Opening Day Meltdown!

Dr. Andrew Beck monitors his patient, pitcher John Palmer, during an intense opening game, dealing with the pressures of Palmer's past drug addiction and a high-stakes comeback attempt.

This is the 2nd installment of free previews from my novel Headcase: Shock & Denial (Book 1). Free subscribers get the first 7 chapters for free, and Paid subscribers get the full ebook and access to The 2nd book in the Headcase Series, titled The Inevitable, which will be serialized.

Read by P.J. Ochlan

Part 1: Monday, April 8, 2019 - Chapter 1

Dr. Andrew Beck never tired of the view of a baseball diamond from the owner’s box at Empire Field in Queens, New York. Seated in an oversized plush leather chair overlooking the first base line from the mezzanine level, he had an unobstructed view of the entire field. The Empire Field engineers had constructed the box to be at the perfect angle to watch the pitcher, the catcher, and the batter. Andrew sat back and stared out at the fans finding their seats. He admired the dedicated fans in upper tiers wearing full jackets, some even with gloves and wool hats to fight the wet wind from the East River and Flushing Bay that slapped them in the face. Although the retracted plexiglass windows in the owner’s box let the early April chill spill in, the heating vents’ counterblow made the room temperature more than comfortable.

The hostess, dressed in tight New York Tides gray pinstriped apparel with navy lettering, put on the narrow granite table in front of Andrew a sampler plate of buffalo wings from Dan and John’s, lamb skewers from Peter Luger Steakhouse, and some assorted rolls from Sushi Ishikawa. As scrumptious as it all looked, what Andrew really wanted was a hot, soft pretzel. But for that, he’d have to wait until the vendor came around.

He thanked the woman and asked, “What Scotch do we have back there?”

“Johnnie Walker Blue. Would you like a glass?” she asked with a smile.

Andrew returned the smile and said, “No, thank you. Just a ginger ale, please.”

A deep raspy voice boomed, “What, Johnnie Walker Blue not good enough for you, Dr. Beck?”

Andrew pivoted his head and saw the Tides’ General Manager and Head of Baseball Operations Seth Rothstein approach. Andrew stood up to shake his hand and said, “I’m partial to Macallan 18 myself.”

Rothstein was in his sixties, in good shape, steely eyed, sharp, and known as a tough but fair General Manager. They had a good working relationship, but today the rubber would meet the road.

The men took their seats, surveying the Tides warming up. Andrew noticed Rothstein scanning his players and referring to a printout of the Tides’ player performance charts and statistics. Rothstein exhaled loudly and shook his head when he flipped to the page with the stats on 23-year-old pitcher John Palmer, Andrew’s patient and a recovering drug addict. The Tides had invested significant money in John’s treatment, Andrew being the principal beneficiary of the six-figure payments.

Andrew tried to make small talk about the team with Rothstein, but he was engrossed in his stats. He just nodded or gave a polite smile with little fanfare. The silence became deafening as if Rothstein was “icing” Andrew to keep him on edge.

The two men ate their food, watched the opening day ceremonies, and clapped as the stadium announcer called out the players’ names one at a time as they took their positions on the field. Andrew listened closely to the fans’ reaction to the announcement of the Tides’ final player: “… And at pitcher, number 42, John Palmer.” The announcer elongated “John” for effect.

John ran out onto the field to subdued applause and a scattering of boos. The fans felt betrayed by last year’s late-season crumble and his confession that he had pitched all of his rookie season high on amphetamines. The only thing that had saved him from a suspension was the season was over when he came forward and he went immediately into a Tides-sponsored rehab program. The owner’s box reception was as chilly as the weather: only a polite smattering of applause. Andrew hoped it was because the owner and team brass were busy getting their food and drinks and not because of their lack of enthusiasm for their opening-day pitcher.

Andrew had put John through six months of intensive therapy during the off-season. Treatment included a ninety-day stint at the upscale Wooded Willow’s drug rehabilitation facility in the rolling hills and snow-covered mountains of the Catskills in upstate New York. Every week Andrew made the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Greenwich, Connecticut, to have four-hour sessions with John. By March, John had to be off the drugs and mentally and emotionally ready to report to the Tides’ spring training facility in Tampa Bay, Florida.

