Fast Baller

by Lulu Pratt

  “I’m a physical therapist. Let’s just get that clear.”

  “Isn’t that what I said?” He smiled that crooked smile that accentuated his full lips and his beautifully constructed nose. But I was damned if I was gonna let him know!

  “You said ‘physiotherapist’, and I’m a physical therapist.”

  “Okay. Sorry.” He did not sound remotely sorry. In fact, his sarcastic manner was still in full swing.

  “I want to review what we’ve done to date.”

  “Review? Jeez! Look, can I just do some exercises or something and get this hour over with?”

  “Harrison, you haven’t been doing any exercises.” I nodded, putting my hands together the way one of my professors had done in class when she was making an important point. I channeled her right now. “You need to lose your attitude, and you need to lose it right now. Understood?”

  “Look, Miss… What is your name, miss?”

  “Scarlet Ravenwood. And it’s Ms., please,” I knew that he knew my name, but he was just trying to be an ass.

  However, when I said my name, it was as if he suddenly was hit by a bolt from the blue. “Scarlet Ravenwood? That’s your name?”

  “Yes. Why? Is there a problem?” I asked.

  “It’s a beautiful name, that’s all.”

  I felt myself blush. Damn him! “Thank you,” I replied.

  It was this kind of thing that got me all flustered. He would say something nice and I would respond with something stupid and then we get off on the wrong foot and the session went badly and he didn’t do his goddamn exercises, and I was a failure.

  “Anyhow, you have a beautiful name. I suppose your parents were big Margaret Mitchell fans.”

  “Not to my knowledge,” I said.

  “Huh.” He raised his eyebrows at me and smiled. “What do you know?”

  “Indeed.” I looked at him. I hated that he looked so good. And that he didn’t like my looks, as far as I could see. “Okay. As I was saying, I want to go over what we’ve accomplished so far. Is that acceptable for you?”

  “You bet.” He sounded sarcastic. And sexy. I sighed.

  “Okay then.” I sat there like a sap and went over the things I had suggested but that he had tacitly rejected. It basically left one remaining thing — his attitude. He had a terrible attitude. He was critical of everything.

  He hated the Toledo Spark Plugs, and he hated the fact that he had to play, and that he was a second-string relief pitcher even here, thanks to Clay Carter, who seemed to be getting better with every game. Add to the fact that Clay was young and in perfect shape, and it was demoralizing for Harrison. Of course, Clay was not a good looking-guy and he was notoriously vindictive. He was a fan favorite because they didn’t have to interact with him. Period.

  “We’ve been through many exercises, and these exercises tend to work on people who actually do them when they’re not just right in front of me. You won’t do that. You told me so. So, tell me, Mr. Brett, what am I supposed to do with you? Quit? Because that’s not really in my DNA.”

  “What is in your DNA, Mizzzz Scarlet?” He accentuated the z sound in Ms. Mocking me again.

  “Nucleotides, mostly,” I said. Two can play at that game. “And they’re firing right now, giving me all kinds of useful information. But you know something?”

  “No, what’s that?”

  “Nothing works because you refuse to do what I am hired to tell you to do. So, Mr. Brett, it seems we are at an impasse.”

  “Hm,” he said, and this was the first time he didn’t sound sarcastic.

  So, I tried something. “I have a suggestion.”

  “You do, huh? And what is that?”

  “Yoga, Mr. Brett. Have you heard of it?”

  “Yeah. It’s that stuff made of sour milk,” he chuckled, but not in a mean way.

  “Very funny. Actually, I am being serious. And I have a yoga class tomorrow at ten in the morning. How about you try coming?”

  He laughed. “Yoga class? With the downward dog and that?”

  I got his attention.

  “You gonna wear yoga clothes?” he asked with one eyebrow cocked.

  “That’s the attire of choice in yoga class.”

  “Sign me up then,” he said. He was smiling. Not sure what that meant. It could be mocking, it could be that he was interested in seeing me in yoga attire, it could be he was taking this seriously.

  I was a little thrown off my game. I actually expected an argument. Nothing came. He was cool with it. “Have you done yoga before?”

