They were probably like, Mexicans, right?
The Pitcher told them what went down and the ambulance took Fernando away. The cops charged him with domestic battery and basically trying to kill us. The paramedic dudes wanted us to go the hospital, but we were alright. Mom had been beat worse by Fernando and I guess I have too—although he hit me pretty hard this time. They bandaged us up and everybody left.
It is kind of weird, man. One moment the neighborhood is full of ambulances and police cars with lights swirling all over the place. Even a fire truck came and the fireman stood around and talked to the cops who talked to the paramedics who talked to us. And the neighbors were out, I mean people you never see, man, like the Gumpers, and old man Henderson, and the Donnellys, and the old lady Messolini, and Jimmy’s family. But then everyone just went back in their houses.
That’s when Mom stared at the Pitcher’s garage. I think it was because she hadn’t been able to thank him. She put on her dress, her heels, her perfume, the flower in her hair, and whipped up the fajitas, then handed me the ice tea. Then we headed across the street.
So now we are standing outside the garage. Mom knocks on the chipped door and says in a loud voice:
“Mr. Langford, I have brought you over some dinner!”
Just like before, the television goes low and I can hear him walking. I am wondering if he will come out. Maybe he figures he’s done with the crazy-ass Mexicans, you know. But the garage rolls up and Shortstop comes out wagging his tail. The Pitcher is standing there with his cigarette, wearing a red golf shirt. He drops the cigarette and smooths back his hair, staring at Mom with her bandage and swollen eye. She covers her face like the sun is bothering her.
“I want to thank you for what you did for us,” she says, keeping her hand over her eye. “I guess I’m always thanking you for something,” she murmurs.
“No problem,” he says, moving his loafer on the cement.
But I can tell he’s embarrassed.
We stand there and nobody can think of anything to say. It is like every common thing you can talk about has gone away. Maybe there is nothing to say anymore. So Mom holds up the plate.
“I made you dinner,” she says, handing him the fajitas with a napkin. “I put extra peppers on them … the way you like it.”
The Pitcher takes the plate and I notice two red spots on his cheeks. He looks at Mom, his eyes going to the bandage.
“Are you alright?”
“Nothing a little makeup can’t hide,” Mom says and smiles. “Fernando doesn’t hit as hard as he used to.”
And I see the Pitcher kind of flinch. But I’m like … you think this is a first time, dude? The cops said Mom could charge him and put him in jail this time. So maybe the hell that is Fernando will be over ... for a while at least.
“Well, thank you again,” Mom says, turning around.
“Why don’t you stay for a while?”
Mom turns and looks at him and he opens his hand.
“I have a few beers in the refrigerator.”
“I’m sure you have other commitments,” Mom says, but she isn’t messing with him. She’s just being polite. And then he says something that just blows me away:
“Please.”
I didn’t know pitchers even used that word. Mom hesitates. I think she is trying to not get sucked in again. You know, get our hopes up or anything like that. I mean, it’s happened a few times now, you know. The Pitcher pulls up two chairs by the La-Z- Boy and puts the fajitas on the table with his Good Times, Skoal, and cigarettes. The ballgame is on and the night air is flowing in. Mom crosses her legs and I see the Pitcher eyes them. My mom has good legs.
He looks at me.
“You forgot something,” he says, reaching over and picking up some papers.
I stare at the documents and feel my face get hot. How could I have forgotten those papers? Mom’s eyes grow as she recognizes her medical bills, then she turns deep red.
“Ricky!”
“Your son brought these over the other night,” the Pitcher explains. “He wanted to help you out.”
Mom is looking at the papers, then me, then the papers. She stands up and cries out.
“What are you doing bringing our personal business to this man!”
I have no answer. How do you tell your Mom you went begging for seven grand from your neighbor? Answer: You don’t! Because that is not how Mom rolls. She won’t ask for anything unless it is for me. But in this case, man, I have Mom’s back covered.
“I don’t know. I just thought …”
“Oh Ricky.” Mom rubs her forehead, her eyes jamming back and forth. “You … you didn’t ask Mr. Langford for money … did you?”
Now all I want to do is get away. I want to run right out the door, you know. Just run down the street and keep going. The Pitcher takes a bite of his fajita and looks at her.
“He asked for a loan, which is what neighbors do when times get hard.”
This does nothing, because Mom is about to spontaneously combust. She’s holding her head like she has a terrific headache. She looks up at me with her eyes red.
“That is our personal business, Ricky! You don’t ask other people for money!” She turns to the Pitcher. “I am so sorry, Mr. Langford. We have taken enough of your time. My son had no right to ask you to loan us money. I would have never let him bring our problems to you and—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, cutting her off. “Besides, I paid your bills.”
Boom! Just like that. He paid Mom’s medical bills. I can barely believe my ears. Mom stares at the Pitcher with her mouth half-open. I’m not moving, because I want to make sure I heard him right. Mom’s mouth opens and shuts, finally she cries out, “What!”
It’s like the world just stopped. Mom looks like one of those people who have seen an alien on television.
“I’m sorry.” Mom is staring at him, pulling a loose strand of hair back. “What did you say?”
