders with surprising grace and ease for a bigger, older player. Fans watched in awe when Wilson would connect with a ball and send it into orbit like he had done for years in every city and every ballpark across America, making him a fan favorite no matter where he was playing. Wilson in his youth was just one of those players that was hard to hate. Even a rival team’s fan base couldn’t find anything to hate about the guy (except for the fact that he would perennially beat them).
The novelty of the big slugger’s presence soon wore off when Wilson’s fielding began to stagger. What once were remarkable plays in the hole or to his left towards third base were now squeaking through for singles or doubles due to Wilson’s growing knee pains. Unable to lay out for liners or make a diving stop on a grounder, the hits seemed to rack up for others while Wilson began to feel worse and worse about his performance. The moonshots that once made him the fan favorite were now routine flyball outs. To make matters worse, most of his fly outs seemed to come at the least opportune times for the Bite. The last few weeks of his first season in Adelaide saw Wilson playing first base solely to limit the damage he could do in the field. It also opened up a spot for a new, young, healthy third baseman that was eager to start playing pro ball. The plan worked for the rest of the season, and the Bite had an end-of-season push to just barely make the playoffs for the first time in four years. However, during the offseason, after getting knocked out in the first round of playoffs to the Brisbaine Bandits, Wilson asked management to go back to third. If he was going to leave the game, he’d end at the position he played his entire career, not limp to the finish line wherever the team could find a spot for him. Reluctantly, management granted his request for the final year of his contract.
This season saw Adelaide rife with injuries – not just to Wilson early in the season, but to most of the pitching staff and a few outfielders as well. The club continued to flounder as the injuries piled on and fans continued to avoid the stadium, trying hard to forget that the team even existed.
“Just bad luck,” and, “We’ll turn it around once everyone’s healthy,” were constantly heard in the clubhouse during post-game interviews. But as the long season soldiered on and players started coming back from the DL, the team’s luck never did turn around. The end of the season was finally painstakingly here for the Bite and the few remaining faithful fans.
“Boy what a way to go out, huh?” Hector Ramos, the bite’s shortstop and Wilson’s throwing partner said as they started warming up before batting practice.
“What do you mean?” Wilson grumbled, knowing exactly what Ramos was referring to.
“Last game of the season; we’ve been in the cellar all year and out of playoff contention since, what, early August? Not exactly how you thought you’d end your career is it?” Ramos casually lolipopped the ball to Wilson in a high, sweeping arc.
“We’ll see,” was his entire response, firing a bullet back at Ramos. The pop of the mitt could be heard around the field. The two teammates finished their warmups in silence.
As batting practice began, Wilson hobbled back down into the clubhouse to re-wrap his knee and guzzle down more Ibuprofen. He sat at his locker, pants around his ankles, Ace bandage swaying off his knee before wrapping it one final time. Wilson stared into his locker – bright white home jersey and pants hanging up just above his head; glove on the top shelf next to his rookie Topps card, a bottle of shaving cream and safety razor next to the baseball card. The entire locker and all its belongings seemed to be staring right back at him as he sat there, frozen in time.
He reached up and pulled down his glove. Wilson examined the entire glove as if he was seeing it for the first time. He looked at the webbing, the seams, the pocket, all the stitching that kept it together. He looked at the pocket and the worn leather that absorbed so many ground balls over the years. How many was hard to calculate. Thousands, probably. This was the only glove he had used his entire career. Bats break, cleats wear down, but the glove – that stays with you no matter who you play for. Wilson’s eyes slowly closed as he brought the worn dark brown leather up to his face and took a deep breath in. The leather aroma filled his nostrils as did the Barbosol he used to soften the pocket and break in the glove decades earlier. He took another deep breath and was in the backyard of his childhood home having a catch with his dad. He could smell the chewing tobacco, the dirt, the blood, the sweat of an entire life given to the game he grew up playing with friends from the neighborhood. One last deep breath in with the glove still shoved in his face and he saw his mother, laying out his uniform fresh from the washing machine on gameday. He was back in her car as she drove him and a few of his teammates all across the state for summer games and all day tournaments. He heard her reassuring “well, better luck tomorrow,” after suffering a tough loss. He saw the warmth in her face after a heartbreaker, and the pride in her eyes after every victory. Wilson slowly blinked open his eyes and was back in the Adelaide locker room.
