The Pitcher 2

by William Hazelgrove

  That dog, man, he loved The Pitcher. He had grayed now, which is something I didn’t think dogs did. But his snout is all white now, and he moves a lot slower. The Pitcher said his hips were bugging him, and he gave him Glucosamine and fish oil with his dog food. He said if it worked for humans, it should work for dogs. He put Good Times beer in his water sometimes, and Shortstop would sleep all day and get up and you could tell from his face he was hungover.

  The colleges started calling and leaving messages about coming to their school. So we went to a bunch of colleges, and they treated me like I had played in the MLB or something. They talked full-rides and showed me their training facilities, and we went to dinner with the coaches, who just about fell over when they found out Jack Langford was my dad. They stared at him like he was a God and treated me almost the same. Mom would always quiz me after the college visit and ask if I could see myself going there, and I would shrug and say yeah. But I mean, my grades weren’t the greatest, Cs mostly. So I was amazed they wanted me. But it was all about baseball really and those ninety-mile-an-hour pitches.

  But Mom was not budging.

  “You have to get an education, Ricky, in case you can’t play baseball.”

  That was how Mom saw it. But I couldn’t imagine not playing, you know. I mean, the Pitcher is a pitcher for life, even though he doesn’t play anymore. It’s like it’s who I am. I am not Ricky who wants to pitch in the MLB. I am a pitcher who wants to play in the Majors. Like a writer is a writer, or a painter is a painter. You just can’t help it, because it is who you are. I tried to explain that to Mom a couple times, but I think she saw it like a switch that could be turned on and off.

  “You still need an education even if you play in the Majors,” is how she saw it.

  The Pitcher didn’t say anything about college. He never went, and Mom said it was different then. He said it was different then, but he didn’t say I should go to college. He just said keep working on my pitching and don’t drink my own Kool-Aid. In other words, don’t believe any of the press. Don’t believe the college guys who tell me how great I am and how they want me to be their star pitcher. He said don’t believe in anyone but myself.

  And I am trying to do that now standing up at the plate, facing this maniac with the weird blue eyes. I hold the bat ready to smash the bean and can hear the wind in the trees and smell a hotdog and the scent of the grass from the infield. Dust is dancing up in these small circles to the left of the plate, and I am crouching and waiting for it. Bailey is pulling in, and we are two gunslingers facing off in the Old West.

  “Knock the shit out of it, Ricky! This guy can’t f-ing pitch! ”’

  That voice is from my nightmares that come when I wake up in a cold sweat and can’t get back to sleep. That voice belongs to the darkest days of the old way. I thought that voice had left for good, but now it was right there somewhere in right field. And I looked, which you never do when you are up to bat. You never look away from the pitcher, but I just had to. And I don’t see anyone. No one. And I look right back at Bailey, who is drawing back.

  “Hit the mother, Ricky!”

  I open my eyes and feel electricity jangle right down my spine. It’s like someone hit me with a jolt of electricity because I know that voice. I do. It is burned in my brain, and there is only one person I know who would say something like that. Fernando. And it is in that moment when my eyes shoot to right field again. Bailey Cruise lets fly and that ball whizzes right past me, and I hear it smack the catcher’s mitt like a rifle shot.

  “Strike!”

  It’s like I had blinked, and Bailey knew just when to shoot that fastball across the plate. Because I had blinked, and when I opened my eyes, Fernando is there by the fence like he never left. He has on his dark glasses and a long ponytail and his big arms with tats rolling all the way up. He has a full goatee with his wallet chain dangling in the sun like a dangerous snake. And his hands are high up on the fence like he is going to climb over it any minute.

  Hell has returned.

  “Get that mother-f, Ricky!”

  I can’t believe it. Three years and not a word, and now he is there. My mouth is open, and for a moment I have forgotten where I am. But then I see the two MLB guys who are standing with their arms crossed, and I try and put Fernando out of my head, which is impossible by the way. Why would he come back now? And then I know the answer. You know the answer. The dude comes back for the chips, right. He probably heard that people in the Majors were interested in me, and Fernando has come back for his cut of the pie. Why else would he be at my game?

