Balling the Jack

by Frank Baldwin

  “Go on, Tom. Ask me a question about the game. Anything at all.”

  “Okay. What made Bavaro such a good tight end?”

  “Really, Tom. Pretty pedestrian. First and foremost, he blocked well. And he could get downfield and make the tough catches in traffic.”

  I look at Ben and he beams. I shake my head as I walk to the bedroom to change out of my suit.

  What can I say? Guys, girls, it doesn’t matter. It all comes down to who holds the hammer. Molly held it over Mike, so he checked his balls at the door every night. Now Molly’s found something she needs, Ben’s got the hammer on her, and just like that she’s a regular offensive coordinator.

  It’s no mystery what that something is, either. Late that night, as I lie in bed with my hands behind my head, it comes through the wall loud and clear. Turns out Molly has a little cat in her after all. Only when Kretzky starts throwing the ball against the door do they pipe down.

  I sigh. Man, I need to get laid. I’m serious. It’s not healthy for a guy my age to sweat it out alone night after night. I know, I had my shot and walked out on it. Don’t remind me. If I can’t win Lisa back, last Friday’s near miss will be tough to live down. The killer is, I can’t even tell her. She’d ask what I was doing there in the first place, and with no good answer to that, my grand walkout wouldn’t score me any points at all. Christ.

  I’m not going to beat myself up for cutting Lisa loose a year ago. Like I said, she was the first, and no guy with any weight to him settles in for the long haul without seeing what else is out there. Still, looking back on it all now, it seems to me there were a few nights on the Hill when it might have dawned on me she was the one.

  One in particular keeps coming back at me.

  I was drinking beer with Jimmy and Tank at a party in the gym. Lisa was late joining us because it was Thursday and Thursdays she taught reading and simple math to adults in Utica who needed their GED. I could see the mouth of the gym from where I stood. When Lisa stepped into it, the light over the door fell on her face and I could see she’d had a rough night. Often her class brought her down because so few of her students saw it through to the end. Lisa would get to know them and it was hard on her to go and see the chairs of those she liked empty, or filled with new students facing the same long odds.

  Lisa started toward the back of the gym. I watched her move through the crowd, weary, and then as she spotted me I saw the joy rise in her eyes and some of the day go out of her. The last ten steps she put her hands behind her back and came sexy, slow, her eyes right on mine, and I felt such a charge downstairs I had to shift my stance. I had a few in me, and we’d been some days without a go, but it wasn’t that.

  As she came up on me, and kissed me in the middle of my chest, it hit me like a right cross that for the first time it wasn’t her thin legs or her eyes or even the calm way I knew she’d come back at me when I put it to her that had me so primed. No, I wanted Lisa so much that night because she was the best person I knew. I knew she needed to disappear into sex, and it revved me that I had it in me to drive the rough day right out of her. I knew too that she was clean and clear inside in a way I’d never been, and that in ten minutes, in her bed, I’d get to touch that.

  She drank her cup of beer while leaning back on me, and as she drank it I whispered in her ear what I was going to do to her. I felt the last of her sadness slip right out of her, felt her skin come to life. She turned into me, rested her cup on my shoulder and finished her beer in small sips. We waved bye to the guys and made straight for her room, almost running, and once there I took off her clothes and she took off mine and I did just what I said I’d do. It was a top-ten fuck, too, believe me, and you’d think somewhere in the middle of it it might have struck me that I had something I should hang on to.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  WEDNESDAY night at seven I stand at the door of Stella’s apartment, wondering what’s up. She called me at work this morning to ask me to stop by. It’s funny—I’ve probably seen Stella twice a week, at least, for the last two years, but I’ve never been inside her place. I ring the bell.

  I hope whatever it is doesn’t take too long. I was counting on a quiet night of dart practice back at the pad. Less than fifty hours and counting, now, until the match, and all my fund-raising this past week has kept me away from the board. I’m just now getting my eye back.