Putting the glove back on the shelf for the time being, he took a look at the nameplate on his locker and thought back to the very first time he was in a Major League clubhouse. He had just gotten the call up from the minors and it was his first game with the Big League club. He remembered walking into the clubhouse for the first time not knowing exactly what he was doing there or why, out of all the veterans the team could have traded for or all the other prospects in the system, was he the one that was called up to replace the team’s beloved third baseman. He was overwhelmed with excitement, nerves, and a tinge of confidence. He wanted to take it all in and absorb every second of what was happening, but he had a game to play and it was time to prove that not only did he belong, but that he was more than capable of filling the enormous shoes of their veteran captain. What always stuck out in his mind, when he first truly felt like he was a Major Leaguer was when he saw the nameplate and his number on the locker: #25 T. Wilson. That was it. That gold nameplate with the black italic writing was proof that he was exactly where he belonged.
Looking up from his locker now, seeing the nameplate read #19 T. Wilson above his fresh white uniform reassured him that this was where he belonged, even if he was thousands of miles away from the nearest Major League stadium. No matter what level the competition, no matter what the name was on the front, “Wilson” would always be on the back. He was born to be a ballplayer and any sort of alternative life seemed so foreign and meaningless to him from the second he toed the rubber the first time in Little League.
As meaningless as it may have seemed, Wilson was slowly beginning to think of life after the game – something that had never crossed his mind before. Since he was 5 years old, this was all he ever wanted to do. And now, today, after 27 outs, it would all potentially be over.
“You gonna take some hacks or what?” Bryan Sullivan, the center fielder asked, walking into the clubhouse with sweat on his brow and his batting gloves still on. “You’re up, gramps.”
“Have someone go before me. I need to wrap my knee.”
Sullivan scoffed. “Everyone else has gone. How long have you been down here, pops?”
Wilson shook his head. “Too long.”
TJ slowly rose from the bench in front of his locker after wrapping the Ace bandage to his liking and headed back up to the field. He grabbed his bat and a stick of pine tar from the dugout before stepping in and taking his warm up swings. Like always, he bunted the first two pitches he saw even though in his entire career he had bunted a total of one time. After laying down two perfect bunts to third and first he motioned to his teammates shagging balls in the outfield that he would be swinging away.
His first swing was a high arcing fly ball that continued to carry until Ramos ran out of room at the fence and the ball ricocheted off the empty bleachers in left field. The very next swing ended in the same result. Third hack, third home run to almost the identical spot in the bleachers. Pitch after pitch, Wilson hit home run after home run. His teammates gradually stopped what they were doing to watch the old man take mammoth swing after mammoth swing. They followed the ball’s perfect arc up and out until it landed in left field about 12 rows up and no more than 4 or 5 seats apart from one another.
“Damn, maybe father time can turn back the clock tonight,” one of the pitchers said after watching the hitting display.
After 15 or 20 swings, Wilson limped out of the batter’s box and walked back into the dugout, down the stairs and back into the clubhouse. His teammates watched in awe as he lumbered out of sight looking almost disappointed in his performance.
Bill Scott, the Bite manager, was in his office when he saw Wilson slump back in front of his locker. Not letting go of the bat when he entered the dugout, he tossed it into his locker before burying his face in his hands.
“Wilson, y’alright?” Scott asked poking his head out of the office door.
TJ let out a deep sigh. “I’m fine.”
“How’d you hit BP?”
“Better’n usual.”
“Meaning…”
“Good.”
There was a brief moment of silence when Scott waited for Wilson to elaborate on “Good.” When no further response came, Scott cleared his throat and gave Wilson the news. “Listen, I’m thinking about batting you in the five-hole tonight rather than the three-spot. You’ve been slumping a little and I want to give Rochester a shot at the top of the lineup.”
