The Pitcher

by William Hazelgrove

  The Pitcher glances at me, then tips his shoulders.

  “Then you ain’t lucky.”

  27

  MOM IS ALL SUNSHINE, MAN. She comes out in this black off-the-shoulder number and these jangly earrings. Her perfume smells like the ladies at the church back when we went to church. Except Mom’s perfume smells kind of like lemons or something. She is smiling and her teeth are flashing and her eyes look like emeralds. I’m watching a ballgame on the couch when she twirls around in these stiletto heels and her dress fans out like the movies. She stops and looks at me with her hands on her waist.

  “So what do you think?”

  “Wow!” I sit up on the couch. “You look great, Mom!”

  She drills me with her eyes.

  “Are you just saying that?”

  “Straight up, Mom,” I say, nodding. “Beautiful.”

  And she does. I see guys watching her when we go to the grocery store. Once this dude came up and started talking to us in the Ethnic Food aisle. He had this blond hair and those goofy white guy shorts that are plaid and the little guy with the Polo mallet. He just kept talking and talking and then finally he said, “Maybe we can have coffee sometime?”

  Mom looked at him, her eyes sparking. “I’m a married woman, cabrón.”

  And the dude turned red and we got our gallon of milk and got out of there. I asked her why she told him she was married when Fernando had been gone a couple years. Mom said she didn’t need the headache. I didn’t really know what she meant, but I kind of do. I mean girls are alright, man, but I don’t need the headache. I mean between school and baseball, I got my hands full. Still, you know, I can see one day rolling that way.

  A lot of dudes already have.

  So I look at Mom and she’s standing there like a princess waiting to be picked up.

  “Are you going out with the Pitcher, Mom?”

  “We are just going to dinner,” she answers, waving her hand like it’s no big deal.

  I don’t ever remember Mom getting all dressed up and going to dinner with Fernando. I mean he’d take us to Portillo’s or McDonald’s or Chili’s or some greasy beef place where he could make a pig of himself. Or he’d take us to this place and order up hot wings and drink a bunch of beer with all these kids running everywhere. But Mom never got dressed up like this for any of those places.

  I watch her in the mirror.

  “You like the Pitcher, Mom?”

  She turns and jams her hands on her hips.

  “We are going to dinner … dinner. He didn’t ask me to marry him.”

  “You never know,” I pointed out.

  “Don’t you have some homework?”

  “It’s summer, Mom.”

  “Well read a book from that reading list then.”

  Just then the doorbell rings and Mom’s eyes get big.

  “Maybe I should try a different dress,” she murmurs. “This might make me look too ethic, you know.”

  “Too late, Mom,” I say going to the door. “Besides, you are ethnic.”

  She looks at me.

  “Where are you going, Ricky?”

  “To let him in,” I call back.

  I go to the door and there’s the Pitcher in a blue sport coat and tan slacks and loafers. Kind of like that first night he came to dinner. His hair is combed to the side and I don’t know if he shaved, but he looks different.

  He downs a can of Good Times and sets it on the porch.

  “Hair of the dog,” he mutters. “Don’t tell your mother.”

  “I’m coming,” Mom shouts and I flatten against the wall as she steps out.

  The Pitcher stares at her and his eyes light up.

  “You look beautiful, Maria,” he says.

  That is the first time I have heard him use her name. Alright, maybe the second time, but he usually calls her Ms.Hernandez and she calls him Mr. Langford and I don’t know, it sounds good hearing Maria. Mom has this little black purse I have never seen before. And I’m glad, because she looks rich, man. She looks like one of those ladies you see on television.

  “We won’t be late,” Mom calls back as the Pitcher holds the door to his station wagon.

  I never saw Fernando do that, man. He would always walk in front of us and never held the door. The Pitcher shuts her door and Mom looks out the window. I wave to her and she waves back like crazy. And they drive off down the street.

  So Mom is on a date with a World Series pitcher. Cool. More than that, she’s happy. Very cool. You want your mom to be happy, man.