After John was released from Wooded Willows, Andrew followed him down to Tampa Bay to continue John’s treatment and make sure he didn’t fall off the wagon. When Andrew wasn’t with him physically, they had nightly check-in FaceTime calls and John’s curfew was 10:00 pm. This routine was not altogether different from the over-protective routine Craig Palmer had for his only son. John pitched well during spring training and the pre-season. But the pressure is not the same when the balls, strikes, and earned runs don’t count. Every player, coach, sportswriter and fan knew this.

On opening day today, the Tides were playing their rivals, the Washington Warriors. Last season, the Warriors stole the Eastern Division Title away from the Tides after a late-September collapse sent them from first to third place and out of contention for a playoff berth. Many fans and the Tides management made the young drug addict pitcher their scapegoat. However, Andrew argued to anyone who would listen that John’s record was 16 wins and 9 losses. He pitched, from what John confessed publicly, all his games under the influence of amphetamines, so what about the 16 games he won? But Andrew also knew, in professional sports, it’s not always rationale that gets a second-year player cut, traded, or sent down to the minor leagues for “development.” It’s all about optics. Perception is reality.

Watching John pitch was a thing of beauty—the strength and technique, how the lefty threw his entire body behind every pitch. Andrew couldn’t help but smile every time he heard the ball pop when it hit the catcher’s mitt during his warm-up pitches. Andrew observed John’s pitching motion and looked for any tightness in his shoulders or restrictive movements that might reflect abnormal levels of tension or anxiety. But John looked relaxed. Perhaps, in this case, being only a second-year pitcher and naïve for his age, he was clueless about how high the stakes were right now.

John had been a force last year. He was a shoo-in for Rookie of the Year until his tear-filled drug confession blew up the internet and his career. On Real Sports News, the over-the-top sportscasters argued about what it was that gave John his power and confidence on the mound. Was it solely the drugs? Or was it his raw ability channeled with the frenetic energy of an amphetamine high? They directed this talk at the Tides management, and Rothstein had to prove that their scouts and player development personnel had found a young pitcher with enormous talent who had a solvable problem. When it came to a pro franchise team’s reputation, money was no object.

Rothstein’s media response was consistent in that he claimed John’s drug addiction did not differ from a pitcher going through Tommy John surgery. He was going from a potentially career-ending injury to a full recovery. Andrew cringed every time he read or saw Rothstein repeat the soundbite. Drug addiction and family trauma weren’t the same as ulnar collateral ligament reconstruction. A tear in an elbow can heal a lot faster than a tear in the mind.

John wasn’t the first athlete to succumb to drugs to deal with the pressures and anxiety of being a professional baseball player. However, all eyes were on him to prove that he didn’t need the uppers to be a top-notch pitcher. Did he have the ability and fortitude to perform under pressure while sober? At the end of winter, Andrew assured Rothstein that John’s recovery was successful and that for the first time in his young adult life, John was emotionally stable. Andrew would prove to the sporting world that his treatment plan and cognitive-behavioral therapy worked. He would change the optics around John from last season’s rookie-sensation-turned-pariah to this year’s comeback kid hopeful who overcame addiction and family tragedy. Then, when John succeeded, Andrew imagined, other pro teams would come calling, filling up his schedule and bringing him to the top of his profession. It wasn’t good enough for Andrew to be successful—he had to be great. In Andrew’s mind, there was no prize for second place. It was greatness or nothing.

Andrew felt the butterflies in his stomach as the first batter came to the plate against John. It reminded him of the decade-plus years of amateur golf tournaments and stepping up to the tee for his first drive of the day. But after the whoosh the driver made during his vicious backswing, the melodious ping the ball made when titanium hit the Surlyn-covered ball, the butterflies would disappear. The golf prodigy blocked out the claps of the supportive parents, and he especially blocked out his coach and father Ted Beck’s critical comments. Andrew didn’t hear any of it. His world was his club, the ball, and the hole. He prepped John to focus the same way. Andrew would instruct, “Block out the fans, the noise, and even the batter and just throw ‘your perfect pitch’ to the catcher.”

The stadium sound system boomed, “Now batting, for the Warriors, the center fielder, number nine, Warren Cromartie!” The hometown fans booed Cromartie, who batted from the left side of the plate. Rothstein flipped to another printout with the Warriors player stats and pushed the spreadsheet with a grimace to Andrew, tapping his finger on the line that showed that Cromartie had batted .333 against John last year. Cromartie was one of the few left-handed batters in the league who hit above their batting average when facing John.

