So then once introductions were made and Williams signed a few bats and balls and caps and shirts, each of the kids had to stand in and take a dozen hacks with Williams behind them, watching with his arms folded across his chest. And just because Williams is old doesn’t mean he’s lost his eyesight or his fire. Each boy, before he got a chance to dig in, Williams asked him: What do you know about hitting? What he got in response, mostly, was wide-eyed silence. It’s not a trick question, fellas, Williams said, shaking his head, after the fourth boy in a row said nothing. He wasn’t here to make them feel good about themselves; he was here to teach them to hit. He got in there, yelling at the kids, using his hands to move their bodies into the position he wanted to see—hands here, feet here. Rotate your hips forward, then take your stride. Williams spit and threw up his hands and kicked the dirt. But he also clapped and patted backs and said Now that’s how you do it! when they got it right. Which, according to Williams’s standards, wasn’t very often.
Then Rodney came to the plate, all elbows and knees and high socks, smiling that big goofy smile as if he wasn’t just about to take cuts in front of the greatest hitter who ever lived. I mean, I was nervous—this is Ted Williams standing there, squinting in the sun with his hands on his hips. But Rodney just waltzes in like it’s nothing. Bends over and picks up a handful of dirt, wipes it on his bat.
It’s always just a game to him. He doesn’t feel pressure. He doesn’t even understand that others do. It’s what makes him so good.
Williams could see this one was different—for one thing, the boy’s knees weren’t knocking together in terror—and he stood there a beat or two longer than he had with the other kids, sizing Rodney up and grinning. What do you know about hitting? he asked finally.
Rodney took a few lazy practice cuts, and even in these the difference between him and the other boys was obvious. I saw Williams noticed, too.
I know, Rodney said, that a level swing isn’t parallel to the ground, it’s in line with the trajectory of the ball.
So you’ve read my book, then. Williams laughed. Well, you get points for that, sure.
But Rodney shook his head. I don’t read much, he said. My dad told me that. To my horror, Rodney pointed to where I was leaning against the wall of the home dugout. And then made it ten times worse by saying, He’s the best hitter the state’s ever seen.
Williams’s eyes fixed on me. No kidding, he said, then hollered over to me, What do you say, Dad? Want to take a few hacks?
Love to, but I can’t, I managed to say.
Why’s that? Williams asked.
Missing part of my right hand, I said. Swing isn’t what it used to be.
I’m just a big enough asshole, Williams said, to ask how you lost your hand without caring if it’s rude or not.
Vietnam, I said. After a moment went by without either of us saying anything, Williams nodded and turned his attention back to Rodney. And Rodney proceeded to put on a show. He took his dozen pitches from the right side, then switched to the left when Williams didn’t tell him to quit. Williams didn’t tell him anything, in fact. He just stood there and watched. Pulled a toothpick from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth and gnawed on it. Didn’t say a word.
Afterward he came up to me and said, That boy’s got the best swing I’ve seen since Ted Williams. He laughed. I said, Thank you Mr. Williams. He said Call me Ted, and I said I’d really rather not, I’m not much for heroes but you are one of mine so if you don’t mind too much. He clapped me on the back and said You call me whatever you like, that boy of yours is going to be a hell of a ballplayer. And it was one of the great moments of my life, walking with Ted Williams’s arm around my shoulders, right up there with my boys being born.
As good as Rodney is on the field, you should see him off of it. He walks around in a fog. You have to say his name three times to get his attention, and don’t bother saying anything other than his name until he’s actually looking at you, because you’ll be wasting your breath. He has no interest in girls, even though every other time the phone rings it’s some missy from school asking for him. Whenever he sits still for more than two minutes he falls asleep, and half the time he doesn’t seem to know the difference between day and night; he’ll wake up at six p.m. and dress for school, and if we don’t catch him before he hits the door he’ll stand down at the bus stop for an hour, swinging the souvenir mini-bat he carries around, not noticing that he’s the only kid there, or that it’s getting dark. This has happened more than once.
