My name is Juan Sanchez and I’m just an ordinary man in society. I am a single father to my son Alex, who is now 15 years old and loves baseball and the Boston Red Sox. My wife has been gone for years, and I miss her more and more each and every day. I almost forgot to mention this, I’m a retired baseball player and in a week’s time I’m going to be part of baseball history forever. I sit in my living room alone in the dark on my favorite leather recliner on West 34th street, Boston, and the thought still lingers in my mind. Twenty six years of lies and I’m being honored for the mistakes I’ve made. I’m forty-six, and I can feel the guilt building up inside of me as if I were just a kid again trying to keep a secret that I know I have to confess. I can remember it like it were yesterday, when Andrés talked me into making the biggest mistake of my life. I think about it every day. I’ve told myself for years that I would reveal the truth before any of this could happen, but I just couldn’t. I’m a hero back home, and if I came out and told the truth, I’d be the biggest disappointment in Boston. I’d be the biggest disappointment to Alex. I can remember it so clearly, back in Boston when I was in one of my first years in the minor league. Andrés approached me in the clubhouse and told me about a way that I can move up the depth charts in no time. Talking to him in the empty clubhouse and no one could hear us except for the jerseys that hung inside the lockers for the game scheduled later that evening. I rejected his offer at first, but the thought about making it in the Major Leagues screamed in the back of my mind. I thought about it, and hesitantly asked him about his idea. Later that week, I remember meeting him at his house on South 18th street and heading to a strange old Puerto Rican man’s office. He looked to be in his 60’s. The old man didn’t have a name, not that I knew of. He was a short, stalky man with thinning hair that was white as snow. The smell of a peculiar mixture of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne stung the inside of my nose. In no time the deed was done, and I was ready to sink my teeth into baseball history.
Driving around town in my black Chrysler 300, I think about the phone call I had with my father last night that made me think about home for the first time in years. “How are you doing son?” my Dad asked me. “Good, have you been getting the checks I’ve been sending?” I asked my Dad. ”Yes, we have, I can’t thank you enough son. Now how soon until you come home? I’ve yet to meet my grandson,” my father asked. “Soon dad, very soon,” I barked back. I hadn’t thought of it as home for quite some time. I should really have tried to make it home, but with the city’s flashing lights and being around my former teammates who were some of my closest friends, I used these as my excuses for staying. Now that’s what seemed more like home to me than that old two-bedroom house. Sitting in my current home, I can remember exactly what my first home looked like when I was a kid. The room I could remember most was my own. I was never home much as a kid, but when I was,
I was locked away in my room. My walls were covered with the cheap baseball posters I would buy at Carlo’s drug store, if they had any posters that is. One wall was dedicated to my baseball hero, Sammy Sosa. Another wall dedicated to my favorite Major League baseball team, the St. Louis Cardinals. My other two walls were filled with posters and drawings of players and even some baseball cards I had won from some kids in town. Every room in our home was a dark brown shade of darkness. Maybe that was one of the reason I hung up so many posters, so I didn’t have to look at the walls. Growing up, my bedtime was whenever the sun went down. Our home didn’t have working lights, so when the sun was down, that meant bed time. I can remember mowing whatever lawns I could and doing manual labor jobs to help my parents, even with my small paychecks I earned. As much as I wanted to save up for a baseball glove of my own, I would come home from a “job” and place my $5 or $10 on the table. When I turned thirteen, my father bought me my own baseball mitt. I could tell it was a cheap mitt, he may have even gotten it at a yard sale, but I knew that was the best he could do for me. I loved him so much for that. I put on the biggest smile I could and embraced him. I remember standing in the kitchen when he gave me my mitt. Now, because of the baseball career I have had, I could buy my son Alex hundreds of baseball gloves.
Five days until I get inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Here I am, standing in my room alone, staring into my mirror while trying to practice my Hall of Fame inductee speech. Every time I start to give my speech I think about that night, and soon enough I give up and start again. When I look into the mirror I see myself twenty years ago sitting on that old Puerto Rican man’s bench, looking the other way focusing on the patterns on the wall for fear of seeing what was about to pierce my skin. I remember to this day that the walls were covered in different birds: cardinals, robins, blue jays, orioles and jet black crows. After a shock went up and down my arm, the shot was over and done with, and Andrés insisted that we immediately head to the gym and start working out. I could feel the liquid the Puerto Rican man injected me with rush to every part of my body. I was a strong kid before, but I was about to get stronger than I had ever imagined. The shot that that strange man would give me always made me mad. I would experience times where I wanted to fight my friends in the dugout, but I had no idea at the time that it was the shots that made me lose my temper like that. So I kept going back to the old Puerto Rican man for more shots. The next thing I knew, more baseball I would hit went out of the park. I was young and stupid back then and I hadn’t realized what I was getting myself into with the anger and the shots, I just focused on the results and was content with the way things were. Andrés experienced the same effects as I did. I was the second player to bat in the line-up and Andrés followed in the three spot. The year we both started getting the shots from that old white haired man, Andrés and I had hit for a total of sixty-seven homeruns between the two of us; Andrés hit thirty-one while I hit thirty-six. We were the hero’s of the Boston Red Sox nation. Hand in hand, we carried the Red Sox to the playoffs, and soon to follow, the World Series. Before the World Series, Andrés and I paid a visit to the old Puerto Rican man to … “Knock-Knock!” “Hey Dad!” Alex yelled from behind the closed door. The knocking at my door took me from my cloudy daydream, back to reality.
