Chapter Text
Will wakes up, rolls over to Sam’s side, only to find it empty.
Then he remembers his partner is an early riser and his daughter is currently visiting— so he’s probably downstairs.
He hears the slight sound of chatter.
He brushes his teeth, combs his hair. Funnily enough he has a faded San Diego Padres shirt on. He hasn’t been a part of the organization in over ten years.
He walks downstairs. Sam must’ve heard him, since he turns back. “Morning, hot shot.”
“Morning,”
“Will,” Sarah smiles. She came last night and was asleep by the time Will came home from his game.
“Sarah,” He smiles and hugs her.
“Good job yesterday.” She tells him.
“We lost,”
“And? I like watching you pitch, I always have.”
Will smiles. “Thanks, Kiddo.” He says, despite her being in her 20s already. Wasn’t it just yesterday that she was 12 years old.
Sam stands up too. Wrapping an arm around the small of Will’s back, like he used to.
“I agree with her.” Sam whispers in his ear. “You’re good with your hands,”
“Oh god, Dad. I heard that.”
He looks at her. “My bad,” He says, kissing Will on the cheek. “There’s coffee, Will.”
Will has the day off today, Sam has had a day off since ‘01.
They eat breakfast together.
After they’re done, they gather around the island.
Will tells Sarah that he has been considering retiring. He’s turning forty in November. He isn’t as young as he used to be, and he can’t do this forever. It’s time, and he’s okay with that.
“Are you being for real?” She asks.
“I am,”
She makes a face. Then quickly, she goes around the island, beelining it to Will.
She hugs him.
He quickly hugs her back. The he makes eye contact with Sam who’s watching them from a few feet away.
“I’m not dying, Sarah.” He says softly.
“I know,” She says into his chest. “I just know it’s a hard decision.”
“It is,”
Sarah moves away to look her dad. “Did you know about this?”
Her father nods. “I support him, whatever he wants to do.”
“Well then,” Sarah says. “This’ll be your last season?”
“Probably,”
“Well, I guess you better make it a good one. Although… you’re almost in your forties and you’re still putting up an ERA in the threes. I’d say you’re doing pretty well for yourself all things considered.”
~
“Saying goodbye to a rare bird.” By Anna Grimsdottir.
I got to speak to Baltimore Orioles’ pitcher William Redding on his retirement. I brought zero cameras, just me, him, and a tape recorder.
“Are there any regrets you have?” I asked him right off the bat. Or should I say, mound?
“Just that I only played every fourth day,” Redding laughs. He pauses then continues to reassure me that there isn’t any. His career wasn’t perfect but he’s gotten all he’s ever wanted.
I asked him lots of things. But I want to start with what quote stood out to me the most.
“When I came to Baltimore. I had left everything I knew in San Diego. My friends, my family, teammates. I grew up there.” Redding pauses. “But when I met fisher. And I met those guys in that dougout, they made me feel less alone. And I don’t think I ever thanked them for that.”
~
At Will's last game, he pitches 7 innings. And then his time as a starter is over.
Hisham gets up from the squat and walks over. Will sees Lambert come out too.
The whole stadium starts to clap and cheer.
A few of the people are holding up big signs. Some have silly nicknames for Will. Some read, “We’ll miss you.”
One says, “Thank you.”
Hisham goes to hug him. And Will tries to say thank you but the crowd is too loud for Hisham to hear. But Hisham nods. He knows.
Will takes off his cap.
He allows himself to turn and face everyone for a moment. The crowd cheers louder.
He looks at the empty catcher’s box, where Sam used to stand— or rather, squat.
He may be long retired now, but Will knows he can go home tonight and Sam will be there waiting for him.
Baseball has given him more than he had ever expected. He’s forever thankful to have been given the opportunity to stand on the diamond and do what he loves.
Will moves the ball in his hand. The red stitches and the leftover rosin. He stares at it for what feels like a lifetime, for his whole career. His whole life, in fact.
He puts his cap back on, and walks back to the dugout, one last time.