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The torture was back, and in full force: the San Francisco Giants had lost their first two postseason games.
The plane ride from SFO to CVG was all but silent. Tim Lincecum was sitting near the back of the plane and staring out the window. He was no stranger to this feeling, the feeling that no matter how hard you tried things just weren’t working, but he hadn’t felt it on a scale such as this all season.
Next to him, Barry Zito was reading a novel, but Tim could tell he wasn’t getting very far. He hadn’t turned a page in about ten minutes, and every so often he’d just look up from his book and zone out, staring towards the front of the plane. The losses had really gotten to everyone. Even the guys who were usually upbeat were subdued, hiding behind headphones and sweatshirt hoods.
Tim looked down the aisle. Buster Posey was sitting with Madison Bumgarner, chatting half-heartedly. The game the night before had been the first time his and Tim’s battery had been reunited, and the numbers agreed that they had worked well together. For those two innings, it felt almost right again. That congratulatory clap on the back from Posey made Tim feel a lot better about not having made the rotation.
He wasn’t too upset about it, after all, how could he be? Bochy made it perfectly clear why he made the decisions he did, and Tim couldn’t argue with him. So he smiled and agreed and ran with the relievers. He was lucky to have had Romo's sense of humor to cheer him up through the exercises. Winning was the goal, he told himself. Winning was what it was all about, no matter who took them there.
He looked out the window and wondered where they were. These flights took forever, and today’s felt as if they were being punished. He yawned and his ears popped. Damn planes.
He pulled up his hood and laid his head on Zito’s shoulder. Zito (after being startled out of his reverie) adjusted to compensate him. Maybe he could get some sleep. It’d be nice to turn his brain off for a while.
---
The weather in Cincinnati was cloudy and crisp. Fall was descending on Ohio, and the trees looked beautiful. After scoping out Great American and doing their workouts, the team retired to their hotel. Back in his room, Tim dug through his suitcase in the corner. It was only about eight o’ clock but he felt as if he could fall asleep with no issues. He’d really enjoyed his nap on the plane, even if he had gotten a stiff neck from leaning on Zito.
He finally found what he was looking for in a pair of oversized grey sweatpants and a white long sleeved sweatshirt. He didn’t quite feel like turning the heat on in his room. Tim liked being cold.
He had showered at the ballpark and his hair had dried funny, which he noticed as he looked in the mirror. He tried to run a brush through it but there was no taming it. It was time for a haircut.
Thoughts of room service were dispersed from his brain as he heard a timid knock at the door. Expecting a nervous maid or a tipsy Zito, Tim answered the door with no hesitation.
It was Buster. The last person Tim would ever expect to come calling. “May I come in?” he asked. He spoke as if he was addressing Kristen’s dad for the first time, or talking to the President.
“Of course,” Tim said, opening the door. Buster gave a half nod and walked in sheepishly. “Everything okay?”
The question came out more loaded than it seemed. Tim hadn’t spent much time at all talking to Buster this season. Ever since Tim stopped throwing to him, they seemed to be set on separate courses. It was awkward at first, but they sort of fell into being civil yet distant like divorced parents. Tim couldn’t remember the last time he’d even been alone with Buster.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” Buster said, shutting the door behind him. “I just kind of realized after I caught you yesterday that I really haven’t talked to you in a while. About anything.” Tim saw the concern on his face and realized something: Buster felt guilty. He felt bad about their growing apart and it wasn’t even his fault. It wasn’t Tim’s fault either, in his opinion. He always had this fucking problem, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop it.
It started when he was younger. He had played in Little League ball with a bunch of kids from his neighborhood, and he’d made his first best friend. They’d practice together, have sleepovers, and explore the woods. It all seemed like stuff kids would do together, but Tim realized that the feelings he was developing for his best friend were different than the feelings most middle school boys experienced. He’d withdrawn from the league to find another one and tried his hardest to sever ties with the boy, telling him that his dad wanted him to pay more attention to his pitching. He’d hoped that leaving would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. Every time Tim got close to someone, he’d end up falling a little bit in love with them. He’d lost little bits of his heart to the boy with the locker next to him, the third baseman on his high school team, and the girl who was his lab partner in Chemistry. It was at least easier with her; those feelings were acceptable and made Tim hate himself a little less. He’d made his first ever declaration of love to her as a freshman, and she had smiled sympathetically and said that he was “not her type.” In retrospect, Tim didn’t blame her for not being charmed by his striking 80 pound physique.
When he went to college he’d fallen a few more times, and some of the relationships panned out. He’d had a few girlfriends and even a few boyfriends behind closed doors. He’d hoped that by the time he left college he’d have grown out of this strange weakness for close contact, but it wasn’t the case. Buster Posey was called up from the minors.
