by Dave King
29
HOW DO WE SPEND the free time? First we go shopping. I drive Ryan to a mall in the suburbs, where there’s a sports emporium I’ve heard advertised on the radio. But very large stores rattle me, and as we wander past walls of tennis rackets and through a glitzy surfboard boutique and even a dive shop, I want to cry what the hell is a dive shop doing in the Midwest?
Ryan tags along without inquiry. He’s so quiet that despite our moment last night I still wonder where I stand, and I worry that when we find what we’re looking for, he’ll pull some kid stunt and refuse my gift. Then we locate the baseball section, in the basement, and he troops right to the rack of gloves. A good-looking black man in a fitted shirt and violet tie squats comfortably beside him. “Interested in getting a glove?” Ryan nods solemnly.
I reach down and tap Ryan’s left wrist, and he says, “I’m left-handed. Lefties have to wear a right-hand glove.”
The salesman says that’s absolutely correct and points to a section where the gloves are all marked with L’s. He gives me a tidy, professional nod, and if he has any ideas about a white guy shopping with a black child, he doesn’t let on. Lowering his voice, he says, “Did you have a price range in mind, sir?”
I didn’t. Dozens of gloves hang before me, and it takes me a minute just to decipher the price tags. They’re priced higher than I’d have guessed any baseball glove could cost, and this week’s paycheck will be my last. But I didn’t wake up happy just to worry about money. I shake my head, punching my palm with my fist, and the salesman gets that look that says he’s onto my deal. “I’m gonna play shortstop,” announces Ryan.
The man chooses a glove from the rack. “Try this. Good, solid infielder’s glove.” He takes a ball from behind a counter and gives a toss, and Ryan snags the ball out of the air. “Nice,” the man says. Ryan chucks the ball back, and the salesman catches it one-handed, and after several more tosses he puts a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Lemme tell you something about shortstop,” he says casually. “Not a great position for a lefty, and I bet you already know why. It’s the pivot to first—when you turn, you keep your front to the plate, whereas a lefty’s gotta turn away. Understand what I’m saying?” He demonstrates gracefully, pantomiming an infield throw, and I’m wondering if I knew this fine point when he suddenly shrugs. “Now first is a position where a lefty can make a mark. Plenty of action there, and a big guy like you—what are you, eleven? Twelve? Nine? Get outa here.” He’s a smoothy, but Ryan listens with fierce concentration.
The salesman looks from Ryan to me and says that at this stage a guy should try all positions, not get hung up on one role, and if he’s doing Little League, some rotation will be mandatory. He gives the ball another toss—“Pop up here, reach for it, attaboy!”—then suggests Ryan sample more gloves, make an educated selection. “See how the glove hand stops the ball and the throwing hand traps it?” he asks. He’s one of those guys who’s always moving while he talks—stretching, gesturing, signaling, demonstrating—and I think if he ever loses his speech he’ll be just fine. The two of them chuck the ball back and forth, and I slip on a glove, too, just to see how it feels. Without missing a beat the guy says, “How about you, sir? Will you be coaching the young man yourself?”
In the end, we walk out of that store with two gloves, not one, plus a regulation baseball. When the guy announces the total, I feel like fainting, but I’m clearly committed, so I dig out the credit card I almost never use. And in fact, I like putting this stuff on the card. I make a scribble for my signature, and as I tuck the receipt away, I think it’s normal to carry some debt.
As the week progresses I get a few projects knocked out around the house, and we play a lot of backyard catch. One night after Ryan’s in bed I sit on the picnic table drinking a beer. The moon is full, and the clapboards look as if they’ve been rubbed with chalk. I think back to my high school days, when I was just feeling grown-up. How long has it been since I couldn’t predict what lay ahead? I climb down from the picnic table and go inside, rinse the empty bottle and drop it in the recycling tub. The next morning I sleep in, skipping breakfast altogether, and on Thursday I take Ryan to Aqua Splash Down.
