Maybe It's the Ghosts

I was barely 18 the first time I met Adam Bryan. He was alone, on his knees in the bullpen, crouched over a bucket of baseballs. I watched as he picked up and lightly shook one ball at a time, his ear gently tilted, eyes closed, face all screwed up, as though he was listening for something that perhaps only he could hear.

“Ghosts,” he muttered as he tossed away baseball after baseball.

Every now and again, when he grabbed a ball, shook it, and held it to his ear, he didn’t say anything. He carefully placed those baseballs between his knees. The ghost balls outnumbered the ones between his knees about 12 to 1.

I’m not sure how long he’d been at it before I walked up, but based on the number of balls scattered about, I figured it’d been quite some time.

“Hey man,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Just checkin’ ‘em.” He didn’t bother to turn or make eye contact. The 45 on his jersey was royal blue with a light-silver outline. When it caught the sun, it glittered. “Can’t use the ones with ghosts,” he added. “Shit’s bad,” he said, his west Texas drawl rich and prominent. “Real bad.” He paused. “They come from the clay, ya know.” Finally, he turned to look at me. “The fools at Rawlings don’t know no better,” he added as he wiped little beads of sweat from beneath the bill of his cap. “You can use ‘em—” he pointed at the discarded baseballs, “if you want. I ain’t messin’ with ‘em. Not at least after right now,” he added. “Goddamned ghosts.”

I only played with Adam Bryan twice: that night in Bismarck and then again in Sioux Falls two days later. After the game in Sioux Falls, Adam Bryan disappeared. I never found out what happened to him.

I wonder about Adam Bryan often. I think about him shaking, sorting, and tossing those balls away. He was a damn good pitcher. He threw in the low-90s back when most folks didn’t. People said that a handful of times—when he was really stretched out and the weather was just right—he hit 95 or 96.

Adam Bryan’s two-seamer had run before really people talked about or even measured run. Scouts and coaches simply labeled it “lively.” That two-seamer he’s got, they’d say of Adam Bryan’s, is lively. Lively as hell. I thought he’d go somewhere. Maybe he did; I don’t know. I do know, though, that I never saw his picture on a Topps card. But just because I never saw it doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. Just because I never saw his picture on a Topps card doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

I mostly think about him tossing all those haunted baseballs away because he seemed so certain of himself and what he was doing. He was so certain of the ghosts, so certain that those balls were unusable. I’d have used those baseballs; I’d have used every single one. I’m pretty sure most folks would’ve. But not Adam Bryan. And because he wouldn’t use them, none of us did, either. His trust in himself was incredible.

I suppose I probably think about him and those baseball now because I spend so much of my time second-guessing, ruminating, and replaying the decisions I make or don’t make. Lately, my lack of self-confidence is staggering.

I care far too much about what others think of me to act like Adam Bryan. My concern for what others think cripples me, and I grow desperately anxious. It’s gotten worse as I’ve gotten older, and now, I fear, it orbits my son, Will. Yesterday, I pulled him out of his state tournament game after two innings. He was playing well, but Will’s a catcher, and his team carries two catchers. Since Will had been playing so well, the other catcher hadn’t seen much action. With us up 5-2 after three innings, I pulled Will. I’d like to think I made the change to be fair, to spread playing time amongst all the kids. That’s what I tell myself. But that’s not honest. I pulled Will because I feared what people might say or think if I kept him in with a lead even though Will had earned every bit of that playing time. I worried more about myself and what I looked like than Will. My ego is a formidable ghost, and its precedence over my son is untenable.

After the game, I could tell something was off; Will was in a funk. He recognized what I did, though he couldn’t quite put it into words. His team won, and after I reinserted him in the game—up only one run—he framed a couple of key strikes. Twice, he made blocks with runners on third to prevent wild-pitch runs. He was a beast; I was a coward.

I know that, to some extent, Will’s development is contingent upon me. I know, too, that Will’s brain is fairly malleable—he’s barely 12, a boy, and still in the vast throes of cognitive and emotional (not to mention physical) development. My brain isn’t as malleable. I worry that missing opportunities like the ones I had during that game are costly. I know those sorts of opportunities aren’t infinite; eventually, they’ll disappear. When, exactly, is anyone’s guess, but at this point, I feel as though I’m playing against the odds, the stakes massive.

I often wonder if Adam Bryan was as certain of other things as he was about those haunted baseballs. I hope he was. I hope like hell he was.

I wonder why I can’t be as certain as Adam Bryan. Maybe it’s the ghosts.