Jesse at the Bat
written by: John McPhee
“Here comes the fastball. It’s coming right for my head! DUCK! DAMMIT! DUCK!”
Jesse Brock bolted up from his sleep. His pyjamas were soaked.
His head dropped to his chest as he cupped his face with his large hands and started to cry.
“You’ll never be able to do this,” his inner voice told him. “NEVER! It’s over.”
The radio clock’s red digital display read 4:37. He would be getting up in a couple of hours anyway, so he tossed off the blankets and headed for a cold shower.
***
The greetings Jesse had received when he first arrived at the Spring Training complex in Florida nine days ago were encouraging.
“Jesse, buddy! You’re looking great! How’ya doing?”
“Never been better. Good as new, boys,” he would lie in response.
After all, how could anyone come back from getting beaned in the side of the head by a 104-mile-per-hour fastball.
The impact of that August 12th pitch, which abruptly ended his first season, had shattered more than just his batting helmet. It had shattered his confidence. He knew it.
Jesse had spent six weeks in the hospital recovering from that blow and the emergency surgery that almost cost him his eyesight in the left eye.
But the surgeon was great, and a “full recovery” was expected.
“Full recovery,” Jesse told himself. “What the hell do they know about recovering from almost having half your face smashed in?”
Over the winter months, he worked hard to get back into shape. Even if he was only 22, he still had a lot of catching up to do.
But now that spring training was here, time was up.
***
Jesse was leading the league in home runs last season, before it was all taken away from him. They all said he was fearless at the plate. But now he had shuttered that courage, that confidence, maybe for good.
As the early days in spring training progressed, Jesse became more and more nervous, and more and more unhappy.
One morning, manager Bob Turnbull called him into the office.
“Games start tomorrow, kid. How are you feeling?”
Turnbull, a 55-year veteran of the game, saw the young player squirm in his chair.
“Things are coming along,” Jesse said. “I’m worried about getting my timing back, though.”
“Your timing will come back. You have a natural talent. But that’s not what I’m asking.”
“What do you mean, Skipper?”
“Look, son, I got beaned a few times over my career, but I had already twelve years in the bigs. You didn’t even get your first year in. I know it can be difficult.”
Jesse tried a different line of defense. “Ah geez, Skip, I got hit plenty of times in the minors. No problem.”
Turnbull raised his voice. “Did you ever get hit in the side of the head with a hundred-plus mile an hour fastball?” He needed to break through his player’s bravado.
“Ahh, umm, no, Skip. No, never got hit in the head,” Jesse’s voice was softer now. He was defeated.
“Alright then. I’m starting you at DH tomorrow. Get some rest tonight.”
As Jesse stood to leave, the Skipper had one more thing to say.
“You don’t seem to be enjoying it this year, son. I never see you smile. It’s OK to smile, ya know – it’s spring, it’s baseball, and you’re back in the game. So enjoy it will ya?”
Jesse looked back at his Skipper. He said he would try, but he didn’t smile.
That night, back in his apartment, Jesse was a mess. He paced around the living room, wondering if he should back out of tomorrow’s game.
But, everyone knew, Jesse never got sick. “That won’t work,” his inner voice told him. “Just tell them the truth. Tell them you’re scared. Tell them you want to quit.”
He looked at the face in the mirror and questioned whether it was all worth it. He got ready for bed, but knew he wasn’t ready for sleep, and he tossed and turned in a futile attempt to “get some rest,” but every time he did nod off, it only lasted as long as it took for a fastball to slam into his head.
***
Jesse’s first at bat came in the second inning. He slowly walked up to the plate. His heart was pounding.
The catcher called for a curveball. Jesse bailed, ducked, and turned his body away from the plate so far that his bat was deemed a swing. It was a pitch closer to the ground than his shoulders.
The next one was off the plate, but Jesse swung at the ball in wild fashion. The third pitch was even further off the plate, and Jesse swung again. Three pitches, three strikes.
His only other at-bat in the game produced the same results, and Turnbull took him out.
“Get’em tomorrow, kid.”
“Ya, right, Skipper.”
But the next game wasn’t any better. In fact, Jesse never even made contact with the ball on any pitch in his next eight games. He went 0 for 18.
He was lost, and everyone knew it. Attempts by some teammates to console and reassure him always drew angry replies, so players decided to leave him alone with his demons.
Turnbull decided Jesse wasn’t ready and told him he would be sitting out “for a while”.
“You need to get your head on straight,” Turnbull said. “Maybe you ought to see a shrink.”
“I’m fine, Skipper. I just wish everyone would get off my back and leave me alone.”
“Well, you’re benched until further notice.”
“Whatever,” Jesse replied and walked away.
For the next two weeks, Turnbull had him on the bench and told reporters to leave him alone.
Then one day, halfway through the spring, in the sixth inning, Turnbull suddenly yelled over to Jesse. “Brock, grab a bat, you’re hitting for Spencer.”
Hitting coach Mike Courtney pulled Turnbull aside. “Bob, do you think that’s wise? He hasn’t been in a game for a couple of weeks now, and he wasn’t any good when he was. He hasn’t had time to prepare.”
“That’s exactly why I’m doing it, Mike. I don’t want him shitt’en himself the night before and all during the day about facing live pitching again. He’s got to jump in the deep end without having the chance to think about it.”
Jesse wasn’t happy to get the call. He still didn’t believe he was ready.
The league knew all about his struggles and the reason behind them. So, the catcher called for an inside pitch. Even though Jesse was standing off the plate, he still took a step back as he swung way too early and missed.
The second pitch was a fastball right down the heart of the plate, and Jesse just froze.
“Jesus!” Courtney whispered in Turnbull’s ear in the third base dugout. “The kid’s petrified up there.”
“Ya, he is,” Turnbull said as he spat on the dugout floor.
Jesse swung wildly at another pitch well off the plate but somehow managed to foul it off. He then fouled off three more. Without even realizing it, with each pitch Jesse inched closer to the plate.
On the seventh pitch of the at-bat, Jesse swung and swung hard. He felt the ball smash into the barrel of the bat and saw it sailing high into the bright blue sky.
“Well, look at that,” Courtney said to Turnbull as Jesse was rounding second base on his way to home plate. “That’s the first time I’ve seen the kid smile all spring.”
“Ya, it is,” the skipper replied, then spat on the floor again. “It sure as hell is.”
- Jesse at the Bat - March 14, 2026
