Paint Black

by Bolado, Baltazar

  In bits and pieces, he discovered the Panthers had lost the game 8-6. Before he could slip out of the locker-room, Ramsey intercepted him and motioned him into his office.

  “How’s your arm?” Ramsey asked.

  Shifting in the chair in front of Ramsey’s desk, Haddox nodded and replied, “It’s been better.” He quickly added, “I iced it real good and it’s feeling better, Sonny. Honest.”

  The lie rolled off his tongue before he realized it.

  Deep down he hoped his greatest fear hadn’t occurred.

  In high school, twice—once in his sophomore year and another in his junior year—he’d suffered rotator cuff injuries. Both times panic gripped him and it took Uncle Mitch’s calmness to sooth his anxiety.

  “Son, don’t let it eat away at you. There’s nothing we can do about this until the doc looks at it. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  John Summers, M.D. immediately set Ryan’s mind at ease. Even though the man wore a suit and tie, he possessed a relaxed approach.

  “I used to pitch in high school and college,” the man chortled. “Every once in a while I still get out to the ball field and toss a few. Keeps me young.”

  Because the doctor related to him as a pitcher, calmness descended on Ryan.

  “Before we begin,” Doctor Summers went on, “let’s spend some time getting familiar. I’ll start.”

  After fifteen minutes of talking, Doctor Summers had Ryan lie on a table. He superficially examined his arm.

  Ryan recalled his amazement at how quickly the doctor came to a determination of his ailment.

  “Mister Haddox,” Doctor Summers addressed Uncle Mitch. His commanding voice gave assurance to the still fearful Ryan. “Your son is—”

  “He’s my nephew,” Uncle Mitch corrected kindly. “But I love him like a son.”

  “Your nephew is suffering from overuse. It’s a common problem nowadays. I have some exercise charts; he needs to do the exercises… And… he should stop throwing… start again next year.” Doctor Summers turned and smiled at Ryan. “Within six months, his arm’ll recover.”

  “Six months?”

  Ryan’s reaction didn’t appear to startle the doctor. “Son, God didn’t design the human shoulder to throw a baseball. Multiply by the thousands of pitches you’ve already thrown in your life, and you can easily see the problem. You need rest.” He took on a severe appearance, briefly. “If you don’t stop throwing and follow my instructions, you’ll cause permanent damage to your arm.”

  Uncle Mitch helped Ryan follow the doctor’s orders. Not until the following spring did Ryan begin throwing again. The rest worked, freeing his arm of pain. Everything remained well until the end of the year and his high school’s state playoff run.

  Although not as severe, his arm woes returned.

  Again, Uncle Mitch took Ryan to Doctor Summers’ office.

  “Don’t worry,” Doctor Summers tried to relax them. “I’ll schedule an MRI to make a precise inspection of the arm. I don’t foresee diagnosing extensive instability. But, there may be incremental labrum tears or rotator cuff tears we can isolate and correct.”

  “How?” Ryan’s question possessed a strained urgency.

  Doctor Summers gently chuckled. “Ryan, I want to take a look at your pitching mechanics next spring. I think we can adjust your mechanics to prevent further disturbance to your rotator cuff.”

  True to his word, the following spring Doctor Summers made the effort to study Ryan’s motion and suggest improvement.

  “You’re not dropping your lead shoulder properly and it’s causing your arm to drag,” explained the doctor, expertly dissecting Ryan’s delivery over the course of a few hours. “This makes it necessary to throw over the ball instead of throwing through it. You follow?”

  “I think so,” answered the seventeen-year-old Ryan, absorbing the information and working hard to translate it on the mound. “How about now?” asked the young pitcher, after throwing a pitch.

  “Better,” Doctor Summers reacted, viewing from the third base side of the mound. “Remember to drop your stride a few more inches toward the glove side of your body. This front foot strike will cause your torso to open up quicker. It’ll bring your throwing shoulder in line and support your release point. The healthy separation of the hips to shoulders will give you added torque.”

  Ryan had thrown pain free for the past eight years, until tonight.