  “Nope. I’m from Detroit. We don’t have yogis there. Except Berra. And, technically, he’s from St. Louis.”

  “So, will I see you tomorrow morning?”

  “With bells on.”

  Chapter 3

  HARRISON

  “YOGA. GIMME A break.” This was a new and incredibly stupid plan.

  I was sitting in Buzz Nolan’s office, wondering why exactly I was there. Buzz was the manager of this two-bit, dog-and-pony show they call a team.

  “Listen, Harrison, we’re all trying our best here. Well, not you, but the rest of us. And we’re doing it for you. Scarlet is doing her best, and she has a lot of innovative ideas that have helped others. Why not give her a chance? I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t get why I don’t want to bend myself into a pretzel? Well, maybe it’s just that I know myself pretty well, and I think I’m doing everything right. It just hasn’t quite kicked in yet.”

  “And when is it scheduled to ‘kick in’?”

  “You sound like you don’t have faith in me,” I grumbled.

  “Now, you listen, and listen good. I have faith in one thing — success. If you can get your fastball back, get yourself healthy, get your shit together, I’m happy to support anything you want. But right now, at this moment, you’re coming up dry. Got it?”

  “Of course I do. It’s just that I have been in a slump. Read the papers — it happens to the best of us.”

  “Yeah, well, papers don’t win ball games, so if you want me to have faith in you, get your shit together and help us win. We’re the laughingstock of the league right now, and lots of that is because you haven’t given us much success. So here are your marching orders, Harrison, get your ass to that yoga class. I don’t care if you wear a pink tutu to do it. Just go, and try your best.”

  “Fine. I’ll go tutu shopping today.”

  I left the office of this fast-talking bonehead. Buzz was my boss and that was the bottom line, even if I thought he was bat-shit crazy. I had to do what he wanted or get out. And besides, we had a game later, and I had to be on my best behavior. I hated this situation, and I hated where I was. It seemed like a guy couldn’t get a break.

  I opened Twitter and of course, everyone is talking about how I was finished. I had a strong feeling that it was just a continuation of the usual crap I’d been getting since I made it to the Majors. “Brett’s father bankrolled him”, “Harrison gets preferential treatment.” Truth was, my dad owned the Toledo Spark Plugs and the Detroit Diamonds, but that was literally an accident of nature. He hated me and he always had. For as long as I can remember.

  I needed to talk to somebody. But who? Living in this fly-over town was depressing. I didn’t know a single soul and I couldn’t stand the team — it was a collection of young fools who dream of making it to the Majors and over-the-hill players who had no hope of getting back into the Majors. But I needed to talk to someone, so I called Clay. At least we had something in common — we were both pitchers.

  “Yo, Brett, what’s the good word, homeboy?” God, he was annoying. He was supposedly from LA, and so he fancied himself some gang-banger. Truth was he was white, skinny, ugly, and way too desperate.

  “Hey, Clay. What’s up today?”

  “Not much. Just the usual prep for the game. Went to the gym, ate a good breakfast. The usual. You gonna be there for the pitcher’s stretch?”

  “Naw. I got a show-and-go.”
>
  “And? So did I! Don’t mean I’m gonna pass on it, bro. Buzz watches me like a hawk. I got a feeling he’s got his eye on me for the Majors, and I ain’t gonna fuck it up.”

  “You young kids don’t get it. You gotta get your game under your control, you gotta play the way you play. It’s about character.”

  “Hey, no offense there, old timer, but if that was legit, I wouldn’t even know yo ass. You should be in the Majors, but something went pear-shaped, and I don’t plan to fall into that trap.”

  “Well, when is it?” I asked.

  “When’s what? The stretch? One-thirty.”

  “Isn’t the game at three or something?”

  “Seven, braw. You got a schedule?” He said it in that annoying high-pitched voice he used when he was mocking.

  “Sure. Somewhere.”

  “Man, you are not well organized, are you?” He laughed at the other end of the phone, and it stung. Fuck you.

  “Heh, naw. I put all my energy into the game.”

  “Jeez. I would of thought showing up at the right time was the first order of bidness. No’m saying?”

