The Pitcher 2

by William Hazelgrove

  He jumps up like a cowboy and fires up his truck and roars around the parking lot, and then like Fernando, leaves me with nothing but a bad feeling. I put my bat bag in Mom’s old minivan, which is now mine. when I see someone walking toward me with a cigar and a big hand. He has red hair and this freckled face that is even redder than his hair. I know who he is just by the way he walks. He has MLB all over him.

  “Jigger Hix,” he says.

  We shake hands.

  “I scout for the Cubs,” he continues. “I been watching you all year.”

  He says it just like that.

  “Kane County Cougars is their farm team, but you might just skip that from what I’ve seen. Yes, sir. You might.”

  I just can’t believe he’s talking to me after what had happened with Bailey. Jigger follows my line of vision as that big black Ford pickup rolls around like it’s circling us.

  “Yeah, he’s fast,” he says, reading my mind. Then Jigger turns to me with this red face and gums his cigar. “But like I said, I been watching you since last year…I like your pitching. I really do, and I think the Cubs might like it too, if you finish the year strong….What, you’re a senior?”

  I stare at him like I had fallen asleep.

  “Yeah…a senior…yes, sir.”

  He pauses, squinting his two blue marbles.

  “Was that Jack Langford I saw you talking to?’

  “Yes ,sir.” I nod. “He’s my stepdad.”

  Jigger Hix guffaws and stamps his foot and shakes his head. He stares where the Pitcher and Mom had driven off, as if he expects them to come back.

  “I’ll be damned. Now isn’t that something.” He shakes his head and sucks on his cigar, and it’s then I realized he’s the same age as the Pitcher. Or at least close.

  “He was one of the greats. Yes, sir, he was…and you say he is your stepdad?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that right?” His blue eyes twinkle. “I should have known that….your stepdad. I guess I know now where you get your pitching style.”

  “Yes, sir. “

  Jigger Hix crosses his arms and taps his cigar toward me.

  “I’ll bet you have colleges crawling all over you now, don’t you”

  I shrug and nod.

  “Yes, sir…some.”

  Jigger keeps his arms crosses and nods slowly.

  “Hmm…well, now that is honorable. Yes, sir, it is. I never want to get between a man and his college education.”

  I shrug, and I am a wound-up clock just ringing and ringing, and I don’t want anyone or anything to shut off what is happening.

  “I’m not sure if I’m going to college or not,” I say.

  Jigger spits in the dust again.

  “Is that right? Well I’ll tell you, Ricky, these are big decisions.” He spits in the dust again the way the Pitcher does. And it’s then I see the bulge in his cheek. He gums the cigar again.

  “Many a player has gone straight to the majors. Sometimes the postman only rings once, you know. For me he only rang once, and I am glad I went when he did.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, not quite sure what he is saying.

  “And you want to be there when he rings. You know what I mean? You don’t want to miss your moment.”

  I nod and meet his eyes that feel like they’re crawling all over me.

  “My dream has always been to pitch for the Cubs in Wrigley Field,” I blurt out.

  Jiggers’ eyebrows go high.

  “Well, is it now? Maybe I can help you with that, too. I think that is a very good dream, and I think with a talent like yours, the sky is the limit. The one thing you don’t want do is anything that will hurt that arm,’ he says patting my shoulder.

  “No, sir.”

  “And you don’t want to miss the train when it pulls out. College is a good thing for most people—but maybe not for everyone. When someone has a talent like you have, then they have to look at things differently. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Alright then. We will be in touch, and I’ll be watching you finish up.”

  He puts his hand out, and we shake. His hand feels like iron. Jigger cocks his head and says a funny thing that puts ice into my veins.

  “That Bailey Hutchinson was something. We don’t want too many of those now, do we?’

  “No, sir,” I mutter.

  Jigger winks and hits me lightly in the shoulder.

  “You’ll get him next time.”

  “Take care of that arm,” he says back, walking over to a dusty White Cadillac.

