Seeing Off the Johns

by Rene S Perez II

  “That’s why I go. Because it’s too much for one woman to take,” Araceli said.

  Chon nodded and turned right on Viggie, not bothering to come to a complete stop at the stoplight now blinking red.

  “And if she never gets over it?” he said.

  Araceli looked at Chon like she knew what he was saying but couldn’t believe he’d said it, not because he was out of line, but because she didn’t want to hear it.

  “I guess I’ll keep going over,” she said.

  Chon pulled the car as far into the driveway as it would go with his parents’ cars in front of it. He put the car in park and looked at over at Araceli.

  “Then you’re letting it beat you too. Over and over again. Like her, but not really.”

  She got out of the car and was halfway around the front of the Suburban by the time Chon had opened the door next to him. He got out and stood before Araceli, the hi-beams of Andres’ Chevy casting shadows of the two of them on Chon’s house.

  “Thanks for coming and getting me for the game,” Chon told her.

  “Thanks for riding with me.” Araceli looked up at Chon with a sadness he was now allowed to see in her eyes.

  Chon made to walk away, but Araceli stopped him and pulled him into a hug. It was a small gesture, the kind shared between hormonal-but-platonic teenagers in the lunchroom at school. Chon gave Araceli a tight squeeze. He let go of her before she let go of him. He looked down at her and she put her forehead on his chin.

  “Thanks,” she said, “for tonight, for everything.”

  She got in the Suburban. Its taillights let Andres know she was backing out of the driveway. She did a quick two-point turn and drove away, not once taking her eyes off of Chon until he was standing, alone, on his front lawn, the darkness almost erasing in his mind all that had happened. He went inside, took off his clothes, and dreamed of John Mejia thirty years in the future, still alive and looking just like his father, trying to run over Chon, sweaty and panicked, as he fled away down Main Street.

  The Greyhound baseball team is comprised entirely of young men who played and started for the football squad, making the transition from football to baseball season simple, like going from fall to spring semester. The switch is a seamless one, whether the kid identifies as a football or baseball player. But while the sons of Greenton are signed up for football as kids and taken to practices and cheered for and encouraged to learn rules and strategies, it is a borrowed sport—one rented, like the pads and helmet that protect and make the boys feel big, but that have to be returned at the end of the season.

  Greentonites own baseball. In a town whose population sees itself as being too Mexican to connect to football and too American to do the same with soccer, baseball is the sports equivalent of Tejano music. Tejano music comes in the bastardized Spanish lexicon Greentonites find familiar and comfortable, even those whose first-learned and primarily-used language is English. Its accordions and synthesizers and sometimes country shuffle are distinctly Mexican and American, with none of the tubas or nasal norteño pitch and phrasing that mark banda or the antiquated standup bass and acoustic guitars of danzón.

  So it is with baseball. There are Hernandezes and Lopezes and Valenzuelas in professional baseball who could be rooted for even if they aren’t necessarily Mexican because Mexican Americans aren’t necessarily Mexican either. They often see themselves as having a closer connection to Cubans or Puerto Ricans or Panamanians than with their own Caucasian countrymen who themselves might see a brown Gonzales or Mejia or Monsevais—Texas, America, born and raised—as having more in common with foreigners too.

  Baseball is the easiest and most natural sport for Greentonites to latch onto. It is the brand new glove they buy, rub with shaving cream, wrap with a large rubber band around a few balls, and leave in the sun one morning to retrieve worn, loose, and ready that evening. It’s used until the stitching breaks and falls apart, when they’ll get a new one and give it the same love and care, never throwing out the old one, but keeping it on a shelf or in a drawer or in a box in the garage labeled ‘old stuff.’

  For the cream of Greenton’s baseball crop, baseball season never ends. There’s a summer league that starts at the end of Little League’s playoffs, causing some boys to play for both their summer squads and Greenton’s all-star team should the team have advanced beyond regional play. This is an exhilarating possibility. The boys who fall into such circumstances will likely go on to play together from then on, representing the town of Greenton against teams from around the area and even around the state in those all-star tournaments and then in high school, with everyone in town, not just their friends and families, watching and cheering them on. If their parents have the means, like the Robisons and the Mejias before them, if there were a boy or two who proved themselves special enough and dedicated enough and destined enough for a future of greatness—or at least a chance at it—they would be signed up for traveling autumn and winter league teams made up of the region’s other elite baseball mercenaries. Their SUV and mini-van driving parents would travel from town to town to watch them play against other bands of baseball junkies and phenoms and kids whose glory-hungry parents had dollar signs in their eyes and dreams in their hearts of better lives for their kids than they’d gotten from their own parents.

  There was only one such ball player on the 1999 Greenton High School baseball team. He was a switch-hitting second baseman who could pitch an inning or two of relief if needed with a less than overwhelming—but still off-putting—knuckle ball that he had to complement a decent two-seam fastball. He was a freshman, starting varsity, of course.