  “Yeah. I guess.” I was losing it. I knew it.

  “So why you callin’ me in the middle of the day? Ain’t you got no friends?”

  “Just thought maybe we could meet up for lunch. Get to know each other.” I wanted to slam the phone down so bad. I was striking out on this call.

  “Brother, you and me are not allies,” said Clay. “Let’s get that straight. Not allies at all. I want what you had, and I know in my guts, you want it too. Tell me I lie.”

  “Now, I guess I don’t have the burning desire I used to have anymore. Anyway…” I trailed off.

  “Hey listen, Harrison, rain check? There’s no game tomorrow, and I’m goin’ to that yoga class. We could check in after that if you’re up for it.”

  “Yeah, sure, if I make it.”

  “The yoga class? Bro, you have no idea what you’re missing. It’s not just a workout — it’s eye candy. There are chicks. In tight gear. Trust me, you do not want to miss this. Even the instructor is a babe. Scarlet. I’m gonna move on her.”

  “You don’t want to do that, my friend. You know the ‘no fraternizing policy’? That means no moving on nobody.”

  “Oh. Even her?”

  “Yeah. Anyway, I’ll probably be there.” I hung up, shaking my head. What the hell was wrong with me? Trying to make friends with that dick. He was way too naturally talented and way too ambitious for me to hope to make friends with him. And now, I really needed to get my ass to the pitcher’s stretch.

  I looked at my phone. It started in like half an hour. I just gave up on eating, gave up on meeting anyone. I supposed if I showed up and gave it some effort, the pitching coach would see and report me to Buzz. God! This lethargy was killing me.

  Okay. Turning over a new leaf, now! I got up, shook off the cobwebs and let her rip.

  Chapter 4

  HARRISON

  IT WAS TWENTY-FIVE past one when I pulled into the parking lot. I had a better car, at least, than the other players. A sign of… success? Not sure. Or bad money management. There was a selection of Fiestas, Sunfires, Sunbirds, one old Buick, a ten-year-old Prius, and a newer model Thunderbird. I kinda felt bad in my late model Tesla Model 3. Like I had no real right to it after the shit show I’d been putting on, on the field. But I bought this car with the money I earned as a relief pitcher in Detroit. And took the shit the press threw at me. I even tried to get traded. Which was how I landed here, in Butt Fuck, Ohio.

  At least the way I see it, my dad saw the request and decided to stick it to me. He was not a man I wanted to get close to. No daddy issues here, folks. This bastard seemed to be going out of his way to screw me over. I wrote to him that the new physical therapist was helping me with my arm and he told me to stay away from girls. Yup, he called them ‘girls.’ He said it was my weakness. Which, I had to admit, had a certain amount of truth to it back in the old days.

  I was at the ballpark right at one-thirty, and it was no exaggeration to say that every single person stopped in their tracks and watched me walk onto the field. It felt really weird.

  “Yes, I’m here for practice,” I said to Oscar Rodriguez, the coach. He laughed like it was some huge joke. “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’ve just never seen you come to practice before.”

  I went first. I came wearing my dry-fit shorts and T-shirt, and looked around to see what was gonna happen. Apparently nothing. I threw a pitch and — God! It burned!

  “Hey, man, this is also batting practice, you know! Can you throw something someone can hit?”

  That was Nick Demetrios, probably the biggest idiot on the team. He played pro ball in Japan and thought he was the king of the world. Truth? He was a drunk, he was overweight, under-smart, and a bully. “Sorry, pal. Still working on this shoulder.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not doin’ us any favors complaining. Just throw or get someone here that will.”

  I shook it off, walked in a circle. My mind was unfocused, and I could feel it. To be honest, it was disorienting. I lifted my leg and wound up. I was trying hard to get past the pain, but this was real! It was unhealed tendons after surgery. Not my imagination, not some phantom pain. It was genuine, but that meant nothing in baseball. The game only worked if you actually threw a ball someone could hit.

  I wound up and threw. This one was good, but Nick hit it out of the park.

  “Nice hit!” said Oscar to him. Nick, the fat bastard, just stood there, his head bobbing like a horse who had just won the Kentucky Derby.

