by Jean Joachim
“I get it. So, you’re wondering about my love life, right? I knew you would be. You always wanted me to get married. Don’t think that’s gonna happen, Marnie.”
He was quiet, as if listening to her voice.
“Yeah, I did meet someone. She’s hot. And like you, she plays ball. No, no, she’s not the one. I tried to tell you last time, there isn’t going to be ‘the one.’ Not for me. Women. Too much heartache.”
He sighed and looked away. “Maybe if I could find someone like you, well, that’d be different. But they broke the mold, sweetheart. Not gonna happen. Dusty comes close. The way she took care of my foot. Nothing to worry about. It’s fine now. But that’s because she nursed it. Like you would have.” He glanced at his watch.
“Gotta go. Having dinner with Pop tonight. Yeah, I promise. No yelling. Okay, kitten. I’ll be back when I can.” He pushed to his feet, took a deep breath, and walked to his car. “See ya next time,” he mumbled.
Visiting Marnie had helped him. It always did. But following it with time with his father…well, two steps forward, one step back. He maneuvered the rental car to Mifflin Mobile Court, where his dad lived.
Most of the mobile homes were in good condition. His father’s was passable, thanks to the handyman and housekeeper Matt had hired. They came by once every two weeks, fixed things, prepared meals, and cleaned. And the catcher footed the bill. His father had a small pension and social security, but barely enough money to scrape by every month.
He knocked on the door, and his father answered. He was taller than Matt, and slim. His eyes were bloodshot and his thin hair, gray. His shoulders were wide, but bony.
“Hi, Dad. Ready?”
“I thought we’d eat here instead. Grendel came by today. She fixed some stew for us. Come on in. Take a load off,” Tom Jackson said, moving away from the door.
Matt stepped inside, grateful that the housekeeper had been there. At least there wouldn’t be mold in the bathroom and a ton of dirty dishes in the sink. Something smelled good. He smiled. Guess she was a good cook too.
“Have a shot,” his father said, waving a bottle of gin at his son.
Matt raised his palm. “No, thanks, Dad. I don’t drink on the road. And you shouldn’t either.”
“Hell, we all shouldn’t do a lot of shit, but we do it anyway.” He poured himself half a glass and took a slug.
“It’s killing ya, you know,” Matt said, easing into a fake leather chair.
“So, what? What have I got to live for, anyway? Who cares if I die? You?”
“We’ve had this discussion a thousand times.”
“Yeah. So, let’s can it.”
“I promised Marnie I wouldn’t fight with you. So, let’s talk about baseball.”
“Marnie? She’s dead. She can’t talk to you.”
“I visit her grave, Pop.”
“I should do that. I’m a shitty father. Always have been.” He took another jolt of alcohol, to wash down the bitter words.
“Why don’t we have a pleasant conversation? How about those Yankees, huh?”
“You won yesterday. Way to go,” his father said, bringing the glass to his lips.
“It wasn’t too hard. The Wolves aren’t bad, but we’re better.”
“You always had confidence. God knows where the fuck you got if from. Sure as hell wasn’t from your mother or me.”
“Pop, can’t we have a pleasant conversation? What’s going on in your life?”
“Nothing. Not one Goddam, fucking thing. Screwed any girls lately?”
Matt made a face. “I’ve got a girlfriend.”
“She hot?”
“Yes. Nice too. She plays ball, like Marnie.”
“Bangin’ her?”
“Pop, that’s not an appropriate question.”
“Well, are ya? I bet you are.” His father sniggered.
“None of your business. Geez. Shit. Don’t you know when to shut up?”
“Stew’s probably ready. Let’s eat.” Tom pushed up on the arms of his chair and wobbled.
Matt grabbed his dad’s skinny arm and steadied the old man. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll serve,” the catcher said.
“Good idea.” Tom plunked down onto a metal chair by the tiny table he called his kitchen.