  I move the bat around and wonder if Mom has seen him. I mean it’s like the black plague has returned or something. Fernando is all old way and belongs to those really dark times when we thought we were going to lose our home and Mom didn’t have health insurance and the Pitcher was just this asshole who lived across the street in his garage and Fernando was this dude coming to steal our money and beat the crap out of Mom. He is staring at me with his dark glasses and hands snaking through the fence.

  So I glance over to the stands, and, yeah, Mom has seen him. She is standing up and staring directly at Fernando like some kind of zombie who has just risen from the dead. Fernando is like those dudes in the Hunger Games, and he is going to eat everybody. But I have to get my head back. This is not the time to be thinking about Fernando. Okay. Concentrate. Concentrate. I am now eying Bailey and crouching and getting ready to meet that fastball on own terms. Okay, one strike. No big thing. Time to knock it out of the park.

  So what the hell was Fernando doing at my game?

  “Strike!”

  Didn’t even see it. My head was somewhere else, and you can get away with that sometimes. But with this guy, no way. I look over at Coach Hoskins, who is by the dugout with this perplexed look. Why wasn’t I even swinging? That ball just slipped by in the breath between seconds. I heard it, but I didn’t see it. It was moving that fast.

  “Don’t take any shit off this guy, Ricky! This guy can’t pitch worth shit!”

  Vintage Fernando, man. This guy could pitch worth shit. He could pitch more than shit, and if I didn’t blot out Fernando like now, I was going down. I moved the bat on my shoulder and reset myself and doubled down staring at Bailey, who was pulling the ball in for his windup. I can feel the buzz of the zone, and I can tell what he is up to now. He is going inside. Just the quiet now. Just the moment.

  “Kick his ass, Ricky!”

  I blot out Fernando. But that voice is not stopping now. It has come back, and it really doesn’t matter why because when the darkness comes, man, it just comes. And then it is night, and you are back in hell and who cares why or how it happened. You just know you are back in the bad place, and all you want to do is get out of it. That is the way it is with any sport, man. It is all attitude. I am the best because I know I am the best. You fulfill your own prophecy, right? Sort of like surfing on a wave and staying up and out of that dark green water right beneath you.

  “Kick his f-ing ass, Ricky!

  So I fight hard, man. I am Ricky Hernandez, man. I am the man. I have a .360 batting average. I routinely hit homers. I make mincemeat out of pitchers, and then I destroy batters. I am the best that has ever come out of South High. I have colleges telling me I don’t have to pay a dime and hinting they will give me a car and I will live like a king in the nicest dorms. I have Major League Baseball scouts calling my home and wanting to meet. I see that scene all the time in Moneyball where they slide the check across the table. “This is what we think of Ricky and this expresses our confidence in him.” I am happening. I am the man.

  So bring it on!

  “Kick him in the balls, Ricky, with a line drive, man!”

  What?

  Bailey lets fly and I see that ball and then I don’t and I swing with everything I have.

  “Strike!”

  I have just been struck out by a guy named Bailey Cruise from Texas. And those MLB scouts are walking to the other side of the fi
eld to talk to the guy who just smoked the best player ever to come out of South High School. And Fernando comes in for cleanup.

  “Tough shit, Ricky!”

  6

  A-ROD. MARK MCQUIRE. Bailey Hutchinson. They all are like something from another planet. A-Rod and Mark McQuire probably juiced, you know. Well, they did. Steroidal, man. And still they are among the greatest players that ever lived. And I would like to say Bailey juiced man. You know, that would account for his fastball or the way he knocked my fast ball out of the park like it was nothing. But he is not about steroids. He is about like backwoods talent. Something like Mickey Mantle coming out of the fields of Oklahoma and getting in that scout’s Cadillac at seventeen and never being the same after that, because real talent has its own clock.