Wilson stared into the abyss of his locker, his broad shoulders slumped over all but eclipsing the locker.
“That work for you?”
Wilson turned halfway around and Scott noticed for the very first time TJ’s graying beard and how exhausted his eyes looked; as if he hadn’t slept well in years. Maybe he hadn’t, Scott thought.
Rob Dulles, the Bite bench coach and Scott’s right-hand man just then came down into the locker room. “Bill, a word?” he said motioning to the office.
The two coaches left TJ to sit in front of his locker in silence. They had seen this behavior from their veteran third baseman a number of times over the past two years, so neither coach was too alarmed with his brooding, stand-offish behavior.
Wilson hadn’t always been this broody, though. For his first ten or so years of his professional career, he was the Tigers’ team clown. Whether he was playing well or slumping, or whether the team itself was hot and in the midst of a winning streak or in the throes of a skid, he would always find a way to lift up his teammates and keep the locker room light and jovial when needed. Maybe it was because right off the bat his time in the Majors was a success; coming in second place in votes for Rookie of the Year honors, being on the World Series championship Tigers his sophomore year, not to mention being a fan favorite almost from the moment he stepped into the batter’s box for the first time. Wilson had big shoes to fill in Detroit, but his electrifying smile, play on the field and overall upbeat personality when dealing with fans and writers alike almost immediately made him a favorite amongst the surging Tigers who narrowly missed the World Series the year before he started playing. For almost a decade, the big man could do no wrong in Detroit. He was on top of the world – being seen in the offseason with celebrities, famous comedians, teammates and others on the beaches from California to South Carolina – and he loved the view.
But his second decade in the Bigs proved to be a little more challenging for the burly third baseman from the mountains of Colorado. After an unprecedented “down” season where he only hit .210 and only drove in 101 RBI’s while still hammering 45 home runs, Wilson truly thought his time was up – not just in Detroit but in the league itself. Who would sign an aging slugger barely hitting over .200?
His concerns were correct, and the Tigers released him, stating to their embittered fans that the big slugger was past his prime and they couldn’t gamble on a long-term deal. Although Wilson was constantly quoted saying he’d gladly take a pay-cut to stay in Detroit for the rest of his career so he could bring a World Series championship back to the Motor City, he found himself packing his bags and leaving Michigan.
He was picked up by the A’s in the offseason where his play wasn’t terrible but it also wasn’t the TJ Wilson that once hit mammoth moonshot homers to dead-center in vast Comerica Park. Disappointed in his bottom line, the A’s did not sign him for another year and Wilson was once again a slugger without a home. He then began the “journeyman” stage of his career, bouncing from team to team when they needed a veteran presence in the lineup. With every new city, every new fanbase, every new home clubhouse, TJ’s upbeat attitude began to wane.
He never quite adjusted to his new role as hired gun, and he was playing less third base and being called upon to pinch hit or be the DH more and more. He would see new, young and eager rookies being called up and he just couldn’t bring himself to take them under his veteran wings like he used to because he knew he would be gone come October.
It was in his second year down in Texas that he made the complete transition to brooding veteran with aching knees and a short temper. In the press he would constantly blame his right knee injury on why he always came across as sour or short-tempered, but he knew it was just a front. With the Rangers well out of playoff contention at the trade deadline, they shipped Wilson back to Detroit for a handful of prospects. The Tigers found themselves in another playoff push, and TJ returned to a team that once again needed a big bat. Wilson put the team on his broad shoulders as they played unbelievable ball for the last 6 weeks of the season, making the playoffs for the first time since Wilson’s sophomore season when they won it all. But after being knocked out by the Rays (one of Wilson’s former teams) in the ALDS, Tigers management released Wilson, for good this time.
After the Tigers released TJ, he knew his career in the Bigs was through. Returning to Colorado, he bought a ranch just outside of Leadville and figured this would be where he would spend the rest of his days – a washed up Big Leaguer who spends his days fishing and waiting for a call to coach from a Big League club.