Tim had been surprised by how quickly he had lost himself. Just a few conversations with Buster had resulted in Tim’s heart beating a cadence in his chest every time he saw him. Throwing to him made him incredibly anxious, and it showed. That August he struggled. He just couldn’t escape from his own head every time he was on the mound. He couldn’t run away from Buster.
It had taken a talk with his dad to finally straighten some things out. Chris Lincecum had known something was going on. Tim had been making history for years and all of a sudden being caught by a rookie catcher was making him fall apart. Tim confessed everything to his dad because that’s just how he worked. When he was broken, he went to his dad to fix him. Chris hadn’t seemed surprised; he had always wondered what made his son run away from certain people. “You guys are making magic here,” he had told him. “Get over yourself. You could go all the way.”
Tim felt a little better after that. He was able to somehow shift his focus to getting to the postseason. His body remembered how to dominate; he just had to get his mind on board.
Something about the postseason changed things in Tim. He’d never been in a situation with pressure this high and he absolutely thrived. The high stakes of each game caused him to fully shift his concentration to throwing strikes. This was therapeutic to him as well; when he was out there on the mound helping his team and making the crowds scream, all he cared about was winning.
And they had won it all. When Wilson got the last out in Texas, Tim felt as if his body was electric and his heart was going to burst. They had done it- somehow they had won the World Series. As everybody jumped on each other and they hoisted Tim in the air on their shoulders, he realized there was nothing in the world that could ever compare with this feeling.
He rode that feeling into 2011. They had done it last year and he was determined as hell to defend that title. He shoved his feelings for Buster as deep inside of him as he could, but as spring training progressed, he realized it was a lot harder without that postseason pressure. Buster was there and they were spending a lot of time together. He even found himself seeking out Buster, hating that he couldn’t help torturing himself. He didn’t know how he was going to get through this season.
But then there was Buster’s accident. It was a day in late May that Tim would never forget. Tim felt incredibly guilty about it. There were so many times that he had wished Buster could just disappear somewhere and he wouldn’t have to worry about his “situation”. This wasn’t what he meant. The result was, however, that he wasn’t throwing to him anymore. Buster was at home a lot more and his wife was very pregnant. They were all growing older. Tim was sure that he was moving past this adolescent phase, and the frustrations of the team’s lack of offense gave him plenty to worry about.
2012 was a new season with new players. Buster started working with the team again and everyone celebrated his return. Tim had welcomed Buster back as well with a big bear hug, feeling confident that he had grown enough during their separation to be able to spend time around him again.
Well he made it about halfway through spring training before those familiar flutters and nerves came back. His velocity dropped and his delivery became erratic. Buster had to have known something was up, because why else would Bochy have suggested that Tim start throwing to Sanchez? Embarrassed as hell, Tim avoided Buster even more. They had never spoken about the breakup of their battery, and Tim didn’t think he could face Buster saying something uncomfortable about Tim’s stupid crush. He couldn’t see Buster responding well to someone having a head-over-heels crush on him. Especially someone he saw every day. Oh, and especially a man.
So now Buster was here, in his room, wanting to talk about who knows what. He must have some faith in Tim because he had closed the door. It was nice to know he wasn’t afraid of Tim jumping him alone in his hotel room. Throwing to him last night was really good, Tim had to admit. Buster seemed to be able to read Tim pretty well. Unfortunately.
“What did you want to talk about?” Tim asked, taking two water bottles out of the minifridge. He handed one to Buster.
“Just… about this. About the postseason. About you not starting. Have you talked to anyone about it? Did your dad get on your case?”
“I talked to Barry about it,” Tim said with a shrug. “My dad was kind of pissed but whatever. No one to blame but myself for losing my shit this season.”
Buster smiled wryly. “Ouch, Tim. Well if it’s worth anything, you killed it last night. You know I’m not one to coddle, but you should know that you’ve still got it. Somewhere in there.” He ruffled Tim’s hair, and the touch sent shivers down Tim’s spine. Fuck, really? Get over yourself, he thought.
“I appreciate that, man,” Tim said taking a sip of water. He sat on the edge of his bed. Buster took a seat on the couch in the corner of the room. “Shit, it’s just hard right now. Just not having it work. I know how that is, but the whole team? I just don’t know what it is. We’re better than this.”
“I know we are,” Buster said, putting his water bottle on the nightstand. “We proved it these past few months. We are better than this. All of us have been stepping up, and I guess we just need to take it into overdrive.”
“Easy for you to say, batting champ and future MVP,” Tim joked. Buster smiled humbly. “You can be happy about that, you know,” Tim said. “You don’t have to be perfectly modest all the time.”
“I am, really,” he admitted. “But I just feel like if we get eliminated it isn’t even worth it. What good is being a champion during the regular season if we get knocked out of the playoffs 1-2-3?”