Miraculously, Laurel joins us. She and I don’t socialize much beyond the house, so perhaps this is for Ryan. We get a late start, after her deliveries, and when we arrive at the park, Ryan runs from pool to slide to diving board like someone in a relay. Then we find a shaded spot to eat our lunch. As we wait out the hour before swimming again, the three of us play pickle-in-the-middle under the trees, Laurel talking Texas trash in a black one-piece and wraparound sunglasses. She’s not much for capturing the ball, and once, when she’s had a long turn in the middle, she lets out a cowgirl yowl and flings herself at me. I feel the soft skin of her arm on my naked chest, and I backpedal three steps and tumble down, pulling her into the dry, mown grass. The ball plops to earth maybe two feet beyond our reach, and as Laurel crawls toward it her leg slides between my thighs. I give a grunt as I try to turn over; she squeals my name, and soon we’re laughing. I feel her fingers in my chest hair. She stretches across me, slippery, Lycra-clad, and one of my legs is between her thighs, too. As I feel her wriggle, I pretend to reach for the ball.
Then Ryan’s there, holding the ball aloft as he dances around us on his skinny brown legs. “I got it! I got it! And she’s still in the middle!” Laurel and I sit up, panting, and I use my torn bandage as a reason to avoid eye contact. Getting up, I put my hands on my knees to catch my breath. I stare down at my flat, pale feet, already pinkening from a few hours of sun. I’m noticing a cigarette butt under a dandelion when a patch of shadow crosses my field of vision, then Laurel’s little fingers are plucking the cut grass from my back. I can smell her suntan lotion over the scent of my own meaty perspiration, and as her fingers go pick, pick, pick, we don’t say a word. Meticulously, she removes each blade, dropping it to the ground between us, and I pant deeply and blink at her satiny, close-shaven legs. It’s a long time since I’ve felt that particular species of vibration, and I could stay like this for the rest of my days.
I volunteer to take her place in the middle. Ryan thinks I’m crazy to do it, but I hand over my glove, and maybe I look hungry, adjusting my shorts. Laurel blushes, but does she think I’m a stone? The day is bright. The cluster of swimming pools, with its boisterous music and shouting families, is across a broad field, so the tree-shaded spot where we’ve chosen to picnic seems suddenly intimate. Laurel dashes to the blanket and pulls a shirt over her black suit, and we go back to our game without looking at each other. There’s nothing between us, but she’s pretty cute, crossing the grass with my big glove clamped on her hand.
30
LAUREL SAYS, “LOOKIN’ PURTY SHARP THERE, cowboy.” Ryan’s attired himself as a kind of badass sports hero: dark Cubs T-shirt with the sleeves rolled to the shoulders, sweatpants sawed off to baseball length, puffy sneakers, Indians cap. Laurel nods appraisingly. “Got your mitt?”
“Harrison took it. He’s out back.”
I step onto the stoop, and Nat’s in the yard, tossing the baseball in the air and catching it. He’s shirtless, and his ponytail frisks over a circular something-or-other tattooed on his back. Nat’s a lefty like Ryan, but I’m afraid he’ll stretch the leather with his big grown-up’s paw, so I shout, “Na!” and toss him my own right-hander’s glove.
“Thanks, Howard. I gotta get my mom to mail me mine.” He switches gloves, then throws the ball high, and when it comes down he tries catching it wrong-handed. The ball hits the tip of the glove and bounces toward the stable, and Nat scrambles after it, all tanned legs and bare feet. He looks so playful that it’s hard to begrudge him being himself, and for a moment I see the high school hopeful he must have been, privately imagining a big career. Cocky, but not yet such a joke. I wonder what life he expected to have, because when you’re young you dream of anything you want, then nothing comes true. Nat’s music thing seems stalled now, but there was a time not so long ago
when things went his way. He threw sliders; he majored in U.S. history. I doubt he envisioned himself painting houses at thirty. Yet as he bobbles another fly, Nat hasn’t a care. It’s not a way I can imagine feeling, but for the moment I’m not offended.
Ryan comes and stands beside me, and Nat tosses him his glove. “It’s a beauty, Ry-Ry. You want to tie it up at night to keep its shape.” He rubs his face with his forearm and says, “Here: show me what you got.” Then, as if to remind us he truly is a dope, he throws the baseball right at the house, where it could break a window. But Ryan jumps out and catches the ball handily. He flips it back, and I hardly bother scowling at Nat.
Laurel comes out on the stoop, and we watch them play catch. “Been more’n a month, Howard. Any word from his ma?” I shake my head—no date yet—then make a gesture of drawing things out. “Sure nice having him,” she says, and leans against me. Our shoulders touch, but she’s just being affectionate.