  On the day of Greenton’s first game, he stood in front of one of the mirrors in the school’s locker room taking in the sight of himself in a brand new uniform, bought with John-star money. The button-up green shirt and green pinstriped white pants looked good, better than any uniform he’d ever worn. But with the ‘8’ embroidered on the left arm of the jersey and the ‘34’ on the left, he felt cheated. He was four years younger than the Johns. He had met them and cheered them on. Both of them had taken an interest in his progress, giving him suggestions on his stance and swing in the batter’s box.

  But four years? Why not three? Wearing the jersey that bore the numbers of the Johns made him stand tall. He promised himself that he would do all that he could to live up to the colors he was wearing and to the fact that he’d just inherited the team from the Johns. He would play as hard as he could to honor their memory. He was proud of the mission he’d charged himself with, but still he felt cheated by the year that separated him from having played with them. He couldn’t wait to dirty his new uniform with the orange red dirt on the diamond that was being watered and raked thick and crackly, ready to crunch under foot like he wanted to believe snow would crunch if ever he actually walked on it. He put on his cap. He was a superhero donning his mask and cape, a king his crown and scepter. He was no longer a student athlete, no longer a baseball player. He was baseball. Walking away from the mirror, his cleats click-clacking on the concrete floor of the locker room, the young second baseman, still a week shy of his fifteenth birthday, felt something welling up in the deepest recesses of his being. It was a surge of emotion at reaching this new milestone, pride at taking the field a Greyhound, regret at not being able to do have done so with the Johns, profound sadness at their passing. He was not mature enough to recognize what he was going through. If he was, he would have to ignore it because you’re not allowed to think of anything but winning before a baseball game. And you’re not allowed to feel pain from anything but an injury in a locker room.

  Coach Gallegos led his second baseman and a squad of fourteen other boys—who would do nothing over the next four years to make names for themselves—to the main entrance of the stadium and showed them the bronze plaques that had been forged in the Johns’ likenesses. He told them about life being more important than baseball and about baseball being larger than life. He told them about winning and los
ing and playing with heart. He charged his players to, “do it for the Johns.”

  A half-time or pre-game speech this was not. He could hear himself sounding like a fool. The rest of his career would be defined in contrast to the four years he had with the Johns, which themselves would stand, like the boys’ images on the plaques that now adorned the entrance to Greenton’s baseball stadium, in relief of every other squad he ever coached or played on. He would coach winning teams again. The Greyhounds would make playoff runs. But no team, no player, no era would ever match what the Johns had given him, given Greenton. Baseball was everything to him. The Johns’ dying couldn’t take that from him. But his passion for coaching wasn’t the same anymore. His world had changed.

  First pitch was scheduled for 11 am. People filed in an hour before. The stands weren’t full, but there were more people there than normally show up for a Saturday morning pre-season exhibition game against a Santa Rosa team who wasn’t very good. They would face them three more times in the regular season anyway.

  But people had heard there would be an unveiling of a couple of plaques in the Johns’ likenesses. They had expected the plaques to be covered, like the crucifix at church during Holy Week, but there was no such affectation.

  Eight months had passed since the accident. Things had settled down. The calm of Greenton that had been disturbed was now restored. People were mostly over the tragedy. What good would another awkward tribute have done anyone outside of the families of the dead boys? The Robisons were gone, and the Mejias had no intention of showing up at the stadium that day to be walked out to home plate to wave at people clapping.

  But no one in the audience knew that. After stopping to admire the plaques as they walked in, they thought that the Mejias would surely be there. They also thought the show would be more than just five innings of lopsided baseball. The game, however, ended early on account of the ten-run rule. Four of the Greyhounds’ runs were batted in by the fourteen-year-old second baseman phenom. His parents were in the stands to answer the questions that started floating around. “Who is that kid? What are ya’ll feeding him?”

  “Domingo,” the proud parents answered. “He loves baseball. He’s loved it since he could walk.”

  It was February 13th, the day before Valentine’s day. The people in the crowd were disappointed in the Mejia-sighting that had not come to pass. But this Mingo kid…he put on a show for them. Their allegiances shifted that day, as they would have with the Johns off to UT, death or not. They had not seen a train wreck, but they had found their new man. It was a good day, February 13th 1999—one for moving on.

  SPRING

  Chon was not at the Greyhounds’ season opener against Santa Clara that Saturday. It was a long weekend—school was out Monday for a teacher workday—and the only weekend that Chon would spend without Araceli since the night of the first football game of the season.

  On Christmas, she and Chon and Henry had stolen away to Henry’s house with beer, pan de polvo, tamales, and a plate of mole pilfered from Araceli’s home party.

  The three of them rang in the New Year at a party at the Lazo ranch, just past the cemetery. It was populated with high school students from both Greenton and Falfurrias and many alumni who had caught wind of something brewing out on Fal Street. There was a palpable animosity coming from the circle of automobiles around the fire. It made Chon uncomfortable. So they left and fired Roman candles and threw bottle rockets at each other at the county line—having as much fun as any children ever let to run around and play with explosives in the dead of night. They listened to the countdown on the radio. When 1999 came in, the station played the Prince song. Araceli hugged Henry and gave Chon the slightest of pecks on his unsuspecting lips. Henry seemed more surprised by this than Chon, but he played it off by making fun of Chon’s clearly elated state and his ear-to-ear grin. It was dark, and the three of them were alone in the middle of nowhere. They used the rest of their fireworks to light the darkness around them, and then they drove back home.

