No, I’m not a “better” pitcher but I don’t feel like I’m having as much “wind” taken out of me when I go out there for my inning-or-so.  Last week, I pitched 2.1 innings and struck out two and only gave up one hit.  That’s the sort of thing I mean.   I threw 40 pitches but felt like I could’ve thrown 50 or 60.  I ran out of innings though.

This has also impacted other ares of my life.  I guess now that I’m not feeling sorry for myself, I’m less attractive to some women who shall remain nameless because she knows who she is.  The truth is, though,  it’s probably for the best that we broke up.  With my newfound stamina.  I’m getting the opportunity to “test the market” and I’m liking what I find is available to major league ballplayers.

I want to thank the developers and scientists and doctors and so on who came up with this drug.  I used to dream of being a starting pitcher.  A dream that was formerly impossible for me to achieve.  Now, it is a realistic goal for me.  And I am going to be working toward it.  But there are still patients out there who don’t respond to the available treatments–even Stamivent.  And for them, I’m donating $500,000 to help find a cure, rather than just more treatments.

It was taken in the locker room and the caption that it was first published under was “More than you’ll ever see of Kennit Cain on the mound.”  And I didn’t think anything of it.  But then I started getting fan mail.  And more fan mail.  And even more fan mail.   And some of it has fans “returning the favor” with their own images.   And I have to admit, some of what I see looks pretty nice.

My girlfriend took that picture for ESPN the Magazine.   I met her when she covered the baseball team when I was a sophomore.  She says I’m “photogenic” but I always thought that meant that you look nicer in pictures than in person.   Except she assures me I look nice in person, too.   Yes there are other pictures of me and no, I won’t share them.

***

And I have a fan club.  It’s an odd group that has nothing to do with the picture.  It has to do with my name.  Well, my nickname actually.  “Captain Kennit” is a nicknamed I earned for pirating that first win and now I have a “Pirate Crew” who dress as pirates and who gather at the balcony off the main concourse. to drink and watch the game.   When I heard about them, I laughed.  Once I found out what they do, I laughed harder.   They have little hooks,  Costume ones made of plastic? And whenever the pitcher on the mound is struggling, they all put on their hooks and bang them on the balcony railing.  “Take. Him. Out.”   But when I’m up there struggling and Jimmy D or the Skipper comes out to visit me, it’s always,  “Leave. Him. In.”   Very funny.

They shout together that opposing hitters are “scurvy dogs”  or that the pitcher will make hitters “Walk the plank” and stuff.   And when one of our guys knocks it out, they sing, “way, hey, up she rises….” from some pirate song.

The gang also has organized a trip to visit children in the hospital. We were on the road, but that’s a very good thing to do.   I’ve given tickets to the Boys and Girls clubs but I hadn’t really thought that there are kids who can’t come to the game because they’re hurt or sick.  Maybe the next long homestand.   And I could get a few of the guys and we could talk to kids and sign stuff.  I think that would be a nice thing to do.

I lost a game. It was a tie after nine. LaBeau (I keep wanting to type it as two words) pitched the first nine and only gave up one run.  The guys only scored one for us, so the score was 1-1.  I faced one hitter.  Tex Cobb.  And he dumped the second pitch into center for a solid single. At which point I was lifted and our closer brought in.  And Babs gets the next guy out, Derick Cameron.  Okay, so now this guy named Molholt comes up to the plate, batting twenty points over the Mendoza line and wanting a piece of our closer.  Well, he got that.  I never seen a ball go so far … but then I’ve never had my runner cross the plate first to credit me with the loss.

Before you ask, no, I’m not mad at Babs. That was my runner so it was my loss.  If he had grounded out, then I wouldn’t be looking at the loss no matter what Babs did. And maybe if he hadn’t've reached, I would’ve still been on the mound to face Molholt and I’d have been the one whose pitch he took over the line. If ifs and buts were candy and nuts it’d be Christmas all year long.

So now I have a losing record.  My ERA is still under two-fifty and I have struck out eight and walked only two.  That means I’m still a decent pitcher even if I’m not where I want to be.

It’s been a month and I’ve really had a great time pitching for the Voodoo.  And I love that fan group, the Voodoo Dolls.  My doll is Cass and I was on their podcast.  I really like how a city can embrace a bunch of teenage baseball players like that. And to know that we are loved by our fans helps us to revel more in our wins and put our losses behind us.   As a team and as players.

So I’m putting my loss behind me and moving on.

I have a *save*.

I *have* a *save* in my first game.  That’s not what I was expecting but there it is, read it in the box score.  I went in in the 8th and figured I’d get the one out and then someone else would handle the ninth.  But no, they sent me back out there.   And 8 pitches later, the inning was over, the game was over, and I, Kennit Cain, had my first professional save in my first professional appearance.

I kept expecting to be replaced.  But I wasn’t.  The reason I came in was that LaBeau was over a hundred twenty on the pitch count.  And you could tell he was getting tired because he’d let up two runs already and had a runner when I came in.  That runner went nowhere.  It took me three pitches to end the inning.  A nice pop-up.

And when I got back to the dugout, Skip tells me to put the jacket on because I’m going back out in the ninth.  What can I say?   I followed instructions.

I really expected to face only one hitter.   Well, two total once I knew I was going back out to start the ninth.  But I got the first guy out and Skip didn’t come get the ball.  And I asked the catcher, Manning, and he was all, “don’t worry about it — just pitch — I’ll tell you when it’s time to come out.”   So I did.   And we got through it, the two of us.

Afterward, he and I played a little Guitar Hero.  Making millions of dollars means you can pretty much pick which games you play.  GH was his idea and, well, it looks like catchers’ fingers can flat-out fly.  The important part though is that Tom and I came to the not-so-surprising conclusion that we’d be working together a lot.  He said something about how he needs to get to know me better, even if I don’t know him better, which makes no sense, but it’s what he said.