That was, of course, until the Adelaide Bite got wind that the slugger hadn’t been resigned by any Major League team. They hedged their bets that he could still hit the pitching all the way across the world down in Australia, and signed him to a two-year contract. Wilson jumped at the opportunity to play again, donated the ranch to the Coloroado State Parks Department to be used as wilderness preserve and flew down to Adelaide.
“Wilson,” Scott said, coming out of his office after his conversation with Dulles. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hitting the shit out of the ball?”
TJ turned from his locker and shrugged. “I said ‘better’n usual.’”
Frustrated, but excited to possibly see the Wilson of old back in action tonight for most likely the last time, Scott told him that he would be batting third like usual and to not let him regret the decision. Wilson nodded, grinning ever so slightly.
As the pregame ceremonies concluded and the Bite took the field for the top of the first, Wilson felt the excitement of hopping the foul line and jogging out to third base like it was his first game back when he was a minor leaguer. He looked around at the half-empty stadium and a wry smile came over his face. In fact, he was so excited to be playing that his first warmup throw sailed well over the head of their first baseman and landed in the second row of the stands along the first base line. He laughed it off and the rest of the infield saw a TJ Wilson that they had only heard about and seen footage of from his younger days in Detroit. He was light, he was spry, and he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself as he finished his warmups. He was a rookie again, excited about the chance to play in front of thousands of fans.
Wilson wasn’t quite sure where this newfound youthful excitement was coming from, but he was more focused and more excited to play than he had been in years. The very first batter tried to lay down a bunt to Wilson at third, but ignoring his aching knee, he crashed hard, barehanded the ball and threw a perfect strike across his body to first base to get the speedy runner. Smiling as he jogged back to his position, he knew this was going to be a good game for TJ Wilson and the Bite.
In the bottom of the first with one runner on and one out, Wilson dug in at the plate. He watched the first pitch go by for a called strike but was seeing the ball very well. He stepped out of the box to take another practice swing and then dug back in. The next pitch was a ball – up and away. On the third pitch of the at bat, Wilson laid into a curveball low and inside. He squared up the ball on the barrel of the bat and watched the high arc the ball made; higher and higher, further and further. As he was jogging down the first base line, the ball curved foul at the last second with a pronounced thud against one of the empty seats. With the next two pitches missing for balls, he had worked the count full. Fighting off another low and inside curveball, he once again stepped out of the box to collect himself. Taking a deep breath before digging back in, the very next pitch he saw was a low and away fastball that he slapped down the first base line into right field. Ramos scored from second and the Bite took an early 1-0 lead thanks to Wilson’s tough at bat.
Wilson wouldn’t have another fielding opportunity until the fourth inning after the Melbourne Aces had already taken the lead 3-1. With two on and two out, Wilson made a remarkable diving stop to his left, got up and stepped on third for the force out, preventing the Aces from busting the game wide open.
The bottom of the inning saw Wilson up for the second time with the score still standing at 3-1. TJ wasted no time, attacking the first pitch fastball and clobbering it to left field for a solo homerun. The shot was nearly identical to the ones he had been hitting in practice and as he rounded the bases with the score now 3-2, he didn’t feel the pain in his knee swelling, he didn’t think about how that was most likely his last professional home run, or the fact that he most likely only had two professional at bats left in his life. He was rounding the bases like it was his first career home run, and that he had hundreds left in him. And his ear-to-ear smile gave it away.
Adelaide rode the momentum from Wilson’s leadoff homerun in the fourth by adding on three more runs, taking the lead 5-3. The score would stay that way until the top of the seventh when Melbourne would come back with a hot inning of their own and tie it at 5. Although he had roped a double down the left field line in the bottom of the fifth, TJ was stranded at second when the next batter struck out swinging to end the inning.
In the seventh, Wilson made two routine plays but couldn’t prevent the Aces from scoring 2 after a walk and a homerun. The second grounder to Wilson in the inning was a little to his left, and as he made his first step across his body to snare the grounder, he finally felt the pain in his knee for the first time since warmups. The throw – which hit the first baseman right in the palm of the glove and beat the runner by 2 steps – also didn’t quite feel right to the aging star.
