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“I’ll watch my mouth,” I concede, holding up my hands in surrender.

Malcolm nods, his expression softening. “And try to look like you want to be here. These kids admire you.”

I glance toward the field, where a horde of little leaguers is running wild, their laughter echoing. Their joy is infectious, but I’m not ready to catch it. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Physically, yes.” Malcolm hands me a slip of paper. “But you’ve got to be more than just a body. Engage with them.”

I unfold the paper, scanning the list of names and numbers. “What’s this?”

“Potential friends. These guys have been where you are now. They might have some insights.”

“Camden Long, Nico Tremblay…” I crumple the paper, shoving it into my back pocket. “I don’t need friends. I need to get out of this city.”

Malcolm sighs, but before he can launch into another diatribe, I stride away from him. Behind me, I hear him grumble, “As always, it’s a pleasure.”

The closer I stalk to the mouth of the tunnel, the louder the music and laughter become. The brighter the sun shines. In my short time in Philadelphia, I’ve learned springtime here sucks. The end of March can range from freezing temperatures to warm, sunny days. The weather can’t make up its mind. Not unlike the people. Cheering and jeering in equal measure. I don’t go on social media often, but I’ve checked it enough times to know they have big feelings about me being part of their team.

Some are happy to have me.

Some think it’s good they finally have somebody on the team who’s not afraid to throw down.

Some hate me and think I should kill myself.

The City of Brotherly Love.

Standing in the shadow of the tunnel, I take in my teammates, decked out in matching mustard-yellow team T-shirts, giant eyesores among the green of the grass. I’ve always loved the smell of the field, but I can’t help the grimace that spreads over my face, unease knotting in my chest.

After I spent the holidays locked away at a cabin in the mountains, I arrived in Pennsylvania two months ago but didn’t bother unpacking anything before I left for spring training in Florida. Now, I’m back and even less excited for the start of the season because of my pitiful pitching sessions. Just cement me on the list of Greatest Pitching Disappointments. Drafted with the most potential, only to flame out.

But I might as well get this thing over with. Get this day and week and season over with. Put us all out of our misery.

It’s unseasonably warm today, and I adjust my sweatband then blow out a big breath. My fingers tingle, and I tuck my glove under my arm to shake them out. It’s not unusual, this agitation, but it’s been happening more often. The tingles, upset stomach, even bouts of breathlessness, a feeling like the walls are closing in on me.

I inhale and exhale again, waiting for the nervousness to subside, and it does, though it’s not a good sign for the day. Especially one when I’m not actually playing.

I need to get my shit together.

Get my head in the game and forget about all the rest.

But instead of preparing for our opening game tomorrow, I’m here, doing this bullshit for two hours, when I could be watching film or soaking in the tub.

And that’s probably it. First-day jitters and reluctance to partake in this literal kiddie show.

Stepping out onto the grass, I’m bombarded with noise and sunshine. Dozens of kids, aged eight to fourteen, are all grouped together by second base, taking pictures with the Thunder’s mascot—Flash Franklin. It’s some dude under a foam and felt caricature of Ben Franklin. The big head with gray hair sticking up looks as if the American forefather stuck his finger in a socket, but I guess that’s the point.

We’re the Thunder.

He’s the Lightning.

He runs around with a kite and has a signature “lightning strike” dance move. All mascots are ridiculous, but this one might be the most…creative I’ve seen. The kids love him.

I watch from my post by the dugout as team admins snap photos and move the kids around, making sure all their smiling faces can be captured for social media and whatever goodwill campaign they’re planning.

“Que lo que, manin?”

I look over my shoulder to find a grinning Yadi. He’s always grinning.

It’s fucking annoying.