  And I stare at that Cadillac and wonder if this is the way Mickey Mantle felt when a man pulled up to a field in Oklahoma and told him to get in, like a whole other world had just driven in and if I didn’t get in that car, I would be left behind. The postman really might only ring once.

  8

  DID YOU KNOW THE Star-Spangled Banner wasn’t played before games before the Chicago Cubs played the Boston Red Sox in Comiskey Park during World War I? Everyone started singing spontaneously when they played it, and from then on it was played at every game. Boston won, of course. I can hear The Star-Spangled Banner now in the garage. The Pitcher is in there, and it is just like before. The television in the corner is playing, and the fan is rolling, and Shortstop is sleeping in the corner. And the Good Times are by the Lazy Boy he brought over when he moved in.

  The only new thing is the plasma screen mounted on the wall. It lights up the whole garage, and the Pitcher is drinking and smoking and keeping an eye on the door because he promised Mom he would cut down on smoking and drinking and Skoal.

  “Hey,” he says as I duck under the garage.

  And it’s like I’m not seventeen anymore, but like four years ago looking for the answers again. The mystery that is a Major League Baseball player is back, and I wonder again how he did it.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  “Get yourself a Coke,” he says motioning to the old refrigerator he rolled over on a dolly. “Maybe it will get you out of your funk.”’

  I stand up and get the Coke.

  “Who says I’m in a funk,” I mutter.

  The Pitcher spits into a can of beer and stares at me with his right eye.

  “I saw your playing. You better be in a funk, or we are both in trouble.”

  I take the ice cold Coke and slump down in the other La-Z-Boy that is well worn and very comfortable. The fan is blowing, and the crickets are outside the garage door, and Shortstop is groaning in his sleep. We sit there and watch the Sox and the Brewers play for a few minutes. The Pitcher lights a cigarette and looks over.

  “That scout talk to you?”

  I frown and look at him.

  “How did you know?”

  The Pitcher stretches out his long legs and coughs.

  “I been there….remember? Those guys broadcast from a million miles away who they are. I figured he probably wanted to talk to you. They all want to talk to the next hot pitcher.”

  “They should talk to that Bailey kid,” I grumble.

  “We feeling sorry for ourselves?”

  “Maybe,” I say, shrugging.

  I look down at my Coke and see my dream down there in that dark fizzy syrup. It is just popping away, and soon it will be gone if I don’t get going. The Pitcher lifts his eyebrows and gestures to the television.

  “I’d talk to that Bailey kid if I was a scout. He’s fast ,and he can hit.”

  “Great. Maybe I should give him his number,” I mutter.

  “Maybe you should.”

  This is not making me feel better. The high of Jigger Hix has been replaced with the hell that is Fernando, and the fact a ninety-plus pitcher has just smoked me. Usually sitting in the garage lifts my spirits, but now I feel antsy and unsure.

  “He just moved in from Texas,” I murmur.

  The Pitcher raises his eyebrows and spits Skoal in a Good Times can. Mom asked him why he drank that cheap beer when there were so many others out ther
e. He said he didn’t see why he should pay more for beer that was the same swill as any other. The Pitcher shifts his legs.

  “I faced a lot of rock-heads from Texas, and half of them couldn’t hit the fly off a fence post, but some of them were the guys I faced later,”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  The Pitcher shrugs.

  “Just saying.”

  Shortstop groans and rolls over. I can hear a car go by and someone walking a dog outside the garage. I think about Joey, who I never really see anymore. He started hanging with some guys who I do not hang with. You know. And ever since college scouts started talking to me, he gets a funny look on his face. Like there was something nobody told him about. He’s pretty much the gangbanger, and he does his thing and I do mine, but still it bothers me that we aren’t really good friends anymore.

  “The MLB guy was from the Cubs,” I say.

  The Pitcher turns and nods slowly.

  “There you go. That’s your dream, right?”

  I shrug.

  “Yeah.”

