Nashville, Tennessee, Ranoria
Nashville Maestros Training Complex
Three hours they had been at it. Well, Jesse Griffith had been at it. Tristen Feng had cited his ‘sore old bones’ as a valid excuse to stop about an hour in. It was a routine that the two had become used to in their months, now, of training together.
He took a sip of his sports drink, loaded with electrolytes, and laughed as his teammate, a dozen years his junior, cried out in agony, suspended from a loft, only his calves locked in place as he forced the rest of his body into a sit-up like motion. “Come on, that’s only two! You’re as scrawny as they come, this body weight crap should be easy!” Jesse didn’t reply, grinding through another few reps while Feng watched attentively. As much as he pushed the poor kid, the last thing he wanted was for him to get hurt, or worse, injured.
“Alright Jesse, three more, and we’ll get out of here, no more strength training today, just three more!”
The fifteen year old pro gritted his teeth and forced out a rep, air hissing out as he came up, inch by agonizing inch.
“Two more!”
This time, his breath was less controlled, coming out in sporadic gasps, but Jesse came up once again, finishing the rep and losing control just a bit on the way down. But Feng’s encouraging, and quite possibly sadistic, demeanor was absolute, unwavering.
“Come on kid, you’ve got another one!” Except, he didn’t, his muscle giving out on the last rep, and he fell back, eyes scrunched, sweat pouring from his body.
“N-nah,” he tried to force a laugh, “D-don’t think so.”
“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Feng reached down and grabbed his arms, hoisting him up into a sitting position and helping the kid unlatch once he was up. Not bad, kid.”
Jesse Griffith gasped, his thin chest labored with every breath, and managed a desperate question “Done?”
Tristen nodded, “Yup, done. Overtraining is a real thing, kiddo.” He checked his watch with a grin, “Done strength training, at least. We’ve still gotta hit the batting cages today, can’t have you batting two thirty five again, back home at least.”
“I’m fifteen,” Jesse groaned in protest, rolling over to one side and pushing himself to a sitting position with nothing but arm strength.
“Don’t care. You’re a professional, and a young one. You can make a lot of progress right now, best to take advantage of it if you wanna turn out like Leo.”
Jesse Griffith, at his spry fifteen years old, shook his head, “Leo’s the best in the country. Come on now.”
“Oh come on, not this crap again,” Tristen Feng slapped his protege upside the head, “You’re the youngest pro ever, so you’re on pace to be better than anyone. And hell, speaking of Leo, you do kinda remind me of him,” the veteran trailed off, nodding wistfully.
“Really now?” Jesse didn’t particularly seem interested, leaning against a post and just now catching his breath.
“Besides the whole youth thing,” his mentor threw out, “You move like him, when you’re hitting and fielding. You’re both very fluid at shortstop, instinctive, all that. He’s made a career off his reflexes from there.” Feng passed him a bottle, and Jesse accepted it gratefully.
After he’d chugged a good half of the thing, he glanced over, “Bit of a reach old timer. A lot of guys have similar movements, doesn’t make them Leonardo freaking Harrison.”
“Let me finish, kid,” Triesten tossed his own bottle over his head, where it bounced off the rim of the trash can before falling in, “What really gets me, you’ve got heart like Leo does. He never let anything hold him back, and you’re the same way,” Tristen hopped to his feet, “Except fatigue.
For all the crap he gave him, Feng couldn’t help but admire the kid. He himself was an accomplished player, a three time all star, but Jesse Griffith had gotten himself one of those nods at just fifteen years of age. He was gifted, physically and mentally, with the ability to play baseball. Sure, he was raw, and he had made some stupid mistakes as a rookie, but once he bulked up enough to start consistently hitting home runs, once he caught up to the speed of the professional game, he could go down in history.
And, Feng had to remind himself, the World Baseball Classic was a higher standard of competition than the Federation by far and away. If there was one way to catch him up to the speed of Ranoria’s Federation, the Classic was it.
Jesse scoffed, hopping to his feet with all the youthful spring that he could muster, “Yeah, right old man. We’ll see about that. How many movements did you do today, eh?” Just as the words came out, the youngster gasped, and doubled over. Feng laughed, seeing the teen’s abs cramp up after the hell they had just been put through.
Feng knew it was a typical teenage response to praise. The kid was young, he’d grow into it. Hopefully.
“Well,” he rolled his head to the side, “About half as many as you. But like I said, there’s such a thing as overtraining. Now quit all of this ‘my belly hurts,’ crap” he raised his voice at the end, as if to mock him, “And let’s get going.”
Jesse looked up at him warily, shoulders sagging just a bit, and Feng rolled his eyes, “I’m just jonesing ya, kid, you’re doing great. Now c’mon.”
“Yes sir!” He lit back up immediately, scooping up his bag and haphazardly throwing in his sweat-drenched clothes, wrist wraps, and other gym paraphernalia before bounding to the side of the older player, who snapped at him playfully.
“And how many times do I have to tell you, stop calling me ‘sir.’ I’m your teammate, not your dad.” Feng scooped up his own bag, long since packed up, and slung it over his shoulder before beckoning the rookie on. “Hurry up. We need to get there early enough to have some time before Leo, you know he’s going to be loud as hell the second he misses a swing.”
“Right!”
