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Read the prologue of Vince Wetzel's new novel

teen boy and grandfather at baseball game

An exerpt from Lose Yourself, Vince Wetzel’s novel, available for Direct Sale, and at Amazon, Bookshop.org, BarnesandNoble.com, and other major online retailers.

Prologue

July 27, 2013

Stockton, California

Though he’d never say it out loud to anyone, the twelve-year-old boy next to him was his favorite grandchild.

It wasn’t that he disliked his three other grandkids. They were all a joy, and he loved them dearly. Still, only one shared his passion for baseball. While he watched his other grandchildren play hide-and-seek or pretend on summer afternoons, this boy learned the game perched on his grandfather’s lap watching TV. He read infield alignments before See Spot Run, learned long division through batting average calculation, and knew the league-MVP candidates better than the presidents.

Their special bond was why he had no problem with picking up the boy from his son’s house in Sacramento for an impulsive forty-five-minute drive to watch a low-minor-league game in Stockton. He wanted to make a lasting memory. But he should have remembered the unrelenting Stockton heat in the middle of summer.

He pulled off his damp green Oakland A’s cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The heat didn’t affect the boy. He took another bite of his hot dog, one so big the grandfather thought he might choke. The boy leaned forward and admired the field in front of him, unfazed by the temperature or possible suffocation by beef parts. He was there for the game and enjoying their seats, just a few rows behind the Stockton dugout.

“So, you think some of these guys are going to make the majors?” the boy asked, keeping his eyes forward.

“I’m sure of it. Maybe even the guy who signed our tickets. What was his name?”

“Brett Austen,” the boy read on the back of the tickets. The stubs were still sitting on his knee, the black ink still fresh and pungent from being signed before the game. “I wish it was a ball, though.”

“This is better. Look, he personalized it with a note, and it’s his first game as a pro. We need to hold onto these. They may become valuable.”

“That means he’d have to become legendary. Do you think he’ll go that far, Grandpa?”

“Well, this is his first game at the lowest levels of the minor leagues.” The grandfather put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He’s got a long way to go. But who knows? Each player starts somewhere.”

Although a high draft selection with a lucrative signing bonus, Austen was starting his professional-baseball career in Stockton, home to Oakland’s lowest-affiliated minor-league team. Austen needed to be promoted at least three levels just to make the big club. Even then, the odds were against him for making a major impact on the game. At this point, the grandfather wasn’t interested in Austen’s career. He was just happy to be here with his grandson and felt lucky to see San Jose pitcher Clint Shakely, an actual major leaguer recovering from an injury and making a minor-league start before returning to the big club in San Francisco.

“Pretty neat we get to see a big leaguer here too,” the grandfather said.

“But he’s a Giant. I hate the Giants.” The boy smiled.

“I’ve taught you well,” the grandfather joked, laughing and wrapping his large arm around the boy’s awkward shoulders to bring him close. He knew this would be one of the last times outward affection would be welcomed by the boy. He pointed to the on-deck circle and Austen, the lanky eighteen-year-old. “Looks like we’ll get to see how close that rookie is to the majors. See? He’s on deck.”

Austen, who they learned had just graduated from high school but hadn’t needed to shave in a week, stood in the circle and swung the bat back and forth. He was lean and would need to add muscle to his frame if he was going to make it to the Show. Austen focused on Shakely as he finished his warm-up tosses.

A man rushed down from behind them and claimed an empty seat in the front row, right next to the on-deck circle. There was no shortage of available seats for an evening minor-league game on a random Tuesday in July, and no usher prevented this breach of protocol. The man started talking to Austen, who nodded but otherwise kept his eyes on Shakely. Shakely was in major-league form, and the Ports leadoff hitter was overmatched, striking out on a devastating curveball that dropped right before the plate.

“Wow,” the grandfather said. “The rookie’s got his work cut out for him.”

“Now batting,” the PA announcer boomed, “in his professional debut, number five, Brett Austen.”

A singular guitar riff with a deep bass line came over the loudspeakers as Austen walked to the plate. The man who was talking to the player in the on-deck circle stood up and clapped.

“C’mon, Brett,” he said. “C’mon, son. Get this guy. Show ’em how we hit in Central Texas. You got this.”