Then Rothstein belted out as if the statistics spoke loud and clear, “Let’s see if all that money we paid you was worth it.”

The dig pissed off Andrew, but he politely smiled. He knew it was the pressure speaking more than his gruff demeanor. Rothstein was sharper than that, but it was his way of letting Andrew know they were both on the hook.

John’s first pitch was a combination curve ball and fastball, known as a cutter. The ball looked like he aimed for Cromartie’s right shoulder, but then the ball curved downward, right below the “Warriors” stenciled chest-height across his jersey. The ball hit catcher Leo Wilson’s mitt with a loud pop. The umpire thrust his arm out and let out an exaggerated yell, “Stiii-rike!” Andrew heard the yell clearly from the box. It was opening day for the umpire, too.

On the next pitch, Wilson called for another cutter. This time the pitch broke more dramatically. Not knowing if a pitch will be inside or outside the strike zone, most professional baseball players will try to swing at the ball rather than take the chance the ball lands for a strike. Cromartie swung late at the ball and missed it. Strike two. The ump held up his fist silently to acknowledge the second strike. John then threw a 96-mile-per-hour fastball that zipped past Cromartie. The umpire leaped out to the side and let out a loud guttural yell, informing the entire stadium it was strike three. The batter struck out. The stadium organ music blared as the finicky Queens fans roared for their young pitcher.

Andrew pushed the stat sheet back to Rothstein and drew a “K” with his finger over Cromartie’s batting average, baseball lingo for a strikeout, and gave Rothstein a self-satisfied smile. Rothstein tried to hold back his chuckle, sending his shoulders up and down several times. He acknowledged the touché.

The second Warrior was a right-handed batter. He swung on a rising fastball but only hit a small portion of the ball, resulting in a slow grounder to shortstop Orlando Velasquez for an easy second out. The next batter had a count of two balls and two strikes, and Andrew resisted the urge to jump to his feet and resorted to pulling at his wavy blonde hair in anticipation. John threw another cutter that started way outside-left, on the right-handed batter, but it curved in, just nipping the corner of the plate for a called third strike. The umpire screeched again, but this time the batter didn’t agree with the call and shook his head, and he glared at the umpire before walking off slowly in defeat, cursing at himself.

Andrew clapped loudly and cheered. On the Jumbotron screen in center field, Andrew clinically observed the batter’s face and body language as he walked off dejectedly back to the dugout. Andrew strained his neck to watch the slow-motion instant replay on the TVs inside the owner’s box. He marveled at the surprising curve the pitch took and smiled like a proud papa.

John fist-pumped to himself to the dugout, where his teammates greeted him with a multitude of fist bumps, high fives, and chest bumps. The entire stadium was jumping.

Rothstein subtly turned his head towards Andrew and gave him the slightest nod and wink, which was a glowing endorsement from Andrew’s experience.

The Tides took an early lead in the first inning when after two singles, the catcher Leo Wilson hit a blast to left center that hit the wall and bounced away from Cromartie. The runners on first and second scored easily. Wilson reached second base with a stand-up double. The 2-0 early lead brought smiles to the owner’s box. The knot in Andrew’s stomach untied and had him thinking of seconds on the lamb skewers and buffalo wings. He checked his Rolex Submariner watch with a Tides logo, a gift from John when the Tides named him the starting pitcher on opening day two weeks ago. He figured he still had another 40 minutes before it was pretzel time.

John continued with his cutters, sliders, fastballs and even a changeup here and there, befuddling the Eastern champs for two more innings. After three innings of play, John was pitching a perfect game. No runs, no hits, no walks, and five strikeouts.

The score was still Tides 2 and Warriors 0 going into the top of the fourth inning, and the owner’s box was much livelier. Andrew could feel the positivity shifting in the room. Rothstein stopped obsessing over the stats, and Andrew caught him pretending to wipe his mouth with a napkin, but Andrew observed his eyes and the squinting crow’s feet around them, revealing that Rothstein was in a full smile behind that paper curtain.