As he hobbled off the field after the inning ended, there was a shooting pain in his right arm that he just could not ignore. The pain ran from the outer part of his elbow all the way down his forearm, down to his pinky finger. After Ramos led off the bottom of the seventh with a walk, Wilson limped up to the plate for his fourth at bat of the game. Not being able to put any weight on his right leg due to the tenderness in the knee, his first swing was a pathetic attempt to hit the ball to right so the speedy Ramos could advance to second. The ball landed foul and the swing – all upper body since he couldn’t load on his back leg – hurt his right arm even more. He stepped out to regroup and even his practice swing hurt every joint and every muscle of his beaten-down body.
“OK Teej,” he said to himself as he stepped back into the box. “Wait for the inside pitch and drive it to left. Don’t think about the pain. You’ve got this.” He watched the next pitch go by for a called strike and was quickly down in the count 0-2. A high fastball was called for a ball before Wilson took one of the hardest swings of his career. Unfortunately he was fooled on the 1-2 changeup and was well ahead of the pitch. He capped the ball off the end of his bat and hit a weak grounder to the Aces third baseman for a Taylor-made double play. Wilson popped out of the box and lumbered down the line as hard as he could, but was still thrown out by four steps. Each step, each push, he could feel his knee getting worse and worse. Limping back into the dugout, the pain was so bad he could feel it crawling up his leg all the way to the back of his neck. “Two more innings,” he thought. “All I need is two more innings.”
In the top of the eighth Wilson hobbled back out to third. His first warm up throw short-hopped first base and was one of the weakest throws of his life. TJ couldn’t straighten his right arm completely and was really just hoping to get through this inning without any balls coming his way – something he had never hoped for in his career. He always wanted the ball; wanted to be a part of every play possible. Now, in his twilight, all he wanted to do was be an innocent spectator at third so as not to hurt the team’s chances of pulling off a late-inning win.
“This is it,” he thought. “This is how it all ends. With debilitating knee pain so bad I actually don’t want the ball. Please, God, just let Fox get through this inning striking out the side so I can get the hell out of here.”
Luckily, Fox heard his prayers and struck out the first two batters of the inning on six straight fastballs. “There ya go kid!” Wilson shouted. “Just one more batter and we – I – can get the fuck out of here,” he added to himself. The third batter gave Fox a little trouble and fouled the first three pitches he saw down the third base line. With each foul ball in his direction, Wilson’s heart stopped. The battle continued until, on the seventh pitch of the at bat, Fox caught the batter looking and was called out on strikes.
Wilson limped off the field and took a seat on the bench while he waited for his at bat. With Fox striking out the side the Bite were hoping they could rally and take the lead in the bottom of the eighth.
“Hey you okay?” Dulles asked when he saw Wilson sitting in the corner of the dugout by himself, wincing in pain.
“I’ll be fine,” he offered through a clenched jaw.
Dulles knew he was lying, but was he going to do? He couldn’t take the veteran out of the last game of the season, especially in the eighth. Maybe in a playoff year, Dulles thought. But how can I do that to a man who gave his all to this game? This is most likely his last game, and dammit he’s gonna see it through to the end. All Dulles could say was, “Three more outs, kid,” and patted Wilson’s good knee.
Melbourne pitched around a leadoff single and a one-out walk to keep the game tied at 5 going into the ninth inning. TJ Wilson limp-jogged out to third for the final time, save for any extra innings. As he stepped over the foul line and onto the field, the few thousand people in attendance gave him a standing ovation. Thousands of miles away from his friends, family, old teammates and the Bigs, these Adelaide faithful were appreciating greatness and letting him know it.
This was not a standing ovation for the sub-par player they had witnessed in person over the last two seasons. This wasn’t even a standing ovation for his performance tonight. No, this was a standing ovation for a man that dedicated his life to a game; to a man who poured his heart and soul into a game and never asked for anything in return. All TJ Wilson ever wanted to do was play baseball.