Matt went to the stove. He took down two of the three bowls in the small cabinet and filled them with stew. Searching through a drawer, he managed to locate two forks and knives. He shook his head. Living like this was shameful. Last time Matt had given his dad enough money to move to a nicer place, the man had drunk it up in two months.
His father’s liver was failing. He didn’t have much longer to live, according to his doctor. He surely wouldn’t be a candidate for a transplant. Matt’s mouth pressed into a thin line when he remembered the conversation. Tom had been present and threw a fit when the doctor refused to put him on the donor list.
Matt wasn’t a man accustomed to doing nothing. He shifted his weight as he evened the portions in the bowls. He was a man of action, on the field and off. He took charge of his life. During off season, he had taken a short course in money management and handled his own finances. He’d done pretty well too. Watching his father throw his life down the neck of a gin bottle killed him. Anger gathered inside. What Marnie wouldn’t have given to have had this many years?
He carried the bowls to the table and prayed for silence while they ate.
“She’s a damn good cook,” his dad said, stuffing a piece of meat in his mouth.
Matt had to agree. As soon as he finished, he cleared, washed, and dried the dishes. Breathing a sigh of relief, he headed for the door.
“Great seeing you, Pop,” he lied, shrugging his jacket over his impressive shoulders.
“Say, son, can you spare a twenty?”
Every visit, he tried to make his getaway before his father hit him up for money. But the old man had caught on and snagged him at the door.
“Sure, Pop,” he said, slipping a crisp bill out of his wallet.
“Take care. Don’t get hurt now,” his father said.
“I won’t. Go easy on the booze, Pop.”
“I will, I will. Love you, son.”
“Love you too.” It was that last double lie that left a bad taste in his mouth. He pulled away from the parking lot and hit the gas pedal. He needed a shower.
When he returned to the hotel, he raised a palm to his buddies in the lobby, but didn’t stop to talk. He turned on the water as hot as he could stand it and stood under it for fifteen minutes. When he dressed and caught the bus, he sat by the window, staring at the passing scenery. Dan slid into the seat next to him and patted him on the shoulder.
Matt graced him with a half-smile and a slight nod.
“I get it. Glad you’re back.”
“Me too.”
That was the end of their conversation until they reached the stadium.
Chapter Ten
Although the Nighthawks were back from their road trip, Dusty’s team was still on the road, finishing up games in upstate New York. Matt had been on the phone with her every day. He dialed her first thing along with his morning coffee. Connecting with her had become a habit, like his mug of java. Stubborn as steel, he’d never admit that he missed her.
On the way to the locker room to suit up for a game, he got a text.
Coming home tomorrow night. Miss you.
His face broke into a huge grin.
“What’s up?” Dan asked.
“Dusty’s coming home tomorrow.”
“Great! We’re here for a week before we hit the road again.”
“Yeah. I’m thinking about asking her to move in with me.”
“Move in?” Dan raised his eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t want to get serious.”
“I don’t. But it’s much more convenient than having her run back and forth between my place and hers in Queens. Besides, she’s stuffed into that closet she calls an apartment with three other girls.”
; “Sounds pretty serious to me.”
“Nah. We’re dating. That’s all. She won’t think it’s serious, will she?”
Dan nodded. “Damn right, she will. Next thing, she’ll expect an engagement ring.”
“What? No way. Noooo way, buddy.”
“Then don’t ask her to move in.”
Matt wiped the sweat from his forehead. He’d dodged a bullet. Still, it was annoying to wait for her to get to his place on the subway.
“Maybe you’re a little spoiled, buddy,” Dan said, with a smirk.
“Think so?”
His friend blew out a breath. “Uh, yeah!”
Matt laughed. “Okay, okay.”
The men tied their shoes and headed out to the field. The Baltimore Badgers were in town. They were a tough team to beat, but the catcher was confident. Dan wouldn’t be starting today, he’d have his shot at them tomorrow. Then, one more game and the ’Hawks had a day off.