  I pause and stare at the pictures of The Pitcher. Like I said, Mom put the good ones in the house, but the others she put up in this perfect row. I stare at the one where he is standing with a bat over his shoulders, looking like a young Joe DiMaggio. I turn back in and look at the Pitcher.

  “He asked if I was going to college.”

  The Pitcher ashes his cigarette.

  “What’d you tell him?’

  “I said I don’t know.”

  He goes back to the game and doesn’t say anything. I watch the smoke float into the television light and breathe heavily. I look at him.

  “You ever want to go to college?’

  The Pitcher shifts in his chair and picks up his beer.

  “Never thought about it.”

  I frown.

  “How come?’

  “’Cause guys like me either played ball or went to work digging ditches,” the Pitcher answers. “Times were different then. Most people went to work.”

  I nod slowly.

  “Good thing you played ball, huh.”

  “Good thing.”

  I sip my Coke and watch the game for a moment.

  “So…Fernando’s back.”

  “Yeah. He’s going to blow his johnson off with that gun if he’s not careful.”

  I laugh pretty hard at that.

  “Yeah,” I say wiping my eyes.

  The Pitcher turns then and cocks one eyebrow.

  “They always come out of the woodwork if they smell money. You are going to get a lot more of that before it is over. Everyone became my best friend when I went to the MLB, and before that, they didn’t want to know me.”

  “Yeah.”

  I cross my arms and stare at my bat bag.

  “The scout guy says I gotta finish strong.”

  “Of course.” The Pitcher tips his ash in a can of Good Times. “Otherwise, they don’t want you. They gotta know you can be consistent.”

  I finger the Coke and look at the Pitcher holding a cigarette by his cheek.

  “He says the postman might only ring once.”

  “They usually do.”

  “What do you think?’

  The Pitcher stubs his cigarette and mutes the television. Then he looks over.

  “I think you been drinking your own Kool-Aid. You gotta quit listening to people telling you you’re great. When a kid like that Bailey comes along, you realize you ain’t so great, and you got work to do. So now you know. You want your dream, then you gotta keep getting better. You can’t rest, Ricky. Ever. That ain’t the way it works. Not until you’re sitting where I am. Then you can rest all you want, and by the way, then you don’t want to. So you figure it out.’

  The Pitcher turns the television back on, and I feel better. Yeah. I know what he said is the truth. You do gotta keep working all the time, but sometimes you gotta hear it. I finish my Coke and stand.

  “Thanks.”

  He coughs again, hacks is more like it. He spits into his beer can.

  “Just don’t tell your mother I was smoking and drinking again.”

  I frown and stare at The Pitcher.

  “Are you kidding? Mom knows everything.”

  9

  EVEN BEFORE THE CHICAGO White Sox threw the 1919 Series, they were called the Black Sox. That was because Charles Comiskey, the owner, charged them to wash their uniforms. So they quit washing them, and they got dirtier and dirtier until the sports writers called them the Black Sox. Comiskey was one of the reasons the White Sox threw the game. He took all the money, and everyone knew something was going to happen. Like I knew something was going to happen when I walked in the door.

  When I come in, Mom is watching The Voice. She digs the way people sing, and then the dudes in the chairs pick the best one. I can’t stand all the screaming, and the people all sound the same to me. But she snaps it off when I walk in, and she tells me to put away my bat bag and kick off my shoes at the door and take a shower and all the usual mom stuff. She is laying back on the couch with a glass of wine. It’s funny. The Pitcher does his thing in the garage with ball games, and Mom does hers with The Voice or Glee or Breaking Bad. Guess everyone has their thing.

  “Fernando’s back, huh?’

  Mom is smoking and keeping an eye on the door so the Pitcher won’t catch her. Mom’s eyes flash over. Yeah, we both knew why Fernando had come back. Sort of like a storm that appears when conditions are just right. Well, conditions were pretty good. Son is going to be an MLB pitcher. Yeah, time for lightning to strike.

  “Let me worry about him,” Mom says stubbing her cigarette in a ceramic ashtray she keeps hidden.

