Turning the shower water to hot, he let the moisture enter his pores. Refreshed, he emerged in good spirits. Coming up behind Stephanie, he gave her a hug.
Their son sat on his high chair, eating his cereal.
Looking at the baby, Ryan said, “He seems happier.”
“Yeah,” Stephanie replied, melting in his arms. “He’s got a temperature but he’s a trooper.” She turned and gave Ryan a hug. “Like his daddy.”
Parental guilt struck at Ryan. The boy deserves better. I’ve failed him since his birth. I’ll get him some medicine.
“Like his mom,” said Ryan, softly kissing Stephanie’s neck.
“Okay,” she answered, her eyes still closed.
She felt good in his arms. Ryan went silent.
“What did you want to talk to me about, Honey,” asked Stephanie, her eyes open.
“Why don’t we take the boy to the doctor?”
“Honey, I told you we can’t afford to.”
He released her and pulled out the fifty dollars. “We’ll make a payment.”
Sternness came over her. “Ryan!” Giving him her back, she started scooping up the eggs and putting them on the plates.
“Don’t be mad at me, Baby.”
She shrugged her shoulders at Ryan’s attempt to hold her.
“I… We… need to put the boy first.”
She turned around to glare up at him. “We are putting him first, Ryan. Every time you go out on the mound, we put him first. Every time you win, we win.” She shook her head. “How can you expect to win if you don’t eat?”
“Baby, I did eat.”
“You need to eat more than the team spread, Ryan.”
“My son…” Haddox broke off in mid-sentence. “Our son’s sick, Stephanie. He needs to see the doctor.”
“Honey, you have to eat! Little Mitch… I… We’re depending on you taking care of yourself.”
“Don’t worry, Baby,” he reassured her, “it was after my scheduled start and I figured I’d eat heavy when I got home. Your home cooking’s the best anyway.” He gave her a big hug and nibbled at her neck.
Even though she loved such intimate moments, Stephanie didn’t try to hide her displeasure.
They ate breakfast in near silence. After clearing the table and washing the dishes, the young parents loaded the baby into the car seat and drove to the doctor’s office.
Soon after getting home, Stephanie put little Mitch down for a nap. Not long after, she fell into Ryan’s arms. Pulling back, she touched his face. “You’re a good father. I understand why you did it. But, Honey, you’re a priority too.”
“I know,” acknowledged Ryan, putting his hand over hers. The unsettling feeling in the pit of his gut made him nauseous. He judged himself inadequate as a father and provider.
Neither of them could muster the words to placate their uneasiness.
Stephanie took a shower while Ryan brought in the remainder of his travelling luggage.
Thirty minutes later, they went to bed.
Reaching for each other out of pain and lust, the lovemaking expressed pureness in its simplicity. Accomplishing each height of passion, urges gave way to peaceful satisfaction. In the culmination, a plateau reached of indescribable pleasure.
Afterwards, laying in each other’s arms, lingering thoughts still plagued them.
The baby needed medicine, they needed groceries, and the mortgage was due.
They only had enough money to do one.
“Let’s take money out of the savings,” said Stephanie.
Twice before they’d pulled money out of the savings left over from the signing bonus. The first time allowed them to put a down payment on the house. The second time helped them pay off the hospital bill when little Mitch was born.
“Baby, we can’t.”
After taxes, the signing bonus he’d signed scarcely capped at $75, 000. Stephanie and he had started a savings fund and worked hard to maintain it.
The savings fund was down to $45, 000.
“I know,” Stephanie replied, under her breath. Burying her face into his chest, she lay silently listening to his heartbeat.
He awoke abruptly.
Looking around, he realized Stephanie was already up.
Why didn’t she wake me? I’m late.
Firing a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand, he realized he’d only slept for three hours.
Stephanie sat in the living area sofa watching TV. Little Mitch lay across her lap. “He’s feeling better,” she called out to him, smiling.
Ryan kissed her on the cheek. Making a silly face at the little boy, he said, “Hey tough guy,” gently poking the child’s stomach.
Little Mitch chuckled and playfully gnawed on Stephanie’s leg.
“Our son has the greatest father in the whole world,” Stephanie declared.
“Scoot over, Beautiful” he lightheartedly encouraged her. “I still have a few hours before I go in to work. What’s for dinner?”
“Rice and hot dogs.” Stephanie bite her lower lip. Throwing him a quick glance, she said, in defense, “We ran out of coupons. We can’t buy groceries until next week.”
Instantly, the happiness drained out of Ryan.
In the middle of Lockhart, Oklahoma sat Lockhart Field.
The baseball park housed many memories within its old confines. Memories of past greatness, where ballplayers of hall of fame caliber played in the early days and shined before crowds of worshipers who lived to witness their magnitude.
Lockhart Field was an old stadium and sacred ground. The spirits of baseball legends resided there.
If he stood still on the mound, Ryan Haddox could hear them in his soul.
I used to play the game because of their memory. I used to tell myself that when I was old and gray my love for the game would never die.
Everything’s changed. Circumstances. Details.
I don’t love the game like I once did. There are things more important.
I play the game for the money.
All I want is the money; they can have everything else.
The thought saddened him. He’d always thought higher of his character.
What will I tell little Mitch’s son?
How will I tell him I played the game for money?
Slightly amused, Leonard Michel Vincent jarred Ryan out of his thoughts. “Hey, wake up, you. We’ve gotta get you ready for your next start.”
