One Hundred and Ninety-Seven Days to Move On by Caleb McGrath-Sheldrick

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

handed it to me. I looked at the brownish orange drink with two ice cubes in my hand. The pungent scent pierced my nose, the memories of January 5th crashing back on me like a wave at a beach. People say that you can physically feel your heart break. I can vouch for that. Usually the first couple seconds are disbelief. “There's no way, no chance this happened.” Then the realization, “I’ll never see them again, I’ll never get to see her smile, hear her laugh.” Then the grief. The overwhelming, the gut-wrenching, the indescribable feeling of loss. What happened next I can’t even describe. I honestly don’t remember it. Just black. Just darkness. My dad in the months after spiraled out of control. He drank everything in sight. There hasn’t been one night since January 5th he hasn’t drank. It’s July 23rd today. The liquor cabinet, which at one time would have lasted him years, was empty within a couple weeks. But I understood how he felt. The whisky on the top shelf above the refrigerator whispered its ugly name in my ear before, prodding me to give in, but I refused; I don’t want to give up like my father. My mom wouldn’t have wanted that. I snapped out of it to see Luca waving his hand in front of my face. “You good, dude?” he asked me with a questioning look on his face. “You were just staring at your drink for probably the last two minutes.” “Yeah I’m ight,” I responded, still staring at the whisky in my hand. “I don’t want this though.” “You sure, bro? What’s wrong?” “Listen man, I just don’t want it. My mom would be pissed.” “Well your mom isn’t here, is she?” He smiled. “You’re right.” I fell silent. Being a quiet kid, I didn’t usually talk about my feelings that much, but all of a sudden I found myself gushing everything out. I told him about the months leading up to January 5th, seeing my beautiful mother wilt and succumb to the cancer like a sunflower without water. I told him about the moment she died. The moment I felt my heart snap in two. My dad and his downfall. For the first time, I let someone into my heart, I let someone understand how I was feeling. We put a couple dollars down on the table and walked outside. The sky was dark now, the remnants of the pink and purple fade stripe sunset long gone by now.

“You wanna keep talking about it?” he asked me. “Thanks.” We ended up walking through downtown Nashville for nearly two and a half hours that night. He became my best friend on the team, and later my best man at my wedding. We coach our six year old sons together today. He helped me move on. He helped me understand that I can honor my mom through my actions in my life. He brought me out of a dark place and showed me the light; all he had to do was listen. And for that, I am forever indebted to him.