  I’ve made sure the rest of the team gets their throwing in, too. Rang them all up yesterday with a little incentive for Friday night. Told them I had a five-hundred-dollar side bet on the match with Duggan, and that I’d cut everybody in for fifty bucks if we win. Made me feel a little better. It’s not the truth, I know, or even close to it, but at least it’s in the ballpark.

  Stella ushers me in with a smile but her face looks drawn and old. Maybe it’s just the light in here. She takes my arm on the way to the living room, where she points me into a big, soft chair from about 1970.

  “I’ve made some tea, Tom. Or would you prefer a beer?”

  “On the house?”

  She smiles. “On the house.”

  She goes to get it and I look around the big room. My kind of place. One wall is lined with old Giant pennants and framed pictures of the players. Willie Mays chasing one down in center. Durocher fighting the umps. Another is covered by cork bulletin boards full of photos. I spot the gang in a couple. On the mantel is a picture of Stella, it must be fifty years ago or more, standing with a sharp-looking guy in full Navy dress. She returns with my beer and lowers herself into a chair a few feet away.

  “Tom, I know about the match Friday night.”

  The beer slips from my hand but I catch it between my knees. I look at her.

  “My canasta partner, Tom. Remember? Papa O’Shea—the owner of County Hell Pub.”

  “How does he know about it?”

  “Who do you think is fronting Duggan his money?”

  “Papa O’Shea?”

  She nods.

  “Don’t think he’s not taking a big cut if Duggan wins. Still, it’ll leave Duggan enough to start his own place. If he loses, though, he’ll be working for O’Shea for the next ten years.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” I shake my head. The room is quiet awhile. Stella sighs.

  “Tom, how many beers have I bought you this last year?”

  “One.”

  She laughs softly. “That’s one more than some of my regulars.” She looks up. “I’ve always been cheap, Tom. My husband started the bar and taught me to run it. He used to say once you give the first one away you open the dam.”

  “Stella, we never minded.”

  “Maybe not, but you kids deserved better. You were always loyal. I know the deals the other bars were offering. And you stayed with me.”

  She looks straight in my eyes.

  “I don’t have much family, Tom. I have a grandson upstate, but between you and me”—she leans in—“he’s a bit of a shit.”

  That’s how I remember him. Robert. He lived in New York when we started the team and bartended for Stella some nights. One of those guys who was into the authority of the job. Loved to boss the busboy around and make customers wait on their drinks.

  “Why are you telling me this, Stella?”

  “Because I don’t have a lot of time left, Tom.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I start to say something but she waves it off.

  “Don’t. I’m not going to go into it, Tom, but the doctor is an old friend of mine and he told me square.”

  “But Stella …”

  “Now that’s the last I’m going to say on the subject, and I don’t want to hear about it from you or anyone else. You understand me?”

  “Yes. How much time do you have?”

  “A year, maybe longer.”

  We are quiet again. The sounds from outside are peaceful now. A honk there, some voices. I drink my beer and she sips her tea. When she looks up again her eyes are sh
ining.

  “I put a bet on you guys, Tom.”

  “A bet?” I can’t help smiling. “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars. With Papa O’Shea.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I finish my beer in a gulp. “Excuse me.”

  “If you guys win, I want you to keep half. Twenty-five grand.”

  “Stella, I don’t want you to do that.”

  “It’s you or my grandson, Tom, and if he gets it it goes right up his nose. Say you’ll take it.”

  I look around the room.

  “Okay. I’ll take it.”

  She smiles. “Tom, I have what I need around me. Friends, the bar, all the regulars to talk to. What I don’t have is any excitement. I want some, Tom. Something to look forward to. To break up the days.” She puts her hand on my leg. “And I like your chances. Do you?”

  “Sure. We beat ’em last time.”

  “And I think you can again. They may have the shooters, but you kids play together. I’ve seen a lot of darts in my time, Tom, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that the team that stands by each other wins.” She smiles. “All this talk aside, I wouldn’t put a dime on you if I didn’t think you could take them.”