  And I am thinking all this while watching Fernando walking to the fence, and I am shocked because his hair has grey streaks and his goatee has snow. The dude walks up to the fence like it’s just another day, and I am putting my bat into bat bag and trying to act like I don’t see him, but that is impossible because you don’t not see a guy like Fernando.

  “Hey, Bro!” He calls.

  I look up, and he is like a foot away, clinging to the fence like it is a prison. His fat fingers are ink stained with SATAN across his knuckles. Prison did wonders for him. His teeth are almost black, and he walks with a limp, which came from the Pitcher taking him out that day three years ago.

  “Whassup,” I say.

  He comes over and gives me shake and then the hug, and the liquor is like gasoline. You can smell it all over him. He palms a cigarette and cups his lighter, puffing out smoke like some old broken down train engine.

  “How you been, man?’

  I shrug and feel hot. I am sweating, and it is not that hot. It is just my heart has gone into overtime, and I feel like I am thirteen again with all that old fear. You never knew when Fernando was going to appear and rock your world. He would just show up and create hell and then disappear. So I am in like flight- or-fight mode as I repack my mitt and keep my eyes on my bag and shrug again.

  “Alright.”

  Fernando rubs his arms that are not all that muscular anymore. Kind of fat. And that is because he is kind of fat, and his tats have faded, and his sunglasses are those cheap round kind you get in a gas station. He nods slowly.

  “Yeah, man. I did a little stretch, you know, and that’s why I haven’t been to see you.”

  Prison. A little stretch. Prison. That’s why he hasn’t been to see me. My question is why did they let this dude out? Are they that overcrowded? I mean, if there is one guy who should be in prison, it’s Fernando. There is no rehabilitation here. Just bad getting worse.

  “That’s cool,” I mutter.

  “You and your mom are doing alright, huh? I hear you got MLB scouts looking at you.”

  “Some.”

  Gotta love Facebook, right? You got a secret you don’t want, then put it on Facebook and the whole world will know about it, and some dude in prison will read it and get out and head straight for Florida where he can shake down his son he used to beat all the time. Yeah. Social Media is like the cons’ friend. Fernando is nodding slowly like he’s got all the answers and he is who the scouts want to talk to.

  “Yeah, man. That’s cool. You be set then, bro. Good thing I taught you early, huh?”

  I stare at him, and now my ears are burning man because I know his play. He sees the past a whole different way now. He was the dad who taught me how to play ball, and now he’s come for his payoff. It makes me kind of sick, and I am starting to shake.

  “Yeah, I was telling my homies that my boy, he is going to be pitching for the Majors and that he won’t forget his old man who taught him to pitch, man. I mean, you and me is flesh and blood, bro. You know? I mean, I may have not been around, and I know you won’t forget your old man now that you are going to be a millionaire.”

  “What the f—are you doing here, Fernando?”

  That is Mom. She and the Pitcher have walked up behind us, and now Mom is right in his face and he is doing this slow smile.

  “Hey, baby. You are looking really good. Married life agrees with you, huh. ”

  Mom jabs her finger through the air with the Pitcher staring at him like he wants to split his knee again. Mom is like on fire and pushing him back.

  “Stay away from Ricky! I don’t want you bringing your shit near him, Fernando! What are you even coming around for? No one wants you here. Get out of here before I call the cops!”

  He spreads his arms and grins, and I feel the world tilting because the Pitcher has stepped up. Fernando slouches and lifts his right hand.

  “What, you going to hit me with a bat again, old man?”

  The Pitcher nods slowly.

  “Yeah. That’s not a bad idea.”

  “Uh-huh. I got a permanent limp because of your motherf- bat, and one day I’m going to give you some payback. Don’t you worry about that, bro…it’s coming.”

  The Pitcher looks down at him and nods cool like this is no big deal. Fernando on the other hand has his arms wide like a gunslinger about to draw. It wouldn’t surprise me if he is packing.

