The trip from San Bernardino to Lake Elsinore was not that far in distance or in time; about forty miles, about fifty minutes, give or take a few due to traffic. The distance between either of those to where Ginny wanted to be right then felt like the distance between the Earth and the Moon.
There wasn't much you could do during one of these extremely short bus rides. It was too short to watch a movie, too distracting to watch a TV show, and not relaxing enough to get some sleep in. Everyone was fried from the game, anyway, and after the series the Storm had just endured they weren't in a jokey or talking mood with each other. Ginny had forgotten just what an annoyance the low minors could be in her few short years away from it. The fans were mostly drunk and the 66ers' fans were just a bit unique in their heckling. Her appearance that night was probably the best thing the Storm had going for them; at least the jeers based at her weren't based on her gender but rather the fact that she was a major-league ringer, albeit one on a rehab assignment. This league was making her feel old. At twenty-six, she was old; everyone else around her age on this bus was either a coach or an organizational player type, essentially player-coaches kept around for their ability to keep a clubhouse contained or to speak Spanish. It was a lonely time for an entirely different reason from the rest of her minor league lonely times.
All she had to do was get a few more clean innings in without her elbow hurting or without walking the ballpark or doing anything else that seemed adverse to progress, and then it would be up to El Paso, and then hopefully on to San Diego. It wasn't missing the majors so much for her, with all the drama and the attention and the spotlight, it was missing the level of competition and the commitment and the work. You didn't get that from a year of rehabbing an injury in the team's spring training facility and you didn't get that from being a ghost around the major league team, only coming in for training, not sharing the locker room or the dugout.
What you got from spending a couple weeks in Lake Elsinore was a sore ass from sitting on the bus and mental fatigue from dealing with a bunch of overgrown kids out in the bullpen and symptoms of heat exhaustion from day-to-day survival in the California League in the summer. What you also got, as Ginny found out when she checked her phone, was texts from old Padres teammates.
Coming to see u pitch on our day off, the text from Livan read.
Why, she responded.
All the bigshots are coming and we thought we should too. We didn't forget
Ginny was honestly touched by this. who is we
Me and some other pitchers. Staff needs u. I need to catch u
I miss good catching. Sick of getting pitches called from dugout
U have a 3rd pitch now?
Shut up I always did just not that good
Want to see that 3rd pitch. Will catch it next month. Promise
I promise too, miss all you guys, see you soon
Maybe San Diego wasn't as close to Lake Elsinore as she would have liked, but it was no longer the Moon.