In which death does not yet come for Perry Hill, but a delicious frozen beverage does
“¿Quieres otra piña colada?”
Perry Hill pulls his eyes away from his e-reader and squints up at the smiling waiter.
“Ahh no no. No gracias.”
“Está bien. ¿Algo más?”
Perry considers the placement of the sun, still high enough to provide ample warmth, and his book, the latest Kathy Reichs, which is just beginning to get good.
“Mmm un daiquiri de fresa por favor.”
“Por supuesto,” the waiter nods, and turns away.
Perry’s phone dings with a text.
J.P. Crawford: miss ya
Below is a selfie of him and Dylan Moore, posing with fungos in the outfield grass.
Perry had been wary all winter, fielding texts and calls from friends in and out of baseball about the Mariners’ infield situation, but in all his communications had tried to hold the party line. They had closed out the 2024 season strongly, all the key players were returning, the front office has far more going on than the public does or could know. But internally, he worried. He and Dan texted constantly, speculating and strategizing in equal measure. He called Justin, and sent frequent Slack messages to Jerry, because that was how they’d been told he preferred to be contacted, until one day Perry found that the #coaches-plus-J-D channel had been archived and Jerry was no longer available on his DM list.
By the time everyone arrived in Arizona, the team was well and truly the same as it was, though now with Donovan Solano, whom he cherished – as he did all his past and present players – but had never expected to see again in a professional capacity. In Peoria, they’d built a large wall, specifically for his drills, with “27 outs, no more” printed proudly across it. The Wall of Appeasement, Perry had dubbed it in his head. He understood balancing a checkbook as well as the next, but why did Jerry continue to insist on cutting corners with the infield? Perry had thought he was done with the “prove it” part of his career after he survived Pittsburgh.
He fought it all spring, buoyed at times by the energy of the youngsters and the group dinners with the Moores. But even those bright spots weighed on him. These boys are out there every day, working hard, trying their best, but it’s not enough, he thought. It doesn’t matter how hard they work, how many drills we run, how many sessions Jorge and I do at the wall. It’s not going to be enough. He knew his time in the game would eventually come to an end, he’d just never envisioned it would be like this. A heartbreaking extinguishing of the final embers of the passion, the faith, the life he’d cultivated for more than half a century.
They lost 6-2 on Opening Day, and it spiraled from there. Each day ticked by, nearly indistinguishable from the last. Every loss felt inevitable, every victory hard-won. Perry knew baseball wasn’t an old man’s game, but it had never felt as unkind, as arduous, as uniquely crushing to mind, body and spirit, as it did in those months. One afternoon in Anaheim, as he watched Cole Young, pressed into service far too early but with no other option, fumble yet another grounder and hurry his throw to first, which skipped under Raley’s hopelessly outstretched glove, Perry had a moment of clarity. Why fight the inevitable? He thought. There was no change last year, or the year before, nor the year before that. The boys – my boys – were set up to fail before season had even started, and to believe that would change anytime soon…well, that dog won’t hunt.
In July, when it became clear they would be sellers, he put in his two-weeks notice to coincide with the All-Star break. He let them say it was for health reasons, packed a bag and flew to Puerto Escondido, where a buddy from his Mexican League days had opened a small beach-side resort.
“¿Otra daiquiri?” a voice asks, shaking Perry from his reverie.
“Claro,” he says with a shrug. “¿Por qué no?”