“I’m going to Dusty’s game on Sunday. Wanna come?”
“Sure.”
“Bring Holly.”
“Hey, Dusty’s playing? Where?” Skip Quincy asked, standing next to Matt for the national anthem.
The men quieted down during the song. But word spread. During the bottom of the first inning, his infield buddies said they’d go to Dusty’s game too. While Matt had no intention of sharing his time with his girl, perhaps it would be good for her team’s morale to have support from the Nighthawks.
“Okay, guys. I’ll text you directions.”
“Bullshit. You rent a van,” Nat Owen said.
“No way.”
“How about a big Uber car?” Jake Lawrence asked. “After all, she’s your girl.”
“All right. All right,” Matt said, waving his hand. “Meet me at my place at noon. Game’s at two.”
Nat Owen was up first. Bobby Hernandez headed to the on-deck circle. Nat walked, and Bobby punched a single between second and third base. The rally began. At the end of the first, the Nighthawks were ahead, three to zero. But the Badgers, like their namesake animal, were tenacious. They wouldn’t give up.
Chip Sanderson was pitching. He was having trouble with his curve ball and walked two in the top of the third. Matt loped out to the mound.
“I don’t know, Matt. It’s not happening today.”
“Let’s go with your slider, then change it up with a fastball,” Matt said.
Chip nodded, and the catcher gave him a pat on the shoulder before returning to the plate.
Matt gave the signal for the slider. The hitter had been looking for the curve ball, so he swung and missed. It took only four pitches for Chip to strike him out. One glance at the pitcher and Matt saw his confidence returning.
Standing in the on-deck circle, Matt watched Jake whack a ground rule double. The catcher took his place at the plate. Score was tied, three-three. The batter took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes, and stared at the pitcher.
The first ball zoomed by him and was called a strike. Jake sidestepped toward third, increasing his lead. Matt got the sign. The runner was going. He tightened his grip on the bat and squared his shoulders. The pitch came in high and outside. The batter gave it all he had, and the sucker sailed for the left field fence.
Jake took off, rounding third before the ball screamed past the outfielder, dropped, and bounced into the stands. Another ground rule double and an RBI for Matt. He grinned as he caught his breath on second base.
The score stayed at four to three until the top of the ninth. Sanderson had left the game in the eighth. Cal picked Moose Macafee to clean up the last six outs and secure the win. Matt had watched the Badgers struggle to hit Sanderson’s slider. Moose had a killer curve, so the catcher switched pitches. He figured Baltimore had guessed what they were going to get and were prepared. He needed to switch it up, and Moose was just the guy to pull it off.
Macafee retired the three batters in order in the top of the eighth. Now, they were only three outs from victory. Winning the first in the series with this tough team would give the Nighthawks a psychological advantage. Matt gritted his teeth, flashed signs at Moose, and took his position.
The curve ball outfoxed the first two batters. But the third, their clean-up man, played the waiting game. Sure enough, Moose threw two balls. The batter shifted his feet then faced the pitcher. Matt had a bad feeling. He called for a fastball, hoping to confuse the opponent.
The man swung the wood and connected. The ball took off. Matt ripped off his mask and jumped to his feet. Chet Candeleria was back-pedaling as fast as he could. It was a race between the man and the ball. The outfielder hit the warning track and kept going. He leaped into the air, his arm fully extended, his glove aimed at the ball.
The little orb landed right in the webbing. He closed it around the ball as he fell to the ground. Holding up his gloved hand, showing the ball, the umpire called “out!” and the game was won.
Matt jumped in the air then ran to hug the pitcher. The men in the dugout did high fives and chest bumps as the Nighthawks came in from the field. Matt was mobbed by his buddies, as he had hit the game-winner. Knocking down the Baltimore Badgers was a big victory. Now, they had to keep it up. With Dan pitching the next game, Matt was confident they had a chance of sweeping the series.
