Sextant - June 2021

One Hundred and Ninety-Seven Days to Move On

by Caleb McGrath-Sheldrick The first time I ever heard good country music, I was in my coach’s truck, and we were driving from the hotel to the restaurant for some southern fried chicken sandwiches. My coach plugged his phone in the car, and played some Johnny Cash, followed by some Tim McGraw. He turned the speakers all the way up, bumpin the classics loud enough that my family back home could hear it too. I jumped into the back of the truck, folding my thin, 6’2 frame to allow my bigger, older teammates to pile in too. The cool, humid dusk air rushed through my hair and my fingers, the sun was almost set in between the buildings. We took a right turn, then a left, and rounded the corner in downtown Nashville, letting the lights and bustle of the bars on Broadway greet us. Men and women flowed up and down the street like a stream, wobbling around, bubbling, laughing and hollering. Sing-songy voices wafted down from the tops of the buildings. I looked up to see bands playing on the roof decks, strobe lights painting the evening sky. I looked back down the street, noticing solo guitarists picking at their instruments, seemingly begging for tips or a free drink. As we continued, I heard the same Johnny Cash song that we had been listening to earlier as we passed a bar overflowing with people. We kept driving south out of Broadway’s bustle, but the echo of the classics followed us down the street as if to say, “Where are you going? Stay awhile.” It seemed as if the music was speaking to my coach as well, as after a couple of minutes, the tentacles of the music went through his ears into his brain, forcing him to turn around. We jumped out of the truck, the smell of the music drew us back to Broadway like a fresh pie let cool on a windowsill. We meandered our way through the throngs, weaving in and around drunks to try to get into a bar. I looked at my reflection in the glass of a restaurant. My lanky, thin, fifteen year old frame bounced back at me. My dirty blond hair was long, pushed back from wearing a hat all day. Although I am only fifteen, I get mistaken for being a lot older, sometimes even around twenty. That’s what my travel coach saw in me when he had me play up with seventeen and eighteen year olds before I had even entered sophomore year. My fastball is the thing that did it for me. I hit 93 yesterday, making me one of the top ranked players in the country. You may think that I had it good, that I had it figured out, but I don’t.

My mind tends to race sometimes. It sometimes thinks thoughts I didn’t even know I could think.

There are nights that I am tethered to my bed, my thoughts overwhelming me. My brain disconnects from my conscious being, sending me into a downward spiral. I think of my mother. I think of her smile, her laugh, her seemingly endless energy, the car rides to tee ball practices. I think of the cancer that drove its ugly dagger into her breast. I think of the months spent by her bedside, praying for a gift from God, watching my mother deteriorate like a wilting flower. Her heart rate began to decline, her eyes began to flutter. She turned her head, bald from the chemo, we made eye contact, but not really; my vision blurred with tears. I looked back at the monitor to see a straight line, the steady beep turning into a solid.

I looked away from my reflection in the glass to the glowing south beach themed signs above. I turned around, I heard my name called and snapped my head around. Our third basemen, Luca, along with four other of my teammates climbed the stairs to a Wild West themed bar.

“Are you coming?” Luca asked.

“Yeah, sorry, my bad,” I responded. I paced towards the stairs and followed him up through the traditional saloon shutter doors with peeling brown paint.

“C’mon, we needa get you a drink, it’ll loosen ya up, have a good time.” he said over his shoulder. We waded through the sea of bodies to the bar; he ordered something, I don’t really know what it was, and