Alex wanted to go to Parker’s house to play and because it is just the two of us, I drove him there happily. Andrés was Parker’s father, so when I dropped Alex off I figured I would go in and talk to my old pal. Walking through the front door, I knew the layout of the house and I knew exactly where Andrés would be; his theatre room. Walking down the hall and making my way to the last door on the left, my eyes caught sight of all the trophies, pennants, photographs, Andrés first baseball bat from the major league, his first home run ball and “The Poster”. The old poster they used to sell of Andrés and me. The poster was split in half; on the left side was Andrés making solid contact with the ball and then me on the right side showing a home run swing. At the top of the poster it read “Boston’s Two Headed Monster.” After standing in front of the poster, mesmerized by this old poster, I made my way into Andrés theatre room. Any time I went to visit Andrés this is where he would be, watching old game highlights from when we both played. His glory days. As soon as I walked in I saw the highlight of the World Series we made it to in our first full season together with the Red Sox.
The game film blew my mind, bringing back old memories. On the screen now was myself digging into the box. Game seven of the World Series, and it was my chance for glory, to win us the game. I had been having a spectacular day already going 3 for 4 with two homeruns and four RBI’s. As I dug in, I hear the announcer’s voice creep up the back of my neck yelling, “Stepping into the box, number 15, Juan Sanchez!” Fenway Park erupted at this, and everyone in the stadium rose to their feet. Not a single empty seat in the house. The game was tied six to six, and I could end it right here. Joel Price was on the mound and he was notorious for throwing fast balls; my favorite pitch to take out of the park. Standing in the box, waving my bat up in the air, I was ready. Price had his sign from the catcher, wound and delivered his pitch; a fastball outside. I gripped my bat, swung as hard as I could and watched as the ball sailed out of the park. Again, the announcer screamed over the mike, “It’s high, it’s far… It’s… GONE! Red Sox win! Red Sox win the World Series off the bat of Juan Sanchez!” he shouted. My memory of the game ended, and I turned around and walked out of Andrés’ home, not saying a word to him. The last image on the screen showed a woman in the stands cheering for the Red Sox. She wore a white Sanchez jersey and a blue Red Sox cap. She was breathtaking. So beautiful. That long curly blonde hair resting on her shoulders, eyes as deep and blue as the ocean, and her perfectly innocent smile were all too real. I could have sworn Lindsey was in the room with me. Just the two of us.
This is it, the moment of truth. Today is induction day for the Baseball Hall of Fame. Do I tell the world what I did that night when I came home angry once again? I stood at the podium before thousands in the stands, along with thousands, maybe even millions watching me on T.V. Before I started, I thought about Alex, do I really want him to be alone in the world by himself? The only place there is left for him to go other than to a foster home is with Mom and Dad. I think to myself, no, I won’t let him live his life like that. So I give my speech about what an honor it was to be a part of the Red Sox organization. I go on to tell everyone watching about how I am the man I am today because of my mother and father. How life growing up was difficult for my family and me. After ten minutes or so my dreaded speech was over, but the memory of Lindsey still lingers in the back of my mind. Memories of my addiction to steroids and wanting to get bigger, stronger and better at baseball flooded my crowded thoughts. The life I wanted and dreams of my whole life came to a halt that night. I remember it all too clearly. I always will. I came home from the gym on a dark and chilled December night angry, as I always seemed to be when I finished my workout. Little things would irritate me and send me over the edge. When I came home, it was late and Lindsey had stayed awake waiting for me to come home. It was the third time I came home late from the gym that week and Lindsey had had enough. She was upset with me for being home late again, and talked in a tone quiet enough as to not wake Alex. A serge of anger shot through me and I pushed Lindsey back away from me, hard. I would never hurt her. I loved Lindsey. I still love her. But as she fell, she hit her head off the corner of our counter. She fell to the kitchen floor unconscious. At first I couldn’t believe what was happening right in front of me. Then, all at once, reality set in and knocked me out of a trance and I ran for the phone to call an ambulance. I remember sitting on the floor in our kitchen holding Lindsey in my arms, hoping she’d wake up, hoping this was all just a crazy dream and I would wake up. A week later Lindsey still hadn’t woken up, and every doctor I spoke to said Lindsey would never open her eyes again. I had to say goodbye to the only woman I’ve ever loved. I never woke up from that terrifying nightmare. To this day, the thought of what I did to Lindsey that night sends chills up my spine and makes me sick to the point that I could vomit. I wish I could take it back. I would give up my entire baseball career if it meant that I could hold her in my arms once more, and look into those beautiful blue eyes. If I told the truth, what would happen to Alex? Would he end up in a foster home until he was eighteen? Would he be sent overseas to live with my parents in the Dominican Republic? I wouldn’t let that happen to him. Now that baseball is officially over with in my life, the only thing that I have left is Alex, and I’ll never let anything happen to him. I’ll live the rest of my life in painful secret about what I’ve done.