  It’s not mechanics, Haddox concluded in his mind, fear gripping him. This time it might be worse.

  Mitch & Dorothy

  “Dorothy,” called out Mitch to the beautiful brunette woman sitting in the empty bleachers, “I want you to know who I am.” Haddox stood on the warm up mound, glove bent to his chest, in his full uniform. “I’m a baseball pitcher. Always have been.”

  Mitch fired a pitch. Sixty feet, six inches away, the ball finished its flight, slamming into the big catcher’s mitt nailed to a makeshift wall, making a heavy popping sound. “That’s the way it is.”

  Dorothy, dressed in a faded pink sweater and pleated skirt, uncrossed her legs and shivered in the summer dusk. To her, Oklahoma was beautiful all year long, but summer was her favorite season. “Why Mitch Haddox, are you trying to scare me away?”

  “No,” answered Haddox, pulling out another baseball from the bucket of baseballs at his side. Throwing another pitch, he said, “But, you need to know about the man who wants to marry you.”

  Hours later, the bucket empty, Haddox finally picked up the baseballs scattered across the field and slowly made his way to the bench where Dorothy still sat patiently.

  Lovingly, Dorothy draped his windbreaker over his pitching arm. Walking alongside him, she gave him a hug and kissed him on his cheek.

  Haddox smiled wearily. Looking up into the opaque duskiness of the early evening sky, he hugged her back.

  “I have to step up and care for the boy, Dorothy. I understand if you can’t stay. I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away.”

  Dorothy stopped abruptly, causing Mitch to stop. Putting hands on hips, she responded fiercely, her nostrils flaring in anger, “Mitch Haddox, do you honestly believe I would leave you just because you love your nephew?”

  He shook his head and said, “You’re a good Christian woman, Dorothy. I’m a lucky man to have you. But I know my time has passed.”

  Dorothy had never heard Mitch talk in such a disheartened tone. “My Love, you’re strong and healthy. How can your time have passed? You’re a young man?”

  Full of steadiness and conviction, Haddox finished his declaration. “I’ll never pitch in the major leagues. I know and accept it. I can’t dedicate the time it takes.” Sadly, he looked away. “I need to learn a trade. Ryan’ll need an education. George didn’t leave him much and Patricia’s in no condition to care for him. I don’t want the boy placed in the care of the state.” His demeanor lightened up some. “There’s a job here in Brownsville. Feeder at a machine shop. It doesn’t pay the best, but it’s steady work.” Pleadingly, Mitch said, “We can make it.”

  In defiance, Dorothy brushed away her hair. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here by your side. Little Ryan is going to need a mother, not just a father.”

  Right then, gazing at her boldness, Haddox kissed Dorothy. Less than a year later, they married and formally adopted Ryan.

  But Mitch couldn’t give up on his dream, completely. Something inside of him refused to quit outright. Working a midnight shift, he came home, slept until early afternoon and then played for the semi-pro Lawton Saints, then the Tulsa Rams.

  The grueling schedule didn’t faze him. Tirelessly, he pushed forward to accomplish his dreams.

  He was young and strong.

  He loved Dorothy.

  He loved family, friends.

  And he loved baseball.

  It never occurred to him that to be great in baseball, he needed to love in a different order.

  The following morning Ryan opened his eyes to see the vo
ice mail light blinking on his cell phone.

  Since little league, his ritual after each start consisted of ice and heat treatment of his arm. To prevent sleeping on his throwing arm he used a sleep pillow.

  He rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. Yawning, he snatched the phone and noticed Stephanie had left him a message.

  “Hello?” An infant cried in the background.

  “What’s the matter, Baby?”

  “He’s worse today, Ryan.”

  Stephanie’s voice sounded worried.

  “Did he sleep at all?”

  “Yeah,” she replied.

  A loud thump sounded.

  “Sorry, I dropped the phone.”

  “Did you take him to the doctor like we talked about?”

  “We got back about an hour ago.”

  The clock on the bedside table read 10:45 A.M.