  I smile. “I believe that. We’ll come through for you, Stella.”

  She puts her hand on my arm. “Watch out for Duggan, Tom. He’s in real deep. I don’t know what he’ll try, but be careful. He’s desperate.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  She walks me to the door and pats my arm.

  “Remember, Tom, none of this to anybody.” As I start down the stairs, she says, “One more thing, Tom.” I turn back with a smile but her face is serious. “Don’t lose.”

  Alone on the street I look across at Adam’s Curse. Through the glass I can see the regulars at the bar, and past them the darters, throwing with their familiar rhythm. One, two, three, walk to the board. As I cross the street, I feel a sadness like I’ve never known. It’s not fair. All the losers in this town and it has to happen to Stella. I shake my head hard to break out of it. Walking home, I tell myself this doctor business could all be a big mistake. You hear cases all the time where they tell people they have a year left, or six months, and they wind up living to a hundred. Sure, Stella doesn’t look so good, but they don’t make them any tougher. If anyone can beat the odds, she can. And we can do our little part for her by winning this match.

  Jesus, how about this match, too. Is it spiraling out of control or what? Ninety grand on her now, that I know of. And an extra $25,000 coming my way if we win. When we win. Christ, I’ve been scrambling so fast to raise the dough, I’ve never stopped to think what I’ll do with it when it’s over. With what Stella wants to throw my way we’re talking a real stash. Enough. Put all that thinking out of your head, Tom. Start getting ahead of yourself and you stop doing the things it takes to win. All I should be thinking about is taking care of my part, and right now that means back to the board to practice.

  I get home to an empty apartment and the message light flashing on the answering machine. I hit the button.

  “Hi, Tom, it’s Lisa. Big news! I’m being transferred to Chicago. They want me on the Zuma account. Can you believe it—it’s the biggest one they have. The transfer won’t go through for a couple months, but then I’m free of this place, Tom. No more grabby boss, no more glass ceiling. Call me when you get this. I’ll buy you a drink to celebrate.”

  I open a beer and sit down hard. I finish it, open another, and walk down the stairs into the street. I step in front of a cabbie and he leans on his horn and shakes his fìst at me through the window. Back on the sidewalk I start up First Avenue, not thinking where I’m headed. When I find myself at Sixty-third Street I buy another beer and cut over to the walkway along the East River. The water is still and pretty, the lights of Queens falling over it from across the way.

  Lisa is leaving. How’s that for a kick in the nuts?

  All the time we’ve been broken up it never occurred to me she might leave town. And Chicago, of all places. I wouldn’t last a week out there. Ten degrees every day of the year and nothing but Bulls fans. The last time Jordan sank the Knicks in the playoffs I vowed I’d never even change planes at O’Hare.

  Quit kidding yourself, Tom—you’re not invited. I can’t believe it. So long as Lisa’s been in New York it’s as if she was still in my life somehow, even when I didn’t see her. I get into bed at night knowing she’s less than a mile away, that I can be there in five minutes if I have to. But Chicago. Don’t talk to me about long-distance relationships, either. I know how that game goes. You say “I’ll write, I’ll call,” but it’s all bull. You put that much distance between two people, that’s it.

  I stop and look out over the water. What an ass I’ve been. Playing it cool, going slow, figuring all along that she would come around. Never telling her I wanted her back. Never telling her I miss her so much sometimes I can’t take it. That I pull out old pictures, or letters she wrote in the summers.

  For the first time I tell myself what I’ve known all along: I can’t lose her. I say it out loud. It sounds hard and strange. I say it again. Okay, Tom—you mean it? Then what’s the plan? Because if you don’t come up with one fast, and a good one, she’s out of here.

  I start walking again. I always think better when I walk, and I think best when I’m up against it. That ought to make me Einstein about now. I walk with my hand along the rail, my eyes closed, and as I walk a plan starts to form in my mind. Like any good plan it’s simple, and the more I walk, the simpler I make it. By Eighty-third Street I have it sketched out in my head. I flip a quarter into the dark water, cut over to York and flag down a cab. Flying down the FDR I make the plan even simpler, and by the time I step out of the cab in Chelsea, I have it down.