The top of the Warrior’s line up was up again, and Cromartie looked determined not to get fooled by John’s curves and fastballs. He took his time as he dug into the left-hand side of the plate. John returned the favor, making the batter wait for John to be ready. Cromartie stepped out of the box, effectively calling a timeout, and the umpire directed both pitcher and batter to play ball. Andrew intently watched the first pitch. This time the fastball reached 98 miles per hour. Cromartie, probably expecting a curve ball, which would have been much slower, watched helplessly as the ball zipped by him, hitting Wilson’s catcher mitt with a loud pop. The ump yelled out for strike one.

The batter thrust his bat out to drag bunt on the next pitch, taking advantage of the extra two steps to first base. The ball rolled up the first base line, and John leaped off the mound and fielded it. The ball rode so close to the foul line that the runner collided with John, sending both players to the ground. Andrew leaped to his feet. His waist caught his plate and scattered the bones of his buffalo wings and wooden skewers everywhere. Rothstein used his napkin to chase off a half-eaten lamb skewer that landed in his lap and shot Andrew a nasty look.

Despite the bone-jarring collision, John had held onto the ball and tagged the batter out. Both players got off the ground. Neither seemed injured, but Andrew could tell the collision shook John up. The trainer came out of the dugout with catcher Wilson to check out John. Andrew remained standing with his hands clasped on top of his head. Andrew joined the supportive fans in clapping for John as he walked it off, rotating his left arm a few times.

John returned to the mound and asked the umpire to throw a few practice pitches to test his arm, but the commercial break must have been over because the umpire refused and said to play ball. Andrew saw John shake his head and Wilson throw up his shoulders and arms in resigned defeat. The next batter stepped into the box, a right-handed batter.

Andrew watched John closely. Something didn’t look right. His shoulders tensed up and he was grinding his pitching hand into his glove. Wilson called for a cutter, but the pitch started high and left and stayed high, sailing out of reach of Wilson’s extended glove. The umpire, crouched behind Wilson, bobbed his head to avoid being struck in the face. The fans in the seats 45 feet directly behind home plate instinctively ducked as the ball hit the safety netting in front of them. Wilson retrieved the fallen ball from the backstop, asked the umpire for a new ball, and walked out to the mound to chat with John.

Both players kept their mitts over their mouths so no one could read their lips and figure out what they were saying. When Wilson returned to home plate, John threw a fastball, but it was high and outside again. Ball two.

On the mound, John stood tall, but he was very fidgety and shook his shoulders. Then suddenly, he stopped moving. Andrew thought John regained his body control by using one of the calming exercises he had taught him to use during tense game situations. But then he saw John look over Wilson’s head. He was looking at something in the seats behind home plate, and then he… dropped the ball. The fans gasped, and the umpire leaped from his crouched position and signaled for a balk. Since there was no one on base, the penalty was not detrimental to John or the Tides, but Andrew knew something was very wrong with John. Was it physical or psychological? Andrew felt a deep pang in his stomach, and though he hated to admit it, he hoped the trouble was with his arm rather than his emotional state.

John couldn’t find the strike zone on the next two pitches. He was high and wide on both, walking the batter on four pitches, sending him to first base. Perfect game ruined. But he still had the no-hitter going and a shutout. Murmurs bounced around the owner’s box to send the team doctor to check if John could physically pitch. Andrew walked away from his seat and stood at the top of the fourth and final row of seats in the box to get a different view and get away from the grunts Rothstein made after every errant pitch.

The next batter, a right-hander, smelled blood in the water and went aggressively after a high rising fastball. The bat connected with the ball, but the ball hit the top of the bat, sending the ball high in the air for an easy pop out to left field. Two outs.

John was wiping his face with his sleeve, but Andrew gathered he couldn’t have been sweating. It was barely 50 degrees. John’s shoulders were tight. He kept shaking them as if there was something on them he was trying to wiggle off. Again, he wiped his brow as the batter, Juan Martinez, last year’s home run king, came to bat. Martinez had popped out to left field on his first at bat, but now he stood confidently in the batter’s box. Andrew’s thumbnail made its way to his mouth before he caught himself and crossed his arms. One more out and the inning would be over. He could breathe easy again.