  “We finish the series tonight; I’ll be home tomorrow. Are you okay?”

  “No,” she answered, a child’s cry breaking out over her words. The baby cried incessantly in the background.

  “Ryan?”

  Ryan didn’t answer.

  “The doctor credited this visit and agreed to payments over three months. Ryan, we still owe him from the last time.”

  In the background, the baby cried again.

  “Honey,” Stephanie pleaded, “we need help. I can go to social services.”

  “Let me think about this,” answered Ryan. “We can talk tomorrow.”

  Hanging up the phone, he felt like a loser.

  I’m hanging on by my fingertips in the minor leagues and my son’s sick.

  Standing by the end table, at last he set the phone down and slowly moved to the bathroom. Hot water washed over him and his muscles relaxed under the shower’s comfort.

  Refreshed, he put on his clothes. The movements of getting dressed caused him to grimace from the pain in his arm.

  In his younger years, every time life’s problems interfered with his dream of playing in the major leagues, Haddox summarily rejected them. Now, refusing to look at his situation became harder.

  Leaving the hotel room, he rubbed his fingers over the two crisp twenties and two fresh fives in his pocket. It was the $50 meal money—yesterdays and todays. He hadn’t used his food money.

  He passed a restaurant in the mall looking at the happy people shopping and the young kids hanging out. Arcadia, a thriving city of about 110, 000 people, still showed signs of further growth. The late morning Sunday crowd, already filling the mall, emanated a robust energy attesting to progress and development.

  He tried to take his mind off the hunger wrapping its arms around him but before long, its persistence compelled him to decide to head to the stadium early.

  The Titans baseball stadium stood in the heart of Arcadia. He arrived at the park around 3 PM and hurried to the pregame food table.

  “Feast eradicator!” yelled out John Catton, the Panther middle reliever.

  “Damn right!” Haddox rejoined, making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and grabbing a couple containers of milk.

  Nearly three hours later, the crowd still filtered into the stands. Haddox completed his running and headed to the training room for a light massage. Unlike other starters, Haddox did his “flush” workout on the second day after throwing.

  “Concentrate on the shoulder, Nate,” Haddox requested.

  After a few seconds, Nate Barnes, the Panther’s trainer, frowned. “You’re tight up around the ball of your shoulder. It feels like a rock.”

  “Work your magic, Nate. Unloosen the knot.”

  Some late game heroics by the Titans led to their victory of the final game of the three game series, 5-3, taking the series two games to one.

  After the game, the team sat in the clubhouse dejected.

  Ramsey attempted to comfort them. “Losing a series is tough men. I won’t tell you different. But we got a lot more baseball to play. The only way I know to make things better is putting this behind us. Everyone get to the bus in an hour. Let’s go home.”

  The bus trip seemed to never end. In the distance, the Oklahoma Mountains and the navy hued pastures finally appeared. On the way back to Lockhart, the players on the bus sat quietly.

  Little League

  His life made the most sense in the spring. He smelled the fresh grass and molded the crisp ground. Under the bright sunlight, he lived to hear the crack of the bat and the whack of the ball hitting the glove.

  He was a little league pitcher and he stood in the center of the field shooting fire from his arm.

  When he threw his first fastball, when Uncle Mitch first called out to him, when he first heard the roar of the crowd—he knew right then he’d found his purpose in life.

  He remembered his last season of little league. After tryouts and the team picked, under the summer sunlight, Mitch Haddox and Roy Peterman, his assistance coach, positioned the players in a circle around home plate.

  “You players must be a team,” called out Mitch Haddox, his conviction bursting forth and encircling the little leaguers.

  “Look at the player standing next to you,” Mitch Haddox commanded. “We’re only as good as he is. If he’s down and out, you must help him; if you’re down and out, he must help you. This isn’t Coach Peterman’s team or my team.” Uncle Mitch pointed at the players standing around him. “It’s not your team either. This is our team. We’re all responsible for its success.”

  Ryan learned much in little league. There were many great memories. After every game—win or lose—ice cream always made it better.

