“Garrett’s Last Pitch”
The rain hadn’t let up all morning, smearing the Fenway skyline into a watercolor of gray. Garrett Crochet stood near the dugout, the brim of his cap pulled low, as the grounds crew spread the tarp over the mound where he’d spent countless hours shaping fastballs and cutting sliders. His breath fogged in the crisp April air. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it would end.
The press conference was scheduled for noon, but Garrett had arrived early, wanting one last moment alone with the park before the headlines came out.
Fenway had become a second home to him. The echoes of roaring fans, the rhythmic chants, the boom of his fastball popping into the catcher’s mitt—those were memories etched into the bones of the ballpark. But something had changed over the past year. Not just physically—though the shoulder pain had flared more often—but something deeper, something harder to name.
He glanced toward the bullpen, where he’d once launched a 99-mph heater on a cold October night, striking out the side in his first postseason appearance for Boston. The crowd had gone ballistic. His teammates mobbed him afterward, slapping his back, calling him the future.
But time had a way of humbling even the most promising arms.
Garrett rubbed his shoulder absentmindedly, thinking of all the MRIs, the cortisone shots, the rehab sessions that had begun to blur into each other. The club’s medical staff had warned him: push too hard, and you might not just lose your season—you could lose your career.
He wasn’t ready to call it quits. Not yet. But Boston wasn’t the place anymore.
Behind him, footsteps echoed through the empty concourse. It was Alex Cora, the manager who’d believed in him from day one.
“You good?” Cora asked quietly.
Garrett nodded. “As good as I can be.”
Cora joined him at the edge of the dugout, arms folded across his chest. “You sure about this?”
“I’ve been sure for a while,” Garrett said. “It’s time.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Rain tapped the tarp like distant applause. Cora sighed.
“I hate to lose you,” he said. “But I get it. You’ve got to think long term. What’s best for you.”
Garrett turned to him. “This place means everything to me. But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay. My body’s not holding up the way it used to, and mentally—I need space. I need to step away before this love turns into something ugly.”
Cora nodded again. “What’s next?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been talking to a couple teams. Maybe something closer to home. Maybe I take a break. Hell, maybe I coach high school kids in Tennessee for a season. Just… slow things down.”
Cora grinned. “They’d be lucky to have you.”
At noon, the media gathered in the press room. The Red Sox had issued a vague advisory: “Garrett Crochet will address his future with the team.” Speculation buzzed—was he being traded? Retiring? Demoted?
Garrett stepped to the podium in a simple navy hoodie and Red Sox cap. No jersey. No theatrics. Just him.
He cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming, everybody. I’ll get right to it. I’ve made the decision to step away from the Boston Red Sox.”
A murmur swept through the room.
“This is not a retirement,” he continued. “I’m not done with baseball. But I’ve realized I need a change. My body’s been through a lot. My mind even more. And after long conversations with my family, my coaches, and the medical staff, I’ve decided it’s in my best interest to part ways with the organization that gave me some of the best years of my life.”
He paused, eyes scanning the room. No flashbulbs popped. Just the quiet sound of pens scratching and recorders humming.
“This isn’t about blame. This isn’t about contracts or drama. This is just me, being honest. I love the game. I love this city. But I’ve been playing through pain—physical and emotional—and that’s not how I want to do this.”
One reporter asked, “Do you have a destination in mind? Another team?”
Garrett offered a small smile. “Not yet. I need some time to figure out where I fit next. But I’ll be back. You’ll see me on a mound again. Just not here.”
When it was over, Garrett lingered in the clubhouse, packing up the last of his things. A worn glove. A folded jersey. A photo of him and his teammates after a wild walk-off win last season.
As he stepped out into the parking lot, the rain had slowed to a mist. A few fans had gathered by the players’ exit, holding signs: Thank you, Garrett, Forever a Sox, Come back soon.
He waved, heart tugging.
This was the right choice, he reminded himself. Growth required change. Even when it hurt.
Later that evening, Garrett drove through the city one last time. Past Kenmore Square, down Commonwealth Ave, across the Charles. Boston had given him a piece of his dream—and now, he was giving it back, carrying forward with gratitude, not regret.
In the end, it wasn’t about the numbers or the innings pitched. It was about knowing when to let go.
And for Garrett Crochet, this wasn’t goodbye to baseball.
Just goodbye to Boston.