* * * *
After the game, Matt grabbed a burger and a beer at Freddie’s with his teammates. He returned home alone, toed off his shoes, switched on The Mets game, and popped open a can of beer. Then, he stretched out on the sofa and dialed Dusty.
“Hey, baby, welcome home.”
“Hey, yourself. How’d you do today?”
“I hit the game-winning double.” Matt took a sip from the can.
“Awesome! Congratulations!”
“How’d you do on the road?” He turned his gaze away from the television screen.
“Even. Won two and lost two.”
“Did you pitch?”
“One game.”
“Win?”
“Yep.”
“Congratulations. The guys and I are coming to your next game.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” He grinned.
“You don’t have to. I mean, it’s just a women’s division.”
“Of course, we’re coming. Are you nervous?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t be. What are you doing tonight? Wanna come over?”
“I’m kinda tired. And it’s a long trip.”
“Oh, right. Sure.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Dinner after your game?”
“A celebration or condolences?
“A celebration. Maybe the guys’ll come too. Do you have any hot teammates?”
She laughed. “Maybe.”
“Bring ’em. It might be easier to get together if you spent more time here,” he said, clearing his throat, fear spiking in his belly.
“More time there?”
“Like, if you lived here or something.” His throat dry, he took a swig.
“Live with you?” He could hear her eyebrows zoom up her forehead.
“Well, maybe not actually live with me. But spend a couple of nights a week here?”
“What are you saying?”
“I miss you.” Words he never thought he’d utter.
“You mean, it might be more convenient to get laid if I was there three nights a week.”
“It would, but that’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” Her tone could have chilled Hell.
“Hey, hey, don’t get mad. I thought you’d like it. I never thought I’d ask a chick to kinda be here that much.”
“Oh, so you’re lowering yourself for me, right? So, you can have convenient sex? I don’t think so.”
“Baby, please. Don’t get mad.”
“What did you expect?”
“I expected you to be happy and say ‘yes’.”
“You guessed wrong. Look, I gotta go.”
“Will I see you tomorrow?�
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“Come to the game, and we’ll see about after,” she said, then the phone went dead.
Matt pushed to his feet, cursing, and hit the refrigerator for another beer. Maybe the guys are right. Maybe I don’t know how to talk to women. Shit! Hope I haven’t blown it.
At ten, he stripped off his clothes and slid between the sheets. His body was tired, but his mind was wide awake. He laced his fingers behind his head and scowled at the moon. Anger at himself roiled inside. Why did he always do stupid things? Say stuff to piss off women?
He knew the answer, always had, but had never faced it before. Hadn’t been a need to come to terms with the truth, because there hadn’t been a woman who had meant that much to him. But now there was Dusty. He’d never met anyone like her before. She’d sacrificed everything for softball. He got that, because he’d done the same thing to make it to the majors.
Women had disappointed him, like his mother who’d deserted him. Secretly, he’d suspected that she’d left because of his bad behavior. They had always been fighting. If he had it to do over again, he would have behaved better. Maybe she would have stayed? And what about Marnie? She had left too, by dying. Wasn’t he at fault for that too? Hadn’t he pushed her into pro softball? Sure, the manager should have called off the trip home because of the weather forecast. But if Matt hadn’t insisted she make the league, she never would have been on that bus.
He’d never escape the guilt he’d suffered when she died and he’d been so angry, he’d almost broken his hand punching a wall. He was still resentful. He’d needed her, the only sane family member he’d ever had.
His college girlfriend, Stephanie, had moved to the West Coast with barely a goodbye. He’d expected her to fill in what he was missing, but that hadn’t happened. When she left, hope for finding a woman to love him had vanished. Some guys were lucky. Obviously, he wasn’t one of them. Or maybe he simply wasn’t lovable—a possibility he couldn’t face.
Now, there was Dusty. And he’d already mouthed off, suggested something he shouldn’t have. Sure enough, he’d drive her away, like he did the others, and be left alone again. He had no one to blame but himself—and his big mouth—for possibly blowing his last chance.