***

Since I wrote that, I think I understand it.  There are a mess of pitchers but only two catchers so the catchers have to learn the habits of all of us but we only have to understand and work with two of them.

That up there makes it sound like I don’t care if we lose sometimes.  It’s not that.  It’s that as a pitcher, your job doesn’t change really, even if the team is down by eleven runs.   So realistically, sometimes you go out there knowing the game is most likely lost and all you can do is keep them from piling on.  And, you do what you can.

That’s something else. I don’t know if you have ever heard the expression about staying “inside” yourself.   I know I’m not a perfect pitcher and to try to pretend that I am will only get me in trouble.   I need to pitch the way Kennit Cain pitches, not the way some star from my youth did.  And Kennit Cain is not a very good pitcher yet.  Because I’m only seventeen.  And because I have asthma.

Oh my, did any of you notice?  I’m not journaling homework.  I’m journaling me.  This I think is what they had in mind when we were all told to set up with blogs.   I think it is anyway.

The important thing is that I have a job.  I will wake up in the morning and brush the teeth of a professional baseball player.   Last week I wrote about love and well, I am achieving love.  And my goal of spending time with my love.

My contract runs for five years.  That’s longer than high school, which seemed pretty long while it was happening but doesn’t seem quite as long now that I’m looking back at it with the idea of leaving (which is kinda weird).  I wasn’t sure but my dad said it was okay.  His lawyer looked at it too, just to be certain I wasn’t getting screwed over.   I am definitely getting paid every year even if I’m injured or what-not.   And I can’t be traded, sorta.  That I wasn’t sure about but what it means is that I can’t be traded without my permission.   So I can still be traded.  Not that I want out, but I do want to know how the process…the procedure, works.     It’s my contract and i want to make sure I’m not signing something I don’t understand.

Nothing in there about my asthma, though that actually makes me feel kind of warm and fuzzy.  I’m being treated like any other player, not like a cripple.

So I’m gearing up for opening day.   It can’t come soon enough.

I am in love.  I have a passion, a dream.  I know how I want to spend my life.  And that is pitching baseball.  And just like Romeo and Juliet, I’m facing obstacles.  It’s not my parents, who don’t really care one way or the other what I do so long as I stay out of trouble.  It’s not my school or my coaches, who actually are supportive of me and my effort.  No, it’s my body.

Romeo and Juliet had true love, the kind that means risking your homelife for a future together.  I would risk anything for a future in baseball.  And I am.

Because I’m crippled.   Oh, not so’s you’d notice.  And I don’t get one of those stickers for my car.  But I can only run so far, throw so many pitches before my body rebels against me.  But love doesn’t care about things like that.  It tries to go beyond the limits of the physical body.  Like Romeo and Juliet, united not in life, but beyond life.

Every pitcher dreams of the perfect game.   Twenty-seven hitters up and twenty-seven hitters down.   I will never pitch one, but the dream is there, fluttering in my heart.  It would be the most astonishing luck if I pitched four full innings and a miracle if I got six.   And we’re talking ordinary innings with walks and runners and stuff.

You know I haven’t thought about this, but would I die for my love?  I answer that question all the time.  Yes, you can die from an asthma attack and yes, I risk having one every time I take the mound. But I didn’t think about it that way until I thought about Romeo and Juliet.  Romeo and Juliet gave up their literal lives for each other.  I may do that for my love someday.  That kind of puts a new spin on that saying “I live for this”.

That is love.  Wanting to be with with your love and willing to risk everything.  Romeo and Juliet had that.  So I have to say yes, they were in love.

For those who stumbled on this through google or accident, Mr. Melting asked us to keep journals for second semester English 3.   I have no idea what I’ll write about except journal assignments.

Today our assignment is a lyric.  Find a lyric from a song or a poem that describes some part of you and then talk about why.

No on knows what it’s like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

And I am bad.  Not bad-ass, just, bad. Especially at my favorite thing which is baseball pitching.

Oh, I can throw decent but I can’t do it very long because of my stupid asthma which they SAY is “under control”.  It’s not though.  Oh, I can do warmups okay.  I can pitch for a couple innings okay, but get me much over 40-45 pitches and I’m through.  I have heard of guys with asthma going six or seven innings, but I just can’t catch my breath after two or three.  My doctor says that I should just find something else to do because he’s done everything for me and I can lead a “normal” life with the regimen I’m using now. But I don’t want a normal life.  I want to pitch baseball.

It seems to me I would need to be able to pitch longer in games to be “good”.  BUT still teams need guys like me to fill certain roles where you don’t need to pitch for a long time.  If I can pitch better, I might find myself pitching the last inning of close games we’re winning.  That job even has a job title.  Closer.  And I can do one inning easy.

I need better stuff and more control to do that, though.  I’m good at keeping it on the ground, even without throwing a two-seamer and so that works in my favor.  It helps induce double plays and that’s one of the best ways to get rid of inherited runners.

No one knows though, what it’s like to know you’ll never be a starter.   When you grew up watching guys who would pitch complete game shutouts or even no-hitters or perfect games.   The song is about something different but the part about how no one knows what it’s like is right on target.  And I’m not angry.  I’m done with angry and it’s left behind just a feeling of sadness. Deep sadness.

I love baseball and I’d do anything for a baseball job.  Even pitch out of the bullpen in the middle innings (which is how this journal got its name).  And I know what my limitations are.  I will never be a starter.   But I have a shot at being a closer if I improve my pitching.   So I’m putting my name in the ATH draft.  Teams need guys who can pitch a couple innings.  I can do that.