  I kill time with Ramen Noodles, bowls of ice cream, ESPN, chips, and hours and hours of ballgames. Looks like the Sox are making a run for it with Bobby Jenks closing down the games with that one-hundred-and-two-mile-an-hour fastball. It’s so cool to watch Ozzie—he’s the coach—make the motion with his hands for the Big Man. Bobby Jenks rolls out there and you see him draw back and wham! One hundred and two! I mean, come on! This dude is throwing a baseball one hundred and two miles an hour! It’s cool just to see those numbers on the screen.

  I fall asleep on the couch and later, don’t even hear them come in. I wake up and it’s dark and the television is off. Someone had put a blanket over me. I can hear voices out on the patio and then I hear Mom’s laugh. I have never heard her laugh that way before. In that laugh is no illness, man, no stress. There are no worries in that laugh. It sings like the wind and makes you think of wide-open fields or oceans or ski slopes with everybody happy.

  “I don’t know how to thank you for …”

  The Pitcher is quiet. I know what she’s talking about. She can go to the doctor again and that’s like a new life. If you ever had it where you can’t go get help, then you know what I’m talking about. The Pitcher says something and I hear Mom again

  “I want him to make it for him … he needs this success. He needs it for himself … I’m afraid if he doesn’t get it then he won’t have another chance … for his esteem … this is his moment to shine …”

  I sit up and see candles flickering under the umbrella. It’s bright outside from the moon and Mom is leaning against him. I’m glad. Mom needs someone to lean against. I can hear the wind and some crickets, then I realize she isn’t leaning against his shoulder. So I creep into my bedroom. I’m not going to say I hear anything else, but I do. Then I hear the front door open at about SIX AM!

  I mean … Wow!

  Right?

  OK. I’m going to say it. Mom is dating a World Series pitcher! She makes him dinner and they sit out on our patio and drink wine. I wake up sometimes and hear music and they are dancing. I mean not like hip-hop, but like old-movie dancing. Like that tango they did the first night. You know, cheek to cheek. And you know that six AM thing of hearing the front door? It starts happening a lot. A couple times I go to the kitchen to throw down some cereal and his old loafers are in the living room with wine glasses on the counter.

  And then I hear Mom kind of yelling, but not in a bad way.

  You know.

  They take these walks around the neighborhood and hold hands. It’s like they are a married couple. Then they get in his old station wagon and take a drive. Just take a drive. Like what does that even mean, you know? Mom says they get a couple of coffees from Starbucks and drive down to the beach and watch the ocean. That’s fun? But Mom says she loves it. That’s cool, because Mom never had this before with Fernando. She’s in this great mood that just seems to go on and on. She’s singing to herself and I’m working with the Pitcher and the tournament is coming up. He doesn’t get half as grouchy when I launch the ball against the backstop fence.

  So I just ask her one day. She is picking up their wine glasses on the patio.

  “Hey, Mom,” I call out from the couch. “Is like, the Pitcher your boyfriend?”

  She pauses with this little smile on her face.

  “I’ll never tell,” she says.

  28

  WE ARE BACK AT THE baseball field behind the school. The tournament starts tomorrow
and then the tryouts are the week after. It’s evening and the grass is damp and there is a nice breeze. We have been working on my fastball, my cutter, and a curve, getting the ball to break inside and outside. The Pitcher has a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. His large brown hands move the ball around.

  “OK. This pitch is made for you because you got a natural fastball,” he says, holding the ball up. “You hold this one between the two seams. Then you throw it and the rotation of the ball builds and it sinks down over the plate, kind of like the curve. You got it? You get the guy to swing up since it’s sinking, that’s why they call it a sinker, but he only gets a piece of it and hits a grounder. You get him at first; boom, there’s your first out. You following me, rockhead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You aren’t out in the clouds or somewhere?”

  “Nope.”

  He spits, looking to first base. We are on the mound and I can see the moon and a first star. A train is clickety-clacking somewhere and the air has cooled.