“I said it’s too late,” he answers, clapping his lighter shut. “I paid your medical bills.”
Mom is now like the Wicked Witch of the West when she gets the water thrown on her. Like she’s going to melt right there. I’m staring at the Pitcher too, because I’m having a hard time believing what he just said. He smokes with the cigarette by his cheek.
“What do you mean?”
The Pitcher rolls his shoulders.
“I figured you needed the help. So I paid the seven grand for you.”
Mom’s mouth opens, changes shape, makes this sound like, Ah … Ah …
“ALRIGHT!”
That’s me. Yeah. I guess I shouldn’t have shouted, but when your Mom is sick, it’s like there’s a tornado out there, and you know it is getting closer and closer. When the Pitcher said he paid the seven grand it was like a second life. But Mom is staring like she wants to vaporize me. Because in her mind, everything just took a really bad turn for the worse.
“Ricky!”
But I don’t care. You don’t care who pays what, man, because it just means the worst isn’t going to happen. And then, of course, Mom starts crying. Now the Pitcher looks embarrassed. She breathes heavily in her dress with her flower and the bandage on her eye and you can see the stress lift. It’s like a demon or a gargoyle comes off her shoulders and flaps away into the night. Mom sits back down and puts her hand over her face.
“And another thing, what’s this I hear about you not going to the goddamn doctor?”
Mom looks at me with her mascara all inky.
“Ricky!”
I shrug. Hey man. What can I say? She’s my mom, man. You do what you have to do, right? It’s your game. The Pitcher hands her a card and motions with his cigarette.
“Have every bill from the doctor sent to this address,” he orders her. “And I want you to go see a doctor.”
“No. No.” Mom shakes her head. “I can’t accept this … I will pay you back the money.”
“No you won’t,” the Pitcher
says flatly. “That’s a gift and you will accept this card, Maria,” he continues, leveling his cigarette. “Or I won’t coach your son and I know those high school tryouts are coming up.”
Just like that. Mom stares at him, her face red, ink-streaked, and bandaged. I feel like someone has just pumped me full of air. I mean, did I hear him right? He was going to coach me again? It is like there is light in the world again. Eric won’t destroy me in the championship game and I might still make the high school team. I feel like skipping around the room, man.
“Tryouts are coming up, right?” he asks, turning to me.
“Yeah. Two weeks.”
The Pitcher keeps his eyes on Mom with the cigarette by his cheek.
“So that’s the deal,” he says. “I’ll coach your son and I’ll make sure he gets on that high school team.” He pumps his cigarette toward Mom. “But you get to the doctor, and then let me take you out to a nice restaurant. And don’t tell me you are paying me back the goddamn money. That’s a gift.”
Mom sits there and doesn’t move.
“That’s blackmail,” she says quietly, looking up.
The Pitcher nods.
“Yeah. That’s right.”
I know he has her then, man. She tries to protest, but the Pitcher says that’s the deal. Then he says he will drive her to the goddamn doctor himself. And so then Mom gets real quiet again and looks at him like she can’t believe any of this. And to tell you the truth, I can’t either. The Pitcher went from quitting on me, getting drunk, not showing up, quitting again, to paying Mom’s doctor bills and coaching me again. I mean, we are equipped to handle all the bad shit, you know.
But good things are a little trickier.
26
SO WE ARE BACK AT Roland Field and it’s hot. The Pitcher doesn’t have his cooler of beers and is sweating like crazy. That is Mom’s condition on him. If he wants to go to dinner with her then he has to back off on the drinking. Mom says he has been drinking ever since his wife died. That’s a lot of Good Times beers. My mind is wandering and the Pitcher is crabby because he wants a beer. He’s smoking and spitting chew.
We are like the miserable brothers, you know. “Alright … just throw me a fastball,” he orders from behind the plate.
I’m watching myself pitch and you don’t want to ever watch yourself do anything. So I throw in a bunch of fastballs right over his head. The Pitcher stands up and stares at me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“How should I know.”
Only I do know. And it bugs the hell out of me. Maybe because I feel like whatever I do there is someone out there blocking me. I’m watching the Pitcher explain the pitches all over again and I’m just watching his mouth move. It’s like someone turned off the sound.
“You ain’t listening, rockhead!”
I watch him stride toward me and start thinking maybe we waited too long. The tournament game against Eric’s team is this week. You ever see that old show I Dream of Jeannie? I’ve caught it on TVland a couple of times. Pitching is like when the smoke comes out of Jeannie’s bottle and she appears in her bikini outfit. I’m seeing no smoke and definitely no Jeannie. Maybe it has all just blown away.
The Pitcher gets right up into my face.
“You ain’t focusing on a goddamn word I’m saying,” he snaps, pulling a ball out of the bucket. “For a curve you gotta hold it by the seams and bring your arm down and snap your wrist for the rotation. You gotta let your arm do the work, because if that ball don’t spin, it ain’t going to curve. It’s the same with the sinker, if you don’t keep it from spinning, it ain’t going to do what you want it to.”
I look off across the field.
“Hey! You listening to me?”
“Yeah!”
But all I can think about is getting something to drink.