  While talking baseball strategy regularly took place during their ritualistic bonding experiences, there always came the most rewarding moment. Whether victory or defeat, Uncle Mitch would unabashedly open his heart to the boy. “Come here, boy,” he said.

  No matter how tired his body, no matter the place or time, Ryan obeyed his uncle.

  Uncle Mitch put his arm around him and said, “I want you to know how much dad loves you. I love you, Son.”

  The ritual lasted even to this day, at least until his uncle’s ill health forced them to suspend it.

  Ryan loved his uncle because he personified everything he desired a father to be.

  His last year of little league impacted Ryan the most. Winning the county league, the Monarchs advanced to a district championship. Ascending to ace of the team, he pitched the championship game.

  The Lincoln Spartans were big and strong and had lost only one game all year. The Brownsville Monarchs were 9-2.

  The game took on a larger than life perspective, underscored by the capacity crowd. Exceeding the limits of Brownsville’s little league ballpark, nearly four thousand people crammed the bleachers; the overflow of the crowd pushing outside of the seating capacity.

  Even though a quarter of the crowd was from Lincoln, a large segment of the swarming mass sat in makeshift seats or lawn chairs. Some just stood around the bleachers.

  In near frenzy on every pitch, the crowd’s energy matched the stellar performances delivered by each pitcher. After three innings of the seven-inning game, neither pitcher allowed a hit and only one batter succeeded in getting a ball out of the infield.

  Then, in the bottom of the fourth inning, an error and a base hit put Monarch runners on 1st and 2nd with no one out.

  Desperately, the Spartans manager moved his infield up to defend against the possible bunt. While the strategy worked and the Spartans fielded the Monarchs bunt, the baserunners advanced to second and third.

  Erupting into a continuous roar, the frenzied crowd cheered deliriously.

  Exhibiting remarkable poise, the Spartans pitcher struck out the next batter.

  Down to the last out of the inning, a line shot single drove in a run, making the score 1-0.

  Ryan needed nothing else. Giving up a scratch hit in the 5th inning, he cruised to a 1-0, one hit shutout win.

  Following a series of pictures, the little league organizers of the
tournament asked him about the trophy. Displaying maturity, he shocked the coordinators by donating the award to his middle school, rather than taking it home.

  Ryan never forgot how proud Uncle Mitch and Aunt Dorothy looked as he hoisted the championship trophy.

  In boyhood, he approached a pinnacle he feared he would never reach again. Not only did he pitch a one-hit shutout masterpiece, he did it in front of the people who mattered most to him. Even now, he often recalled how great he felt that day, long ago, standing on a little league mound and pitching from his heart.

  Everything made sense then.

  He prayed one day he’d return to the heights of his youth and recover what he believed he’d lost through the years.

  For the money

  The Panthers made it to Lockhart, Oklahoma in the early morning tired and sleepy.

  Getting off the bus, Ryan realized the heaviness of hunger gnawing at his guts. His muscles were sore and stiff and his arm and shoulder hurt.

  After grabbing his luggage, he got into Will Brody’s car.

  Brody, one of the team’s long relievers, rarely got in any work. When he did, the game was usually out of reach. Nevertheless, Brody always seemed to have a positive upbeat attitude.

  “Were you going to pick up your car or do I drop you off at your house?”

  Brody and he carpooled to work. Brody took the odd numbered weeks of the month; he took the even.

  “Home,” Haddox mumbled, closing his eyes.

  The smell of baby powder and Stephanie’s face cream filled Ryan’s nostrils. Happy to be home, he entered the house seven miles north of Brownsville’s residential edge. Darkness still enveloped the house in the early morning. He heard Stephanie’s soft breathing coming from the bedroom.

  Making his way to their room toward the back of the house, Ryan stood at the doorway of little Mitch’s room and stared at his sleeping son. He wanted to hug and kiss the boy but feared waking him.

  Lying next to Stephanie, Ryan drifted off into a troubled slumber.

  Ryan awoke to the sound of his son’s laughter and the smell of coffee.