“I’d play for rent money,” he said one night earlier in the year when a few of the Bite went out for drinks after a game. It was all he ever wanted out of life, and he was so grateful to have been able to do it for so long.
But now the time had finally come. He was standing at third base ready to make his warm up throws for the very last time. As he made his first throw – another weak lollipop to first – the entire stadium erupted in applause for the aged star. Before the first batter of the inning stepped into the box, Fox stepped off the mound and looked over at third base. Wilson looked around the half-empty stadium and mouthed “Thank you” to everyone that was in attendance. The Aces along with the Bite players and coaches were all standing at the top step of their dugouts, paying homage to a one-time great ambassador of the game. Although it still wasn’t technically official, Wilson knew this was the end.
Once the cheers died down, the game resumed and Fox toed the rubber to get ready to close out the top of the ninth so the Bite had a chance to walk it off in the bottom half of the inning. His very first fastball of the inning was hit like a bullet to who else but TJ Wilson at third.
Without flinching, Wilson snared the liner for out number one. When the ball smacked the inside of his glove for the out, the crowd once again erupted in applause. He smiled weakly as he threw the ball around the infield.
“Two more of those wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he thought to himself half-joking. Fox had different plans, and struck out the next two batters. Wilson let out a deep sigh of relief as the third batter was called out on strikes, his elbow pulsing with pain and his knee swollen and bulging against the Ace bandage. Although it was the final game of an unsuccessful season for the Bite, the few thousand faithful were acting as if this was a playoff game. It didn’t matter that this last game was between the two last-place teams in the league. It didn’t matter that the Bite hadn’t been relevant almost all season. They were excited to see their boys battle it out one more time before the off season where there would be no possibility of the distraction of a baseball game. They cheered as Wilson hobbled off the field for the last time and they erupted when his name was called in the bottom of the ninth by the PA announcer, “Leading off for Adelaide, number nineteen, Teeeeeejay WILSONNNNNNNN.”
He would hear his walk-up music for the very last time. He would grab his stick of pine tar for the last time. Wilson dug into the batter’s box and took a deep breath. For the next minute or so, he would be able to block out the blinding pain in his right knee and the stiffness already
setting into his right elbow. He didn’t have to think about the Cortisone shots he would need in the off-season just to hopefully get back to feeling somewhat normal. He’d be able to ignore the millions of memories rushing back to him – all the times he had been up in the ninth inning with the game on the line. Wilson was trying to ignore all the times in his career he had failed in these moments. All the teams that were counting on him when he struck out foolishly. He was trying to block out the successes, too – all the times he’d keep the inning alive by getting on base or all the walk-off home runs that would result in a Gatorade bath from his elated teammates. Now was not the time to remember triumphs because it was distracting him from the present. He was trying not to think at all because like Yogi Berra said, “You can’t think and hit at the same time.”
He quickly blinked twice as the pitcher started his windup. Wilson saw the ball clearly out of the pitcher’s hand, big and slow. He locked eyes on the ball and knew it was going to be a strike. He swung – for the final time – as hard as he could and let out a grunt heard by everyone when his massive upper cut swing made contact with the ball. As his massive frame twisted and contorted with his swing, he knew his knee had completely blown. He felt the sharp bone-on-bone pain that comes at the end. He felt his elbow go during his follow-through. Wilson had pushed his body to its limit and he winced in pain and saw red as he dropped the bat at home plate, not even looking to see where he sent the pitch…
The next morning, a stabbing pain in TJ Wilson’s right knee woke him up like it had every morning of his life for the past ten years or so. He rolled over and grabbed the Ibuprofen bottle that lived on his nightstand and dumped out a handful, taking them without water. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and limped to the front door to grab the newspaper. TJ Wilson then sat down at his kitchen table with a glass of orange juice – Opening Day 2022, Detroit Tigers was the cup – and read the sports section. The Bite had won their final game of the season 6-5 on a walk-off homerun hit by none other than their aging slugger.