  Whether he worked or not, whether Henry was around to serve as a now unnecessary buffer between his cousin and his best friend, Chon spent at least one night of every weekend with Araceli. Seeing how he treated her confidences, she opened up to him more, sharing her plans for the future.

  She had pinned her hopes on UT. She had pictures cut out of brochures thumb-tacked to the corkboard above the desk in her room. She did her homework there, checking her answers twice in hopes of getting to that huge university with green lawns and over a century of traditions she badly wanted to be a part of. She had applied in October and was waiting for a response, hoping for the right one.

  Chon thought UT would be nice. Anywhere with Araceli would be nice. But he missed the admissions deadline. That meant more time at the Pachanga this summer and fall. They watched movies together and talked music.

  There was another band from Austin: Fastball. Neither of them were too wowed by the album she bought. They listened to it driving around in her father’s Suburban. There was one song—their big hit—about a couple leaving for a trip and never making it back. Araceli looked over at Chon when she heard it and shook her head. She pulled the truck into the post office parking lot and started laughing so hard she grabbed at her sides and sank into her seat a little bit. He laughed too, and then she cried. He gave her a conciliatory pat on the back, and she leaned over the center console and put her head on his shoulder.

  Then it happened. It happened again, really. But this time it felt more real, like it counted. She put her left hand on Chon’s face and turned it to her so that she could kiss him. Like on New Year’s, it was small—intimate, but close to asexual. Had the circumstances been at all different, had Araceli not just been crying over the death of her first love, Chon would have seized the opportunity and let out four years of frustrated passion.

  But no such thing happened. Araceli’s crying before she kissed him was unsettling enough, but the burst of pouts and tears she let out right after she kissed him made Chon feel like he had done something wrong—like all the time they’d spent together during the last several months had brought them to this place that Araceli wasn’t ready for. She pulled away, getting as far from him as she could in the front seat of the Suburban. She hid her face where the window next to her met the door, crying for a while longer before throwing the car into gear and driving Chon back home. They didn’t say a word the whole way, just bye when he got out.

  This was on Thursday. At school on Friday, Araceli apologized to Chon for “freaking out,” begged him to forgive her for it right then and to forget about it forever after. He forgave her, and that was that. He asked what she was doing that weekend, knowing it was Valentine’s and a long weekend and hoping that her response would be that she would like to be with him. But she was going to Corpus with her family to visit the Velas, not to return until Monday to get ready for school the next day.

  So that settled that. For once, he had free weekend time. Ana had been asking to pick up extra shifts. He was happy to give her his weekend hours now that he had something to do, someone to be with. Except that this weekend he didn’t.

  He woke up feeling lonely. He called Henry’s, but Henry’s dad picked up, sounding bothered at the thought of the phone ringing before noon. He said Henry was sleeping. Chon didn’t want to sit around in his room, a room he had come to detest because it reminded him of the sad hours he’d spent there when he had nowhere else to go. He got dressed, fired up the Dodge-nasty, and headed west by northwest for Laredo.

  He drove the fifty-six miles of Texas Highway 359 that separated Greenton from the nearest city—not exactly sure what he was doing or where he was going. Warm, dry air blew through his hair and stung his eyes. Then he had an idea, one so perfect he wasn’t sure if he had known it the whole time or not. How could he have gotten in the car and headed for Laredo without intending to buy Araceli a Valentine’s gift?

  He headed for Mall del Norte. He rifled through the contents of th
e glove compartment and found a checkbook he’d gotten from the credit union but never used. He tore a few checks out (numbers 1, 2, and 3), folded them in half, and slipped them into his wallet. He was going to buy Araceli a proper Valentine’s gift. It might be something she would love or like or maybe not even want. But with it, Chon was going to abandon all pretenses and make his intentions—however obvious they may have already been—clear, out there for her to take or leave.

  No matter what the gift, he would put his friendship with Araceli—and maybe even his friendship with Henry—on the line. It was a risk, a scary one. But Chon believed that he wasn’t acting selfishly. After all, she needed to know exactly how he felt. He knew she was asking herself questions about the two of them, questions that needed answering. He saw it in Araceli’s eyes when they met each morning at school and when they parted after a night of killing time.

  What he was doing was right.

  He sat there sweating in the car. He closed his eyes and saw Araceli.

  What he was doing was right.

  Chon opened the Pachanga on Monday. As had been his practice all year long, Rocha took Chon’s day off from school to mean that Chon would be available to open the store and Rocha would be able to drink cheap beer and fortified wine in the dirt alley behind his house with the old drunks he knew as kids who would always come around when they heard a beer can crack open or a tin cap scraping glass signifying that wine was about to flow. They sat in lawn chairs and on milk crates, blocking the cars that weren’t ever going to pass by.

  Chon didn’t mind opening up. In fact, it was perfect for him—he wouldn’t have to work until near midnight, which would be too late to go over to Araceli’s on a school night. He would get off of at three, shower and change. Then he could take Araceli his gift.