So imagine letting Rodney go by himself to someplace like New York or Kansas City to play baseball. He wouldn’t make it two days without wandering onto a subway track or showing up for practice at midnight. Once you get him to the park on time and in one piece, you can let him go and watch him do what he does better than just about anyone. But off the field, he needs someone to be there.
This is a problem, for obvious reasons. I already take too much time off from work so I can be at games and practices to run interference on the scouts; consequently we’re robbing Peter more often than usual, and half the time Paul still doesn’t get paid. Debbie can usually get the boy out of bed and make him breakfast, but beyond that she’s not really worth much these days. Which I hate to say it. And I’m not blaming her; she’s got a problem and isn’t as good at hiding it as she once was. And yes sure when I come home from the bakery and the house is a mess and Junior’s in the kitchen burning French toast because he’s too busy on the phone with his little girlfriend, and Rodney’s still in bed only two hours before he and I have to be at the airport, and I go into the bedroom and find a sobbing lump under the covers that’s supposed to be my wife—yeah, I have to bite my tongue. Who wouldn’t.
I know I am far from perfect. And it’s not like I’ve done much to help her, even though what can you do when you ask someone over and over if you can help them with a problem and they keep saying what problem, what problem, I don’t have any problem. I have no idea what to do with someone like that. So I bite my tongue and pick up the slack and hope she’ll come to me when she’s ready. In the meantime, I’ve got the boys to take care of. And now I have to hustle Rodney down to the airport in Portland and get on a plane to Chicago to talk to the Cubs GM, who wants to trade up for the first pick so he can draft my kid. Which of course means more time off work, another dent in the paycheck. But at least the Cubs are picking up the tab for the trip.
It’s hot when we get off the plane at O’Hare. There’s an early summer heat wave over the Midwest, and people are sweating and pissed off and won’t get out of each other’s way. Twice on the walk to baggage claim I have to sidestep to avoid running into someone marching in the other direction. It’s a stupid reason to get mad, but I’m already on edge for reasons I can’t quite put a finger on, and I decide that the next person who wants to play chicken is going to get knocked down. At baggage claim there’s a black guy in a dark suit holding a sign with THIBODEAU printed on it, and he insists on taking our bags even though I tell him I’ve got it okay. He leads us to a Lincoln parked illegally in a fire zone. The driver opens the door for me and Rodney. Inside is soft and dark and almost cold, the AC is on so high. The driver loads the bags in the trunk and we’re on our way.
I haven’t been to Chicago since I flew back to the East Coast after being discharged from the Marines and spent a few days drinking my combat pay on the North Side, trying to get up the nerve to go home to Debbie and Rodney. From what I can see through the tinted windows not much has changed. I don’t see a whole lot though, because the driver, whose name is Alonzo, stays off the surface streets and goes like hell, and before I know it we’re in Wrigleyville. The place is packed with fans in blue jerseys and caps, herds of them coming out of the El and fouling up traffic. Alonzo picks his way slowly through the crowds, working the gas and brake like a pro. Rodney stares out the window, taking it all in with his usual slack-jawed expression. He looks fascinated and bored all at once.
Alonzo pulls up to th
e sidewalk in front of the players’ entrance. He comes around to open the door for us, but we’ve already let ourselves out, so he leads us past two security guards at a riot barrier and knocks on a blue exterior door. The door has no doorknob on the outside. After a second it opens. An old man sticks his head out. Alonzo says What’s shakin Lou, and Lou lets us inside. We walk past the clubhouse, which smells of disinfectant and isn’t very impressive, just a long room with lockers on either side and a table in the middle, a couple of TVs hanging from the ceiling, a batting practice schedule posted on the wall. We go through the indoor batting cage, past the training room, where someone I think I recognize, maybe Jody Davis, is sitting with his leg in the Jacuzzi. We walk up a set of stairs, down a hallway with the 1945 NL pennant hanging on the wall, and into an elevator which we ride three floors to the top. When we step out it is into the air-conditioned owner’s box, complete with red leather lounge chairs and a wet bar and the best view of any ballpark I’ve ever seen.
