By Justin Archer
Special to BBA Weekly
Finally, this nightmare season is over – for a couple of months, at least.
I have out and out sucked this year: pitching terrible game after terrible game, pressing because I’ve been pitching terrible games, and then pitching even worse because I’m pressing.
The slider … I don’t know why, but it just deserted me this year. To compensate, I tried throwing my fastball harder and harder, with the inevitable result.
I walked Bernard Sarria in the June 11 game against Montreal … and when I threw that last fastball, my shoulder felt like it was on fire. I motioned to the dugout and Doc Mellouk came running out and then our manager, Bret Richards, and all the guys in the infield crowded around …
Man, I could barely see … my eyes were watering from the pain, and they hustled me off the mound and into the clubhouse and iced the shoulder down … but I knew it wasn’t going to do any good. Even through the ice I could feel the pain.
And now I’m out. Eight weeks, they say.
Just as well. I’ve hated nearly everything about this season – from my own play, to the way the Phantoms treated Juan Martinez. (See News and Notes in the linked article) I mean, I know Juan struggled this year, but let the man retire in grace. Why release him when he's leaving, anyway? This team’s not going anywhere in the playoffs, for God’s sake. The roster spot is more important than treating a true professional like a human being?
And now they’re moving the team out of Alabama? I mean, this state is my home – my folks are in Mobile. And when I got hurt, my dad was up here in a couple of hours. (And, yes, to everyone who’s mentioned it, I know he’s Hall of Famer Jonathan Archer. I mean, he’s my dad, right? I didn’t want people to think I was trading on his name – I wanted to make my own way. Which I sure have ... he may not want to acknowledge me after that 6.58 ERA).
Anyway, I don’t know Chicago. Maybe it’ll be fine, I don’t know. But it’s not home, and I’m not sure I want to go there. In fact, I’m not sure I want to be a Phantom or a Black Sox or whatever the hell we are now, anymore.
Maybe, somewhere, there's a team that sees you as more than a piece of meat, or a soulless statistic. Maybe.
OK. I’m gonna shut up now. I’m hurt. I feel like crap, and maybe things will seem better once my shoulder doesn’t feel like someone stabbed me with an ice pick.
Frits Brinson, my roomie on the road, is always telling me to chill out, so that's what I'm going to do for awhile. Chill and try to feel better.
Needless to say, this is the last journal entry for awhile. Sorry, BBA Weekly. I don't think this is what you had in mind.
But it's all I got - for now, anyway.
Peace.