No PP: One Last Ride

[ae37jr]

"One Last Ride"
By Phil “Brewmeister” Cole

They told me I'd be getting one last start this week.

In Vancouver.

I don’t know if it’s poetic justice, divine comedy, or just some baseball god with a mean streak—but here I am. Thirty-eight years old, 17 big league seasons in the books, and a bullpen arm hanging on by chewing gum and coffee grounds. And now I’m going to stand on the same mound I once ruled like a damn king. One last time.

They say you don’t get to write your ending in this game. I guess I got lucky.

It’s funny, the things that stick with you.

I still remember walking into the Mounties’ clubhouse for the first time after the El Paso trade in ‘48. Young and wild, with a knuckleball that made grown men sweat and a slider that dropped like a bad punchline. Vancouver was where I became somebody. Where I stopped being a kid from Fullerton and became the Brewmeister. Where the chants started. Where the no-hitters happened. Where the awards came, and the extension, and then... the fall.

I left with my arm in shreds and my ego worse off.

And yet they cheered me when I came back, even last year. Even broken.

This year? I wasn’t even supposed to be here.

Twin Cities gave me a lifeline. Most teams saw a guy with a torn-up UCL and more airline miles than strikeouts. But Alan Ehlers and Brandt... hell, they gave me a shot. Said they liked the knuckler. Said maybe I had one more chapter left.

Turns out they were right. ERA under three, not a single homer allowed, and a WHIP so low it makes my younger self jealous. But starting? At this age?

No one expected that.

And yet, when they told me they needed a spot start in Vancouver with Takuda on the IL, I said yes before they even finished the sentence.

Because there are ghosts in that stadium. My ghosts. The good ones.

I don’t know if this is goodbye.

Maybe I’ve got a few more months. Maybe I hang around until they rip the jersey off my back. Or maybe this really is the end of the road. If it is, then damn it—I'm going out standing tall on the same mound that made me.

Not every guy gets that.

Not every guy gets to look up at the third deck and know every sweat-drenched moment meant something.

Not every guy gets to hear the roar for him one more time in the city that raised him.

I don’t care if I get shelled. I don’t care if I throw 50 pitches and can’t lift my arm the next day.

All I care about is hearing my cleats hit that dirt. Feeling that rosin on my fingers. Hearing that ump say, “Play ball.”

One last time. The knuckle ball will float like a butterfly.

For me. For the game.

For the kid from Fullerton who once thought he’d never make it past college.

See you on the mound, Vancouver.

Let’s make it count. Eh?

—Phil "Brewmeister" Cole #28
Twin Cities River Monsters