Laurel’s her old self today: cheap sneakers, baggy pants. The girl in black Lycra seems like a mirage. I’ve decided it wasn’t really Laurel who got me so hot and bothered at Aqua Splash Down, but the heady mix of bright, common pleasures; if I ever imagined a familyoid excursion, it was as something far beyond my sphere, as remote from me as from Sister Amity. Then the sparkle, the giant slide and the fountains, the soft comfort of a picnic under trees! The big pool with its high-tech surf and Ryan bobbing on the swells. I think even Laurel realized how spectacular this was, because she ran to a concession stand for a disposable camera. The way the sun cavorted among the clouds and the sound of the ball dropping to the dry grass, and someone so relaxed that she let out a war whoop and threw herself at me! But no one’s more aware than I am of my romantic deficiencies, and I’m grateful that Laurel let our moment pass.
Ms. Monetti’s appeared at the edge of the yard, but Nat doesn’t see her. He’s set my glove aside and is playing bare-handed, clowning around by nearly missing each throw, then snagging the ball at the last possible minute. Backpedaling toward the driveway, he reaches up and tumbles like an otter, then comes up with the ball high over his head. His handsome fool’s face is lit by a game-winning grin. Laurel waves her hands and chants, “Harri-son, Harri-son!” and what the hell: I put my hands together for the guy, too.
When it’s time to leave, Laurel gives Ryan a hug. “Okay, m’boy. I sure can’t wait to come watch a game.” She kisses him on both cheeks and says it’s for luck, then shakes her hair from her face. For a moment I think she’ll offer me some luck, too, but it doesn’t happen.
31
THE BASEBALL FIELDS are on the south side of town, closer to Sylvia’s rehab than to home. Within a large city park lies an oval parking lot shadowed by trees, where two dusty diamonds bleed together at their outfields. Kids of all ages are milling about, and a chubby man in Bermuda shorts is taking an armload of bats from a white station wagon. Ryan climbs from the truck with an air of toughness and makes a circuit of the parking lot, but almost immediately he’s back at my side. “There’s girls here,” he announces skeptically.
I look around. It’s true. Not a lot of girls, but several who are unmistakably here to play ball. A tall girl with beaded dreads is fiddling with the clasp on a baseball cap, and over by the third base line a much bigger girl is taking batting practice all alone. We watch her flip a ball in the air and whack a solid liner across the infield, and I give a whistle: there’s one to beat. A wiry, blue-haired kid scrambles to make the catch, and as he sails it back I pat Ryan’s shoulder. He blinks at me, then swaggers off. Girls! He could do worse.
Someone calls, “Howard!” and I turn around. It’s Robin the gardener. She grins crazily and gives me an unexpected hug. “Not exactly who I expected to run into today,” she says, taking a puff from a cigarette. “So where is he?”
I raise my eyebrows. Where’s who? Robin says, “I heard from Sister Anthill you’re Big Brothering now. Cool, cool, cool, Howard.” I wait for a comment on my disgrace at the convent, but Robin only glances around the parking lot. Perhaps Sister Amity kept the bad news to herself. “I can’t imagine which one’s yours.”
I point out Ryan. He’s standing by a nylon equipment bag, self-consciously rolling a bat with one foot. He looks as though he’s not quite sure he can touch anything, and Robin calls out, “Go ahead! That stuff’s to be used.” I nod, and he stoops for the bat, then inches toward the big girl batting by third base. And though I’d prefer to watch how he proceeds, Robin drags me away. “Did you meet Ed yet? Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Ed Mesk is Mister Luster Kleen. I’d pictured an iron-jawed drill instructor with a chip on his shoulder—the type who has to compensate for a life cleaning carpets—but Ed’s the chubby fellow with the shorts and the white wagon. He’s short and amiable, with a beaky mouth and round, hairless forearms. “Oh, great,” he says as he pumps my hand. “Another dad. Boy, can we use you. Welcome to the Snakes.” He hands me a sheet filled with letters and numbers, then glances anxiously at Robin. “Could I ask you not to smoke around the kids?”