  “Anytime, rock-head.”

  Mom pushes Fernando back and screams.

  “Get the hell out of here!”

  Fernando nods in the old way. He grins slowly, showing all those rotten teeth.

  “Wow, still fiery. I forgot that about you, Maria. Bet you still wild, too.”

  The Pitcher steps forward and Fernando pulls back his leather coat, and no one moves because the hard black metal butt of a gun is hanging out of his low riders. He nods and gestures to the Pitcher.

  “You see this? Come any closer, and I’m going to blow your head off.”

  I can see the black bulge of the gun pushing against his belt. The Pitcher stares at him and spits in the dust at Fernando’s feet.

  “You don’t have the guts, rock-head.”

  I mean, my heart is like going a million miles a minute and Mom’s eyes are big, and Fernando is sweating these fat pearls all over his forehead.

  “Try me, old man,” he says.

  Mom steps back, and I can see she knows he would shoot the Pitcher. So do I. He is that bad.

  “What do you want, Fernando?” she asks.

  He lets his jacket drop and nods.

  “I have come for my due, baby.”

  Mom is staring at him with her eyes going back and forth.

  “What are you talking about?’

  Fernando raises his flabby arms and shrugs.

  “I mean MLB. And I am his father. And I deserve some payoff, baby, for my part in raising a Major League pitcher.”

  Mom just stares at him the way I am staring at him. It is like you cannot believe what he is saying. I mean, here is this guy who has like come back from the dead with a gun and it’s like a nightmare. I thought people were supposed to have changed who go to prison. You know, reformed and all that. Not Fernando. He came out even worse.

  Mom steps up close, and I can see the difference now. It is like the new way and the old way together. Mom has on some nice shorts and a blouse and the big diamond the Pitcher gave her when they got married, and her hair is pinned back and she just looks good, you know. But there is Fernando with his gut and his cutoff shirt and his grease hair and his low rider pants and boots and his gun, and they look like two people who should not know each other. It’s like the past meeting the present.

  Mom raises her finger. She has guts, man, because that gun is still right there. She pushes him back.

  “You stay away from my son, Fernando. You come close to him, and I use that gun on your sorry ass. You never did anything for him, and you will never ever get one red cent from his career. I will make sure of that!”

  But Fernando just shrugs and smiles real evil.

  “Oh, you think you a high-society bitch now. That’s cool. But I’m back and I want my due, man. And I will get it one way or another. He ain’t goi
ng to leave me behind, man, because I’m his father.”

  And I just boil over. I don’t even know that I am shouting, but I am.

  “No, you’re not! You’re some piece of trash that just blew in because you got nothing else!”

  Fernando then looks at me and acts like I didn’t say anything.

  “Hey, man. You take it easy. Protect that arm, bro. That’s our million-dollar ticket, you know.”

  He looks at the Pitcher then and nods, tapping his belt.

  “I will deal with you later, man.”

  “Anytime, rock-head.”

  And then he just goes back to his Harley and kicks it up. And Mom and I stare at him as he rumbles out of the parking lot. Mom looks like the old way. Like the bad stuff is back. I know what she is thinking, man, because for the first time I am wondering if you can ever really get out. Like you just crawled out of this dark hole, and now something is pulling you back in. And that something rides a Harley. The Pitcher walks up behind Mom, and she doesn’t even turn. She is still watching the road where Fernando rumbled out of site like she expects him to return

  “I thought he was in prison.”

  Mom turns around, and her eyes are burning bright. “They let the asshole out.”

  7

  GROVER CLEVELAND WAS ONE of the best pitchers who ever lived. He learned to pitch by hurling rocks at birds when he was growing up. When a shortstop throw caught him between the eyes, he was out cold for two days. When he came around, he had double vision. He kept throwing until his vision came back. I ‘m waiting for my vision to come back as I watch Bailey Hutchinson get into his jacked-up black F150 with the Confederate flag on the bumper and the yellow Don’t Tread on Me Sticker.