Wilson called for a pitch, but John shook his head, meaning he didn’t want to throw what Wilson was calling. It looked like Wilson insisted, but John shook him off once again. They came to an agreement as John nodded, went into his windup, and threw a fastball, another high rising one. Martinez got all of it. Andrew’s eyes tried to follow the rocket that launched off Martinez’s bat. He lost sight of the ball as the box's ceiling momentarily obstructed the arc of the ball, but then he saw it ricochet off a barren section of the left field “nosebleed” seats. The ball bounced like a pinball from empty seat to empty seat as rabid fans scrambled over each other to get an opening-day souvenir. Andrew figured Martinez hit that ball well over 550 feet. The left field wall was 380 feet from home plate.

Martinez’s home run blast tied the score at 2 to 2. The fans did not hide their disappointment, yelling and booing at John. But there were some supporting chants from the crowd. Inside the owner’s box, the mumbles became clearer. Rothstein turned around and glared at Andrew as if he had given up the home run instead of John. Other heads did the same.

Andrew tried to ward off the stares burning a hole in the side of his head and see what was going on with John. The next batter was a lefty. John struck him out the last time, but the Warriors, and everyone else in the stadium knew John was rattled.

John kept looking over Wilson’s head into the stands, then shaking his head or wiping his sleeve across his face. These were not John’s typical body tension reflexes when experiencing anxiety. His were tightening the shoulders, making excessive hand movements inside the glove, digging at the dirt in front of the mound, or his eyes leaving the mound and looking up to the center field scoreboard. However, these new ones had him befuddled. What was going on in John’s head?

The first pitch was a high fastball, ball one. John again shook off the initial call from Wilson, but Wilson insisted by emphatically thrusting his arm down. John conceded, but the pitch, a cutter, didn’t curve in like it usually did and went completely behind the batter as he stepped across the plate to avoid being hit by the pitch. Ball two. The umpire was ready to give John a warning for intentionally throwing at the batter, which pitchers, in their anger, sometimes did after a big home run. But the veteran Wilson stopped the umpire, undoubtedly convincing him that the pitch got away from him and there was no intent to hit the batter on purpose. Wilson threw the ball back to John and motioned with his arms downward to say, “Settle down.”

John followed with two more outside fastballs, clearly staying away from the batter to walk him on four pitches.

John left the mound, turned his back on the plate and stared into center field. He dropped his head down and looked like he was talking to himself. After a few moments, the umpire yelled out to play ball, and John walked slowly back to the mound. He started digging his right foot in the dirt in front of the pitcher’s mound, and then looked up to face the next batter, a righty. The batter must have expected John’s control was in the shitter, because when John’s fastball stayed straight, it messed up the batter’s timing just enough to hit a hard grounder towards the left side of second base. The shortstop Velasquez scooped up the grounder and tapped the base to end the inning.

John jogged off the field to the dugout. The owner’s box smattering of applause matched the fans in its half-heartedness. Andrew replayed the last few minutes and tried to figure out John’s sudden and strange movements. He watched on the TV as John entered the dugout and headed down a ramp connected to the Tides’ locker room entrance. His exit was not something players did unless something was wrong. Andrew clenched his fists and took a deep breath. He was so lost in his thoughts and watching the TV that he didn’t see Rothstein approach him.

“What the fuck just happened out there?” Rothstein said with a glare.

Andrew jerked his head at the apparition before him. He gasped but said, “He’s fine. He pitched his way out of the inning. I’m sure the jar of the collision just took him out of his rhythm.”

“Why was he shaking off Wilson so much? Why the fuck was he throwing the ball into the bleachers?”

“I honestly don’t know, sir, but—”

“You sold us on John Palmer being ready for opening day. That by making him the starting pitcher, it would make him ‘a new man.’”

“Yes, sir, I still believe—”

“Frankly, Doctor, I don’t care what you believe. Get down there and fix this, or I’m done with the both of you. I’ll trade his ass to goddamn Detroit if I have to.”

“Yes, Mr. Rothstein, I got this.”

Andrew made his way to the exit and tried not to look directly at the heads shaking and glaring at him as he left. The door opened before he could reach for the handle—and in strolled a man in Tides’ garb with a tray full of steaming, soft, hot pretzels. Andrew watched helplessly and took a deep inhale of the salty-doughy goodness. He shook his head and let the door behind him slam closed.

• Read Prologue: The Prodigy

• Chapter 2: Emergency Therapy Session in the Locker Room

• Paid Subscribers get the full ebook of Headcase: Shock & Denial and much more!