  “Alright. So the next guy comes up and you throw him the same pitch. He gets a piece of it and now you get him at first. Or you get the guy at second. Let’s say they both got on and you have a man at first and second now. So you throw another one and he chips at it and now you run for third base, because you gotta get the ‘out’ there or you get a double play.”

  The Pitcher takes the cigarette from his mouth.

  “Or, you got a guy who figures it out and the best he can do is hit it down the baseline, because it’s not coming off his bat square. You still are going to keep him to a single.” He stares at me to see if I’m zoning off. “See, you gotta be thinking, ‘what next, what next?’ You want to be thinking ahead of the guy batting. The rockheads who don’t think, they never make it, Ricky. Everybody can throw hard, but you gotta be ready for what comes next. You gotta outthink the batter.”

  The Pitcher puts the ball in my glove and looks at me.

  “I knew a kid once who had a million dollar arm. He could have written his ticket, but he never wanted to work at it. He just wanted to throw fast. He had the arm, but he didn’t have it up here.” He taps his temple. “Rockheads don’t become great pitchers. You gotta use the noodle.”

  I nod as he picks up his glove.

  “I’ll catch for you. Don’t bean me,” he calls back, walking to the plate in his long stride with his old grey sweats and the cleats. Dust trails his shoes and I have this moment where I think I might never see this again. I might never watch an old World Series pitcher turn and squat down behind the plate.

  “Alright.” He beat his mitt. “Bring it.”

  I bring my hands together and push back on the rubber.

  “Position the ball in your glove. Don’t let me see it.”

  I nod and move the ball.

  “Throw it from the windup,” he says, right before I kick back.

  I nod again, breathe in the night air, then kick back and come over the top. The ball digs into the dirt in front of the plate. The Pitcher catches it on the hop and looks at me.

  “What happened there?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer, shrugging.

  “You forgot everything I told you! Pitch like you are hitting a man! Follow through! Hold the ball between the seams and get a rotation going. Twist your hand before the release. You can’t rely on your natural ability anymore; you gotta try harder now. Concentrate!” The Pitcher motions to the sky. “You have been going along thinking that God or whoever will just let you pitch a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball. You gotta to do it now. You gotta pitch up a level.”

  “You say gotta a lot,” I shout.

  He throws me the ball.

  “Shut up and try it again.”

  I take the ball and bring my hands together. I take a breath, then kick back and come over the top for a fastball, but the ball rings the backstop. The Pitcher holds up his hand and walks to the mound.

  “Alright, what the hell is going on?”

  “I dunno …”

  “Did you pick a spot?”

  “I guess I forgot.”

  He spits a stream of tobacco juice.

  “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah …” I shrug. “Probably.”

  The Pitcher stares at me.

  “You forget a lot of things, don’t you?”

  He asks the question like a doctor. I feel like I’m back in school with the teacher telling me for the hundredth time to pay attention. I look down at the ground, punching my mitt.

  “I’m dyslexic,” I say.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “I have trouble with words, I guess,” I mumble, feeling my face get hot. “I forget a lot of stuff.”

  The Pitcher breathes heavily, pushing his hat back.

  “Well anybody that can get somebody to give them seven grand ain’t dumb, kid.”

  I smile a little and shrug.

  “Yeah … maybe.”

  “Listen, Koufax couldn’t remember nothing and Dizzy Dean couldn’t even spell school. You don’t gotta be a brain surgeon to pitch. Look at me,” he says, touching his chest. “I ain’t no Einstein and I barely finished high school, but I pitched twenty-five goddamn years in the majors. Let’s see Einstein do that!” He nods. “You are plenty smart enough, don’t worry about that.”

  I feel better. Mom says it doesn’t do any good to dwell, you know. She says you just gotta go on and do the best you can. So I am glad to hear the Pitcher didn’t do so well in high school either. I knew Bobby Jenks flunked out of high school and became ineligible. I’m not saying that’s the way I roll; I’m just saying it feels better to know there are other dudes like me out there.

  “Everybody has something kid,” the Pitcher continues, putting the ball in my mitt. “I got a disability that makes yours look like a little boy whining about a blister. I had to learn to pitch with rocks. Try that some time.”

