Ice already strapped to his shoulder, Tom Benson filled two more bags.  You’re not a rookie anymore Tom, you won’t make it through the season if you don’t take care of your body.  He saw the eyes follow him as he hobbled to and from the trainer’s room each day.  They think I’m washed up, just an old man chasing a dream.  Tom taped the bags to his knees and left the trainer’s room.  When he reached his locker, he had to chuckle.

“This Luis’ handiwork?” Tom said to those within earshot.  A few “I don’t knows” and shrugs came from the crowd of players still in the locker room.

“Luis, come here!” Tom shouted.  Slithering through the crowd, Luis popped up in a matter of seconds almost as if he had been waiting for this moment.

“What’s this?” Tom said pointing to the walker placed in front of his locker.  Luis examined the walker for a bit, tapping it with his hand as if inspecting it.  Tom tried to hold back a smile.

“Well, Luis is no expert sir, but he thinks it’s used for walking.” Luis then proceeded to demonstrate how to use the walker properly.  “Luis sees how you limp around after practice.  He thought you could use some help.”  At the word help Luis flashed a huge smile.  Before Tom could retaliate Luis patted him on the back and made his way back to his locker.  I’m going to miss that kid, Tom thought, as he sat down on the bench in front of his locker.  He has the talent but he’s not quite ready for the big show yet.  Training camp is always like that.  A new wave of talent is brought up to see what they got.  While a few stay up, most are sent back down to iron out some flaws still remaining in their game.

Tom looked up at his locker.  He knew what was in there: a picture of his family, his number fourteen jersey hanging up on one of the hooks, a few bats, and a worn out mitt.  He hoped there wasn’t anything else in there. 

“Please don’t be a yellow card,” he said as he slowly opened his locker.  A yellow card meant you were going down to the minors but for a man his age it meant only one thing.  It was time to hang up the cleats.  He’d been with the team for years so he doubted they’d force him out like that.  Sure, he’d lost a step or two, and his bat wasn’t as fast as it used to be, but he could still manage a game from behind the plate like no other.  He’d be good with this team’s young staff.  The locker finally swung open.  A yellow card was pinned to his jersey.  Tom slumped down in front of his locker, holding his head up with his hands. 

Brit Porterfield