“Try a curve and let me see the ball break this time!”
The Pitcher walks back and hunches down. Now I’m seeing Eric laughing at me. You might as well give it up now, beano. You suck! He’s laughing the way he did when he took my cupcake. I hold the ball, feeling the sun on my neck.
“From the windup,” the Pitcher calls.
I set myself, shut my eyes, take my breath, but Eric never leaves. I launch the ball with the fence rattling like a bell at midnight. The Pitcher stands up and looks at the backstop.
“What the hell was that?”
“My curve!”
“My grandmother could throw a better curve than that one!”
“Then let her!”
I am hot and tired and maybe that’s why I said what I said. The Pitcher walks up to the mound slowly. His shirt is drenched from the heat. He lights a cigarette with his Zippo and looks off across the ball field. The wind moves the trees and swishes the grass and whips the infield sand. He turns with the cigarette below his mouth.
“What … you had enough?”
I shrug and pull on some loose rawhide on my mitt. Maybe I had had enough. Maybe I should have never bothered him in the first place. Yeah I can throw fast, but I still don’t know how to control my pitch. And I can’t stop thinking about other things. Maybe I could never stop thinking about other things. Maybe an arm just isn’t enough.
“Maybe.”
“You think the guy who is going to take your spot has had enough?”
“How should I know?”
“What was that?”
And there is Eric again. Somehow he has gotten into my head and now even a major league pitcher can’t help me. Everything just seems so hard. Like the simplest thing is hard. You ever have that? I get it all the time. So, I snap. It happens when I get pushed.
“I said I don’t know!”
The Pitcher frowns.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I stare at my mitt and wait for him to tell me to go home. I want to go home and just sleep in the darkness. I am crazy to think I can make the high school team. The real world doesn’t care about a seventy-five-mile-an-hour fastball. The real world is giving personal lessons to Eric right now.
I shake my head and kick the dirt.
“Eric is getting coached by the freshman coach,” I mutter. “He’s getting personal lessons and that’s that.” I shake my head. “This is all for nothing … all bullshit.”
The Pitcher nods slowly.
“So you’re a quitter.”
I stare at him.
“Didn’t you hear me? Eric is going to be the pitcher!”
“Yeah, so what? He call you a wetback or something?”
“No!”
“That’s the way you are acting,” he continues. “He call you a beano or tell you to get your wetback ass back to Mexico?”
“Nobody called me a wetback!”
He steps up close, getting in my face.
“I’m calling you one now. You’re just a wetback who doesn’t want to do the goddamn work!”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Why not? You’re acting like one. You’re just another Mexican who doesn’t want to do the work to become a pitcher.”
Man, I feel like my head is going to blow apart.
“Maybe I can’t pitch! Maybe I don’t want to!”
The Pitcher takes the cigarette from his mouth and looks at me.
“I don’t want to waste my time on quitters,” he says.
I stare at him, feeling like I have just been punched.
“So, I’m a quitter?”
“That’s what I see out here,” he answers, shrugging. “A Mexican kid who can’t handle it when the going gets tough and so he quits. Throws a tantrum and quits.”
My heart goes into overdrive.
“Yeah, my mom said the reason you sleep in your garage is because your wife died and you don’t want anything that reminds you of her!”
“Best you can do there, wetback?” he says.
“Yeah … so … you quit!” I jab my finger at him. “You started drinking that stupid Good Times beer and you’re just a
drunk who lives in his garage after winning the World Series! You just feel sorry for yourself because you ... you can’t pitch anymore! So don’t tell me I’m the quitter when you’re the quitter!”
Then it is just quiet. That’s how I know I have been screaming. I figure he will tell the asshole Mexican kid to go home now. But all he does is drop his cigarette and stub it with his cleat. He looks up at me, his eyes calm.
“You gotta be able to take it,” he says quietly. “You can’t get frustrated or mad. I don’t care what anybody calls you or says to you. You got a job to do. You’re the pitcher and I don’t care if God himself is coaching this kid. You go out there and pitch your guts out every time and give a hundred and ten percent and don’t worry about the rest.”
I nod, feeling really stupid for what I said.
“So now we got that out of the way. What the hell else is bugging you?”
I shrug. “I need …,” I begin, then trail off.
“Yeah, spit it out, rockhead.”
I shake my head.
“I need something Eric doesn’t know. He knows how I pitch and he knows how to hit on me.” I pause. “I want to learn a change-up.”
The Pitcher squints into the distance.
“And you think that’s going to help you?”
“It’s different.”
The Pitcher leans forward, his grey eyes pinning me.
“Different ain’t necessarily better.”
“Yeah … but most times it is.”
He spits off the mound.
“I pitched twenty-five years in the majors and never needed a change-up. What the hell does that tell you?”
“Maybe you didn’t need one.”
“That’s right, rockhead,” he says, nodding. “And you don’t either! You pitch the way I’ve seen you pitch, hit the corners. You got no worries. I’ll get you a curve and a sinker and with your fastball, you’ll have no problems … I never did.”
I shut one eye against the sun.
“But what if I’m not like you?”
The Pitcher Page 12