  Jimmy Johnson, our catcher, lobbed a new ball to me. I tossed him another easy one and boom! Out of the park again. The crowd goes wild…

  I needed to work on my own fastball. I had to get past the pain, and suddenly I remembered that face. Scarlet Ravenwood. What was it my dad said? ‘Girls are your weakness’? I shook my head to clear the unnecessary thoughts, but her face reappeared. What was going on?

  I suddenly realized, by the phantom memory of her telling me I was shit, that she was beautiful. And my kind of beautiful. Not some bimbo teenager like Clay picked up — but a mature, sophisticated woman. My mind went nuts! I threw hard. As hard as I could, and I felt the rip in my shoulder, but I didn’t care. This was what I needed. It ripped past that fat fuck, and he was blindsided. I smiled. Jimmy smiled through his mask. I think he would be an ally.

  “Fuck you, Brett, you ass! What the hell was that?”

  I hold my left shoulder. It kills, but it was fully worth it. I wanted to laugh so much but needed to keep my cool.

  “Hey, if you don’t like it, don’t come to the ballpark,” Oscar said.

  Nick turned on him, and did that face-to-face arguing thing so popular in our sport. Trouble was, Nick had a huge gut and was six-six, while Oscar was thin as a rake and five-eight. So, Oscar ended up talking to the guy’s gut.

  “We’re supposed to be practicing for the game.”

  “And you think the other team’s pitcher is going to throw underhand? What’s the matter with you? Get off my fuckin’ plate!” Oscar was awesome. I think he was starting to warm to me. Maybe. I just needed to keep up the good work.

  Next up was Clay. He swung that bat back and forth like it was gonna make any difference. I struck him out no problem. Although to be honest, one of the things the commentators have said about Clay was that he was unpredictable. And that was true. His stance was awkward, he looked like a cricket there, standing on his hind legs. I imagined him with a cricket face. It was awesome. His ass wiggled back and forth, and his arms were too high. This was too easy! I closed my eyes to focus, and Scarlet re-appeared. But this time it wasn’t disconcerting — it was actually calming. I was centered. I wound up, waiting a bit longer than normal to throw him off, and let it fly.

  I swear it went ninety-five miles an hour. The air tore as the ball made its way there, and Clay had no chance.

  At
least, that was what I expected. In fact, his awkwardly posed bat made contact, and it ripped through the atmosphere. Out of sight. The whole team erupted. Fuck!

  Clay stood there, swaggering. He hung out with the black players, who somehow couldn’t seem to see what a first-rate douche he was. No idea why. And once he did that, he threw the bat — a kind of flip — I know what he was doing. Bautista. Well, this guy was no José Bautista. Yet.

  I’d had it. I needed bullpen time. I walked off the field. “What’s going on?” yelled Oscar. “You were doing great!”

  I liked that little guy — so encouraging in the face of my ineptitude. But I knew my body. “Let the kids have their playground,” I said, making my way to the pen.

  “Okay. Clay, you’re up,” said Oscar. I was finally warming to him, and he seemed to do the same to me.

  Chapter 5

  SCARLET

  IT WAS THREE o’clock, and the afternoon blahs were setting in. I was used to working in a hospital, and so this total absence of company and the unfamiliar calm was starting to drain me. I needed to motivate myself. Before I figured out how to do that, there was a knock at my door.

  “Come in,” I said, a little confused, because I had thought this was my time alone. It was a woman. “Uh, hi. Can I help you?”

  “Hi there. I’m Heidi Westercamp. I work in the main office, and I was just going through the payroll, and noticed that you are the one person I haven’t met yet. And so, here I am.” She was smiling. Heidi was a short brunette with long curly hair and a face that looked like it was genetically modified not to stop smiling ever.

  “Well, that’s very sweet. Nice to meet you. I’m Scarlet. Scarlet Ravenwood.” Why did I do it kinda like James Bond? I got weird when I was nervous, and I was nervous now, because this was a meeting that I had not scheduled.

  “It’s just that payroll is done, and I still have a bit of time to kill before dinner, and I wondered as you’re new in town if you want to go watch batting practice.”