“Are you seriously blaming yourself for this?” Tim asked, pulling his knees up to his chest on the bed. “Get over yourself, Posey. This losing is a team affair.” Buster cracked up laughing, which was a sound that Tim hadn’t heard in a long time.
“Well that’s a relief. I thought I was singlehandedly throwing the NLDS for everyone.”
“Regular season most valuable player, postseason least valuable player,” Tim joked, and Buster laughed again.
“Better than being regular season least valuable player I guess. Shorter time span.”
“Yeah, I’d say regular season LVP would have to go to me,” Tim said with a dry smile. “Maybe even for the whole National League.”
“Get over yourself, Lincecum,” Buster said. He faked throwing his water bottle at his head. “Did you see the way you lit up the crowd last night? Everybody had been dead until you took the mound. You struggled this season, yeah. But everybody struggles. And everybody still loves you because they know you aren’t full of it. You take responsibility for yourself.”
“Yeah, that’s true, but what good is it if things just aren’t working? I know I’m the shittiest pitcher in the National League right now. I don’t care about numbers or stats or what this or that paper says about me. What I do care about is the fact that I’m having trouble fixing myself. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. I don’t know which one it’s going to be every time I take the mound.”
“Well you gotta work,” Buster said with a shrug. “My ankle got destroyed, and I had to work from the ground up. It sucked. It was hard to retrain my body to do all of the stuff that it used to do second nature. But if things aren’t working, you have to start from the beginning.”
“Well yeah, but you got hurt. I’m not hurt at all, I just can’t get it working.”
“If you don’t know what’s wrong, starting from the beginning doesn’t hurt. That’s probably all you can do. Also you need to get out of your head. You think too much about everything.”
Tim shrugged. “I guess.”
“If you want to throw together during the offseason we can,” Buster offered. “Come out to Georgia if you want. You need a vacation. For being some ‘all star athlete’ you are too high strung.”
Tim was really surprised by this. Why, after all this time, would Buster feel bad about breaking up their battery? Did he think that it was his fault that Tim was struggling?
“Jesus, Buster,” Tim said. “I really appreciate that. A lot. But you need to spend the offseason with your family. Your kids. I’ll be working with my dad a lot, I’m sure. Hitting the gym. Just trying to fix this,” he said, gesturing to his body.
“You need to work on this, too,” Buster said, gesturing to his head. “Cut yourself a little slack sometime, Tim,” Buster said. He finished the water bottle and stood up. “Starting now. Get some rest. You can stay up all night after we win the World Series in a few weeks.”
Tim laughed and ran his hand through his hair. “Got it.” He opened the door and Buster walked out into the hallway and lingered. “What’s up?” Tim asked.
Buster turned to face Tim and smiled. “It was really nice to talk. I miss you, sometimes.”
“Oh, sometimes? Fine, I miss you too, every other Thursday.” Buster laughed.
“You know what I mean. Good night, Timmy,” Buster said, holding up a hand in goodbye.
“Take it easy,” Tim said with a smile, closing the door. He let out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding in. He was really surprised by how he felt: good. Happy. He didn’t feel upset or uncomfortable. Catching up with Buster was actually really nice. It was good to know that he wasn’t acting strange around Tim because of the “situation”.
Tim pulled the sweatshirt over his head and threw it on his suitcase. Sliding into the hotel bed, he realized that for the first time in a while he might actually get a good night’s sleep.
---
Buster looked back at the closed door of Tim’s room. He sighed and continued towards the elevator. He was tired. Losing was hard, and he was really disappointed in himself for not doing what he had thought he was strong enough to do. Pacing in the hallway in front of the elevator, Buster tried to get a hold on his frustration. “Damn it,” he said quietly to himself. “It’s not so hard. It isn’t.” He hit the elevator button to go up the few floors to his room. Kristen had surprised him by calling into the hotel and upgrading him to a suite in an effort to cheer him up about the losses. The elevator dinged and he stepped inside. He pushed the button to head up to his floor and choked back the feelings of anger and frustration. Hot tears threatened to pour from his eyes. Too many emotions in too few days. Too many emotions this entire season.
He stepped out of the elevator on his floor and walked to his room. Before he could get the card key in the lock, he heard a door opening behind him. “Hey,” a voice said.
He turned around and saw Zito lounging in the doorway of his suite (sometimes he upgraded because he really enjoyed Whirlpool baths). “So did you tell him? How you feel?”
Buster sighed and turned towards his door. He was hoping he would have been able to escape Zito, but knowing him, he had been waiting outside his door for the past hour or so listening for the sound of the elevator. Buster slid the card key in the lock, opened the door, and paused. Before stepping inside, he looked out at Zito and sighed. “I can’t.”