Robin rolls her eyes at me. “Hey, Ed,” she says, “did you know Howard’s differently abled? He doesn’t talk much, but don’t treat him like an idiot, okay? He could be the smartest one here, you never know.” Ed looks helpless, and after a second Robin claps us both on the back. “Hey, you’re both good guys.” Then she calls out, “Come on, people, let’s play some ball!”
Ed honks the horn of his station wagon and says, “Sorry, but could I get everyone’s attention?” I see Ryan and the big girl walking in tandem across the infield, each acting as if the other’s not there, and as the crowd assembles I hover on the periphery. Across the circle, Robin slouches beside a pretty woman in green knee-length pants. She checks her pocket for cigs and yawns like a tiger. The other woman stands very straight, her hands on the shoulders of a narrow-faced boy much smaller than Ryan, and as Robin stoops to whisper in the boy’s ear it strikes me they’re a family unit. The little boy nods and says something in return, and Robin slaps him on the butt as she straightens up. Next to them stands a woman with two boys, one the blue-haired kid I noticed earlier, and further on, a husky Asian boy is standing alone. The Asian kid’s bigger than Ryan, and he’s dressed in full catcher’s gear; while Ed is speaking he practices brushing the mask up to the crown of his head, then back over his face. All in all, there must be twenty-five kids here, and a handful of adults; but it’s the grown-ups, not the children, who remind me of childhood.
My family wasn’t big on organized activities for kids, and we were a bit condescending toward families who were. I never did Little League, and I was a Boy Scout only briefly. But the street I live on used to be filled with youngsters who got together without supervision to create races and contests and fights and games. We played kickball and football when the spirit took us, and if we weren’t sure about some rule or technique, we made it up. Now, I’m sure Ed Mesk is trying hard to sound legit, but the casual atmosphere conspires against him. Instead of structured athletics, it’s as if the children from my old street have come together to invent a game called “Little League”—or even “Saturday” or “Good Parenting” or something to be named later. At least, that’s my reverie when I notice a small, birdlike woman eyeing me sharply. She’s wondering what I’m doing here, I think: memorizing my scar and casting me as some weirdo. I make a mental note to keep Ryan near me, like a membership card.
Ed asks if we’d rather sit on the bleachers, and no one responds. He says we might start today by just loosening up, and that sounds good. “Let’s spend the first hour on fundamentals, then toss together a couple of teams and play however many innings,” he says. “Okay? The point is to have a real good time.” Pointing a finger around the circle, he gives each kid a number, then divides them into groups: “One through seven will work on batting: eight through fifteen, catching and throwing; sixteen and up, fielding. Twenty minutes, then we’ll rotate. And I’m still trying to line up a pitching coach, guys, so
pitchers sit tight a week, okay?” He claps his hands a little daintily and adds, “Let’s have some fun.”
Ryan says, “I’m on batting,” and gives an air bat a mighty swing. I watch a home run fly off toward outer space, and we high-five. I’d like the bird-woman to catch this. The slugger girl calls for batters, and the kids scurry off importantly, their shadows hustling along beneath them. For a moment, I think of boot camp. I take a seat on a bleacher and watch a little boy, gasping like a four-minute miler, guzzle three cupfuls from a Coleman drink dispenser; then a granddad tells him that’s enough. Robin’s girlfriend appears, carrying shopping bags, and smiles at me without knowing who I am.
“Howard!” Robin slaps my knee with her cap. “What the hell are you doing?” I spread my hands. I’m not doing anything. She says, “You can’t just sit here. You have to pitch in.”
I stand up, but there’s nothing to do. The girlfriend’s emptied her bags of rice cakes and oranges and is chatting up Gramps; there’s a mom reading a magazine and a few parents out with the kids. On the nearer of the two diamonds, Ed Mesk is hitting grounders and pop-ups, and young fielders are running the balls down. At the far diamond, Ryan’s in line with the batters.
Robin hisses, “You really want to hang with the ladies?” Then suddenly she laughs. She’s so dour at the convent that I doubt I’ve ever heard her laugh, and it’s surprisingly goofy: ha, ha, ha. The girlfriend turns, and Robin says, “Howard, this is Ann. Her little boy Jamie’s around here somewhere. But come on. We need to teach these babies how to throw.” From a corner of the outfield, the catching-and-throwing group watches our negotiations.