This is where I get off, Alonzo says.
Okay, I say to him. Thanks a lot.
The three of us stand there. Rodney’s gawking at the field, where the Cubs are wrapping up their half of pregame batting practice. I keep expecting Alonzo to leave, but then I realize after a minute that he’s waiting for a tip. The bartender looks away and starts wiping rocks glasses.
I don’t have any money to give you, I say. It’s the truth. I’ve got about a hundred bucks but I was hoping I wouldn’t have to spend much of it, since it was set aside for a payment on Debbie’s JCPenney card. I’m sorry, I say.
Alonzo just looks at me, then turns and walks away. I know he’s thinking that someone who comes to Chicago on the owner’s invite ought to have ten bucks to spare. I watch him go into the elevator and at first I’m embarrassed but it changes quickly to anger, like earlier at O’Hare. This is the way it’s been with me lately. Every other minute I’m having to breathe deep and flex my hands. For months now, seems like.
It sounds stupid, but being angry all the time is making me angry.
Just then Dallas Green struts into the luxury box. Though we’ve never met in person I know it’s him; he looks just like the arrogant prick I’d imagined when talking to him on the phone last week. I had a good idea then that I wouldn’t like him. Now that I see him in the flesh, a peacock in a necktie, one of those big-personality types who holds his arms out wide as he approaches you, as if he’s never been so happy to see anyone in his life and plans to give you the biggest hug in history pretty much the moment he gets there, I’m sure that I don’t like him. I am tired, and embarrassed over Alonzo, and not in the mood. I’d rather Green just handed me a twenty to give to his driver, and me and my son would be on our way. But here we are, so when he gets close enough and sticks out his hand I shake it. To his credit, he doesn’t give any sign of noticing that my hand mostly isn’t there.
John, good to meet you, good to meet you. I’m Dallas Green.
Kind of figured that, I say.
And this must be our boy Rodney, he says, which I don’t like, the our boy part. Not at all. He puts his hand out for Rodney to shake. Enjoying the view, son? Green asks, and I don’t like that either, him calling Rodney son.
It’s nice, Rodney says. Nice park. Bigger than Fenway.
Green’s still got a grip on Rodney’s hand, and he’s pumping it so hard I think the boy’s arm will come apart at the shoulder, but it doesn’t seem to be bothering Rodney. Older, too, than Fenway, Green says, and while I know this isn’t true, I can’t tell if Green does or not. Can you picture yourself out there at shortstop? he asks Rodney. Take a good look down there, picture yourself crossing the bag, taking the throw from Ryne Sandberg, jumping over the slide, firing to first. Think of being part of the best fucking double play combination in the history of the major leagues.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I say to Green.
I don’t think we are, Green says. He finally lets go of Rodney and turns that wooden nickel smile back to me. I’m able to guarantee that if Rodney comes to us, he will be part of the big league club next season. At shortstop. Guaranteed. And that’s just one of many things I’m bringing to the table here.
Every team that’s after him will have him on the major league roster next season, I say.
Maybe, Green says. Maybe. But at his position?
Most likely, I say.
Green makes his way over to the bar. Don’t know about that, he says. If he goes to Cleveland they’ll put him in the outfield. The Mets will want him at first base. Instead of actually asking for a drink, Green just slaps his hand on the wood countertop to get the bartender’s attention. You want something? he asks me.
Thanks, no. I don’t drink.
Rodney? Green says.
He doesn’t either, I say. I give him a look to make sure he gets it.
Course not, Green says. He grabs his martini from the bartender’s hand and walks back over to us. Rodney’s a world-class athlete, after all. Body’s a temple and all that. Plus of course there’s the trouble he had as a younger man.
Which is no longer an issue, I say.