With about three hundred fans in the stadium, the man’s voice carried. At first, Shakely was surprised the man had broken his concentration. But when he looked over at the man, a beer in one hand and many more in his system, Shakely was amused. He smiled and shook his head and went into his windup and whipped the pitch past Austen.

“Steerike,” the umpire called.

“That guy isn’t doing the rookie any favors,” the grandfather observed.

The boy nodded.

“C’mon, Brett. You seen better. This is your competition in the bigs. Show ’em what he’s got to deal with, son.”

Austen kept focused on Shakely, but Shakely owned the mound. He commanded this space, and no heckles from the stands, certainly not some rookie straight out of high school, were going to knock him off his stride. Shakely looked to the catcher for the sign and went into his windup. Shakely’s left hand whipped across his body for a wicked slider that fooled the young rookie into flailing at the pitch.

“Steerike two,” the umpire called.

“That looked ugly,” the boy said.

“Really ugly,” the grandfather said.

“Goddammit, Brett,” the man yelled. The last few sips of his beer sloshed out of the cup as he threw his arms down. “He’s making you look silly. Jesus Christ, boy, we’ve given too much to this game for you to look that goddamn stupid. Get your head out of your damn ass, and show this asshole what you can do.”

“Yikes, who’s that guy?” the boy asked.

“Yeah,” the grandfather said. “It’s gotta be his dad or something. That’s not how you talk to anyone, let alone your own kid. At any level.”

“He’s making a fool out of us, son. This time, you show him who’s boss.”

Read more about Lose Yourself.

The man’s tantrum finally drew attention from one of the teenage ushers, the standard blue Ports Guest Services polo hanging off his scrawny shoulders. The teen had neither the confidence nor the life experience to distract Austen’s father. Instead, the man waved off the usher, stood up, and placed his hands on the railing separating the seats from the field.

Shakely looked at the man and shook his head before returning his focus to the catcher. Shakely’s amusement of the man’s schtick was over.

Another usher, this one the same age as the grandfather, joined his younger colleague and tried talking to the man. Their efforts were fruitless. The man kept looking at Shakely and Austen.

“I’ve got a ticket. I’m just watching my boy,” the man said. He pulled his Texas A&M cap down and pushed the air in front of him to clear some space. “I’ve had a couple drinks, so what? You guys sell ’em. I buy ’em. I drink ’em. That’s how it works.”

The man turned back around in time to watch Shakely throw another curveball that hit the dirt before crossing the plate. Austen still swung. The umpire pumped his fist. Shakely looked at the drunk man, smiled, and tipped his cap in a wicked taunt.

Incensed, the man focused back on the rookie.

“You’re such a fucking loser, boy. I’m embarrassed to be your daddy. Goddamn disgrace.”

The ushers began to push him back up the steps. The man, defeated, didn’t protest.

“You don’t have to take me anywhere. I’m outta here. I can’t stand watching these losers.”

After striking out, Austen turned, his eyes following the man stumbling up the steps. He was defeated and dragged his bat back to the dugout.

“Well, this won’t do,” the grandfather said, and he stood up and began to cheer Austen. The boy joined him. Soon, the other fans in the small stadium did too. Austen looked around, first surprised by the attention, then heartened by it. He smiled, though his eyes wanted to cry.

He tipped his helmet to the fans and went back into the dugout.

After the fans returned to their seats, the boy turned to his grandfather.

“Why did we do that, Grandpa?”

“Sometimes, at your lowest moments, you just need an unexpected sign of support to show that you matter. Sometimes, when you lose yourself in your own expectations, you need a reminder to lose yourself in the moment instead.”

Read the five-part serial The Intern, a prequel of sorts for the novel.

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Six People Struggling With Expectations.

One Baseball Game to Find Their Moment.

It's The Final Game of the Season...

All Star Brett Austen has a chance to secure the first .400 batting average for a season in more than 80 years. But increasing pressure and his own hubris threaten the apex of his career.

Meanwhile...

• A sideline reporter wrestles with a choice between career and her mom in crisis.

• A retiring usher takes in his final game before moving in with his son's family.

• A lanky 15-year-old can't understand his future stepdad while pining for a girl from school.

• A lemonade vendor agonizes over a big score to settle gambling debts and fulfill his daughter's dreams.

• An adult daughter navigates uncomfortable family dynamics at home while her father lies in hospice.

Will Their Choices Meet the Moment?