  “Is that why we threw rocks, because that’s how you learned?”

  “No. I had to get you to forget yourself, which is not what you are doing now. So here is what we are going to do.” He taps his shirt. “I want you to concentrate on this pack of cigarettes in my pocket. You got it? I don’t care what else you do. Just concentrate on these cigarettes and make sure the ball goes there. That’s all you are going to think about. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Just your pack of cigarettes,” I repeat.

  “That’s right.”

  The Pitcher walks back to the plate and kneels down slowly.

  “You gotta get it right, kid, because my knees are about to give out.”

  I bring my hands together and set myself. I take my breath and everything disappears. I can hear the wind in the trees. I keep my eyes on his pocket and see the outline of the cigarettes and how they weigh down his shirt. I breathe again, kick back, bring up my arm, tuck my glove, then follow through, twisting my wrist for a sinker.

  The ball screams in toward the Pitcher, then breaks down into his glove.

  He nods slowly, still framing the ball.

  “Better.”

  29

  We sit outside the Pitcher’s garage. Game day: butterflies, sunflower seeds, peanuts, water bottles, Gatorade, bat bags, PowerBars, batting gloves, shades, cleats and lots of dust. I’m always tense on game day and I can tell Mom is tense too. She smokes with her lips crinkling and the lines around her eyes inflating like ridges in a dry desert. Ash falls into her lap as she looks at her watch.

  “Go see if he’s up,” she says, nodding.

  I get out of the car and walk across the short grass and hear his television. We had waited for the Pitcher to come over all morning and then Mom just said to get in our van. Neither of us wanted to say the obvious. That the Pitcher might have gone back to his old ways. It was like having a light that just wouldn’t stay on.

  So now I’m standing outside his door and I can hear two guys from ESPN debating the merits of the infield fly rule. I lean down.r />
  “Mr. Langford?”

  I don’t hear anything and look at Mom. She motions me to go under the garage. I slip under and it’s dark, then my eyes adjust. The Pitcher has this pull out bed folded from a couch. I walk over and see a bunch of Good Times cans on the cement. Cigarettes litter the floor. The Pitcher is half-off the bed, snoring face down.

  “Mr. Langford?”

  I stand next to him, breathing the booze from his breath. It’s then I see he’s in his underwear with one sock on. I look up at the pictures on the wall. He’s still winning the World Series, jumping into his catcher’s arms, and here he is drunk in his underwear. I stare at him and for the first time the pictures don’t seem to matter anymore.

  “Where is he?” Mom demands when I get back in the car.

  “Asleep,” I mutter, shutting the door.

  Her eyes pin me.

  “Asleep? What do you mean he’s asleep?”

  “He’s asleep,” I mumble. “In his bed.”

  Mom stares at me.

  “He was drunk, wasn’t he?”

  “Can we just go, Mom. Please … let’s just go,” I say, looking straight ahead.

  Mom looks at the garage, then swears under her breath and puts the van in gear. I know how she feels, man, because I feel the same way. Mom glances at me and I look away. She wipes her eyes, driving faster.

  “That bastard,” she mutters, speaking for both of us.

  30

  WE PULL UP AND SEE the Payne’s shiny black van with a yellow DON’T TREAD ON ME bumper sticker. Mrs. Payne lets Eric out like he’s a rock star and gives us the Mexican Death Stare. They head toward the field with a monster thermos of Gatorade and two folding chairs with canopies. They are like the baseball family and Eric looks like a pitcher. You never want to admit to those feelings, man, but they are there.

  Mom stubs her cigarette and we get out of the car. She’s worried. It’s the first game she’s coaching by herself and it doesn’t help that the Pitcher got drunk again and blew us off. I don’t even want to think about it because I have to concentrate on the game. Really, it feels like the day Fernando left, which is weird because the Pitcher is not my dad. Mom carries her clipboard with the scorebook under her arm and doesn’t say a word. I’m lugging the equipment bag like a drunk.