Green stirs his drink with the plastic pick. I don’t doubt that, he says. But we still have to take it into consideration. Just like any other condition a prospective player might have. If for example we were considering a pitcher with a history of an irregular heartbeat, we would have to take that history into account. No matter how hard the kid throws, or how long it’s been since his ticker skipped a beat.
I just told you, it’s no longer as issue, I say. My left hand is starting to cramp up, trying to close into a fist. Rodney couldn’t be any more different from how he was back then.
I’m sure he couldn’t, by God, Green says. He takes a sip of the martini and motions for us to sit down. Just needed to mention it. Would be irresponsible of me not to.
Mr. Green, I say, I have to admit I’m already getting tired of this. It’s been a long day and I’m missing work I can’t afford to miss. So maybe you could just tell me why you asked us to come here.
Green sits in one of the leather chairs with his legs crossed at the knee. No special reason, he says. We usually ask top prospects to come and check out Wrigley, meet some of the guys, get a feel for the city. To see if they’d be a good fit.
Then I think we’re wasting your time, I say. Because Rodney will not be a good fit with the Cubs.
Green smiles. C’mon, he says, you’ve been here ten fucking minutes and already you know he doesn’t want to play here?
I knew before I got here, I say. I knew just from talking to you on the phone.
Green uncrosses his legs and sits forward in the chair. Then why in hell did you bother coming in the first place? he asks.
Because I knew you could trade up and draft Rodney anyway. So I thought I’d come and talk to you, try to convince you to pass.
So far you’re doing a shitty job, Green says.
There’s a challenge in his eyes that I’m more than happy to rise to. At this point I don’t care much, I say.
I realize sort of distantly that both Green and I are hollering at this point. Rodney’s looking at us like he’s ready to dive under the sofa, and the bartender is cleaning the glasses for a third time, keeping his eyes carefully on his work.
Green puts his drink on an end table and stands up. If he had suspenders, he’d be pulling on them. I set my feet firm into the carpet.
I tell you what, Green says. How about I go ahead and draft him anyway, just to piss in your soup?
I would advise against that, I say.
Why? Green says. What the fuck can you do about it? Not a fucking thing.
Don’t talk that way in front of my son.
Fuck you, Green says. You think you can come in here and intimidate me? Let me tell you something, Sasquatch—I run this team. I do what I want. Your boy goes into the draft, I trade up and take him if I want to.
Like I told you, I know that, I say. Which is why I’m asking you
to pass. I don’t want Rodney playing for you.
I brought you here as a courtesy, Green says. That’s it. I don’t consult with you, and you don’t tell me how to run my organization. You can’t do shit about shit.
I can break your weasel neck, I say. I can do that, I’m pretty sure.
Green steps closer. He’s a head shorter and eighty pounds lighter than me, but I can see in his eyes that he’s foolish enough to mean business. And I’m so angry I don’t care how bad I hurt him.
You threatening me? Green says.
I don’t say anything back. I’m finished talking. Instead I stand up and put my hand on Green’s neck and squeeze. Something in his throat slides under my thumb, then pops and gives way. His face goes from angry red to desperate purple in just a few seconds. He windmills his arms, trying to knock my hand loose. But he’s even weaker than he looks, and the blows do nothing to improve what is fast becoming a very bad situation for him.
It’s Rodney who saves Green. Goofy, kindhearted Rodney. I’m not about to let go on my own. It doesn’t even occur to me that I should, that Green will die if I don’t. I’m just standing there feeling all the anger drain from me as Green’s eyes flicker and wink out and his legs turn to pasta. A couple more seconds, another solid squeeze, and I’ll be empty and at ease for the first time in months.
But lucky for everyone Rodney steps in. Dad, he says, and he puts his hand on my forearm. C’mon Dad I want to meet Harry Caray. It’s enough to snap me out of it, get me to let go of Green’s neck. He falls to the floor, gasping.
Everything Matters! Page 9