  “Sure.”

  But I know this is just talk. Nobody can handle Fernando.

  “Have you studied for your ACTs,” Mom wants to know.

  “I’m going to study tonight.”

  “Have you done your biology?’

  “Tonight.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Here’s the deal, and don’t tell anyone, but I might not graduate. I wasn’t lying before when I said I make mostly Cs. But when you add in a couple Ds and Fs, well, I mean it’s going to be close. My grades never really kicked it in, and Mr. Fenstorm, my biology teacher, has it in for me. I mean, I don’t pass Biology, then it is game over. No graduation. Hey, Bobby Jenks flunked out of high school, and he pitched one hundred-three. Guess he drank a lot after that, but he made it, you know. They say he hit hard times after the Sox won the Series. Still, I could take those hard times, you know, after pitching in a World Series with Ozzie Guillen calling me out to close him down.

  Mom lifts her head and stares at me. I can feel the mom vibes.

  “What?”

  “Esmeralda called.” Mom frowns. “She said you haven’t returned her calls.”

  I shrug.

  ”We broke up. She dumped a Coke on my head.”

  Mom sits up and examines me.

  “Why was that?’

  I stand with my bat bag and shrug again.

  “I don’t know. I guess she was pretty mad about something, “I mutter.

  Mom’s eyes are like lasering into my head. I swear she can read my mind.

  “And what did you do to get a Coke dumped on your head?”

  “Diet Coke.”

  “Alright. A Diet Coke then.”

  I shrug about a thousand times and look everywhere but at her and kick the carpeting with my toe and talk down to the floor. I grumble with words that she cannot understand.

  “Talk clearly, Ricky.”

  “I just did.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  Shrugging and muttering, I finally say, “I guess I told her I wasn’t taking her to prom.”

  Mom’s eyes are on fire now. Her whole body is moving, and she is soaring around the room, throwing lightning bolts that I am starting to dodge.

  “Ricky!” she screams. “She already bought the dress!”

  This I know, and this I know wi
ll be Mom’s weapon of choice. Major guilt, but I have armored myself up, and I am already sidestepping the bolts. I roll my shoulders three times and let roll another bomb.

  “Yeah, I know, but I had asked Christine and I couldn’t take both of them.”

  Mom is now off the couch. Not good. She is staring at me like I am a murderer or something. Scratch that. Mass murderer.

  “Christine? And who did you ask first, Ricky?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “It makes all the difference in the world, Ricky!

  The shrug again, then the mumble, then the stare out the window, then the step toward the door.

  “Ricky! Who did you ask first?’

  Man, Mom is a pit bull. Once she grabs on, she does not let go. I breathe heavily. It’s like I’m in court and things are not going my way, you know. I know I am going to jail.

  “Es…but then I asked Christine,” I point out weakly.

  Mom shakes her head and wonders what she did wrong, then she crosses her arms and stares at me like I’m the devil.

  “You should have never had done that to Esmeralda, Ricky.”

  I shut my eyes and feel a pain in the front of my eyes. This is not what I need right now. Not while I have Bailey Hutchinson breathing down my neck.

  “Mom! Christine is like a cheerleader! She is like the most popular girl in high school, and she’s rich and hot, and Mexican dudes like me don’t usually get a chance to date someone like her!”

  None of that floats in Mom land. It’s like my boat is taking on so much water, I can’t even bail anymore. Mom is nodding “Uh-huh,” she says. “Well, Mexican dudes like you should not be asking other girls when you have already committed to someone else.”

  I wave my hand.

  “Mom. Es can go with someone else.”

  “Oh, you broke her heart, you bad boy,” Mom declares.

  Bad boy? Now we are going way back in time.

  I really want to get out of here because I have run out of bullets and Mom is clearly winning.

  “You treated her badly, Ricky.”

  Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. It is coming down in buckets.

  “Ahhhhh,” I say. “You don’t know what it’s like when a chick like Christine says she wants to go out with you, Mom. You just don’t get it!”