  IN THE ELEVATOR up to Lisa’s I feel the sweat break out on me. The one thing I’m not any good at is the one thing I have to do. At her apartment I lean my head on the door a second before ringing the bell. Her roommate opens up.

  “Well, well,” she says, “look who’s back. Didn’t think we’d see you again.”

  “I missed you too, Julie. Is Lisa in?”

  “I think she’s out with some guy.”

  “Some guy?”

  “Yeah. Oh, wait a minute—that was her lunch date, Phil. She’s back from that. Then there was her dinner date, Joe, and she’s back from that, too. Let’s see, it’s ten P.M.? Her late-night date’s not due for another hour. Just a second, I’ll go get her.”

  I do love a sense of humor in a girl.

  Lisa comes to the door in sweats and a T-shirt. Why girls think they have to dress up is beyond me. A T-shirt kills me every time.

  “Tom! Hi. What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d return your call in person. How ’bout that drink you promised?”

  “I’d love to. Just let me get a sweater.”

  It’s a short walk from her place to the heart of the Village. I suggest the Red Lion because it’s quiet and lead her to a booth in the back. It’s nice and dark, a candle in a bottle on the table. We order beers. She smiles.

  “You haven’t congratulated me yet,” she says.

  “What—oh. Congratulations.”

  “What is it, Tom? You’re sweating.”

  “Give me your hands.”

  She reaches them across the table slowly, her smile curious now. I take them, look down, and close my eyes a second. Okay, Tom—say it straight and quick.

  “Don’t go to Chicago, Lisa.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t go to Chicago.”

  “What do you mean, Tom? Are you asking me to turn down a promotion?”

  “I’m asking you to quit your job.”

  She sits back, starts to laugh. “Why should I do that?”

  “Because I love you.”

  There, it’s out. Lisa’s not laughing now. She looks stunned. As for me, I can feel the blood running in me. It’s all on the line again. I lean in.


  “Lisa, remember how we used to say one day we’d see the country? Just take off, with no plans except to go? Well, I came into some money and I can support us for a year. Come away with me.”

  She takes one hand away, brushes at her hair. “How did you get this money?”

  “I won a bet.”

  She laughs softly. Her shock is wearing off.

  “Go away with you, Tom?”

  “Yes.”

  She looks down at the table, then back at me.

  “If I hadn’t left that message, Tom, would you be here?” She takes her other hand back, gently.

  “Would you?”

  “Yes. Maybe not right now but soon. I’m not just here because you’re leaving, Lisa. I’m here because I want us to be together again. Because breaking up with you was the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “Was it, Tom? Then why did you do it?” I look away but she takes my cheek in her hand. “Look at me, Tom. You never told me, remember? Even that last night together, you never told me.” Her lip starts to go but she holds it firm. “Tom, you tell me the truth now, right here, or I walk out. Why did you leave me?”

  “I was afraid I’d miss out.”

  “Miss out on what?”

  “Other girls.”

  I see the stab in her eyes as she looks away fast and then back. “And what did you find out?”

  “That there are no other girls. I know that now. And I know what I did to you, Lisa, and I’m sorry. You were my first real girl. I thought what we had is what everyone has. It took losing you to know I was wrong.”

  She wipes at her eyes and sits back. “Go on.”

  “I won’t lie. I’ve gone with girls since, and chased others. What it taught me is that you’re the one.”

  She’s crying now and I can’t tell what kind of tears they are.

  “I think of you all the time, Lisa. I’ll be walking down the street, at rush hour, and I’ll think of us—of the way we used to be. The easy talk, the way you fit on my shoulder. We were special, Lisa. All the people we knew, all the couples—nobody got on like we did. You and me, we … we made each other whole.” I stop a second. “If you don’t think so, Lisa, tell me and I’ll leave.”