Haddox and Vincent, the Panther’s pitching coach, were having a between starts skull session. Since his arrival, the pitching coach’s style and teaching methods were the main reasons the Panther’s pitching staff had lowered its ERA significantly in the last 2 years.
Ryan recalled how last year he’d approached the pitching coach after learning of the significant progress other pitcher’s had made under his tutelage.
“How do you see yourself on the mound?”
Only Uncle Mitch asked him more questions about himself than about how he played the game. He didn’t answer at first. “An artist.”
Vincent scratched his chin. Sitting in a café, Vincent loved to frequent teashops and coffee shops. “Better than bars,” he explained. “Any fool can drink insanely and damage his brain. But, drinking away brain cells ain’t the best way a pitcher can improve the most formidable weapon in his arsenal, is it?”
The soft music playing in the background of the café surrounded the men.
“Interesting. Why? Why do you feel like an artist on the mound?”
“Because my Uncle Mitch—” A far off look took control of Haddox. “My Uncle Mitch—he’s the one who taught me everything I know about pitching. I remember growing up, he’d say, ‘Paint the plate; paint the plate.’ My uncle believes pitching’s an art form, not a science. I agree. I don’t have topnotch speed. Painting the plate’s the best chance I have to win ballgames.”
Vincent mused over Haddox’s words. “An artist, huh? Okay. Let’s work off the premise of artistic expression. Who’s your favorite painte
r?”
“I’m partial to Michelangelo.”
“Well, Michelangelo, why don’t we finish our coffee and get out to the mound. I want to see you paint.”
Coach Vincent’s instruction emerged through fluid mental images. Much like his uncle’s training, Coach Vincent’s training relied on mental reconstruction than physical application. “You’re right to be a two seam pitcher; however, you also want to pay attention to pragmatic finger stress at the release point. Follow me?”
Haddox appreciated the idea. “I need to develop a tail and late break. Will I need to modify my leg drop?”
“No, but it would help if we rehabilitated your follow through. We’re not after increased whip action. Instead, we want increased weight distribution additional to the finger stress. Let me show you.”
Demonstrations were common.
After the ninety-minute workout, the men sat in the dugout going over the fine points of the day’s lesson.
Unexpectedly, Vincent said, “Skip seems to think you’ve got an arm problem.”
Haddox suppressed his surprise at the remark. He contemplated whether to lie or not. “My arm’s okay.”
Coach Vincent didn’t seem too concerned.
Haddox hoped the coach didn’t notice his pained countenance.
He refused to quit, unable to admit that his invincibility relied on his rebuttal of truth and fact. It never occurred to him he would lose the competition against Young. He believed—after years of hard luck—just this once, fortune had taken pity on him and given him a break.
He had to persevere and overcome the agony. Endure through the misery. A throbbing like no other; an agony pulsing through his tissue.
Having lived twenty-four years, the shock of the pain made him feel old and decrepit. Feeble. A young man forced to see his mortality.
On every pitch, the gritting of the teeth readied his body against the punishment.
Like a savage warrior waging war on his muscles, the agony licked at his sinews nearly bringing him to his knees.
On the mound, the pain came in the form of a dull ache, increasing at the arm whip and release. Mercifully, the pain returned to a dull throbbing in between pitches, declining steadily in between starts. By the second day, the pain diminished to where he hardly noticed it.
In some morbid way, this gave him confidence he could make it until the September 1st deadline.
I can keep pitching. I can control the pain.
“If you’re going to be a pitcher, then you’re going to feel pain,” he recalled Uncle Mitch’s warning since little league. Pitching and pain went hand and hand.
I must master my mind, if I am to master the pain.
3rd Inning
It helps if the hitter thinks you're a little crazy.
—Nolan Ryan
If you had a pill that would guarantee a pitcher 20 wins, but might take five years off his life, he'd take it.
—Jim Bouton
“How’s the Sandlot?”
Roy Peterman nodded at Ryan. The Sandlot, Roy’s local paper dedicated to the local high school baseball scene, which he edited, reached twenty counties. His blog of the same name, reached far more. “Doing great.” His smile genuinely beamed at Ryan.
The Sandlot focused its energy on baseball, at all levels. From little league, to high school, to college, even to the pro level, if Roy deemed it newsworthy.
Roy Peterman loved baseball.
When he became a journalist, it came naturally to spread ink across paper on behalf of his greatest passion.
Between the serious reporting of crime and politics, Peterman always found time to write about the Oklahoma baseball teams, even going beyond to write several articles and books about the legends of baseball who had passed through Lockhart and Frankfort through the years.
Reading the words of adoration for the game he loved, the reader could almost hear the words of the ghosts who resided in the old ballpark where the modern day Lockhart Panthers played.
There, in the diamond of the home team, still lived the spirits of Claire “Mighty Casey” Eyn, who hit 58 home runs for the last professional team to reside in Lockhart, prior to the minor league affiliate of today. There lived the spirit of Ben “Cotton” Torrance and Daren “Red” Hightower.
The connection between Lockhart and Frankfort baseball existed in the fabric of Oklahoma history.
Peterman’s humility showed through in his actions, donating time and money to the nurturing of the game in the hearts and minds of the local youth.
One of those youth had been Ryan Haddox.
When Ryan threw a no-hitter in high school, Roy Peterman penned an article drawing attention to the up and coming Monarchs sophomore pitcher. The article—full of detail and facts concerning Ryan’s blossoming pitching career—revealed Peterman’s commitment to the youth who would carry on the spirit of the game.
Through the years, the men’s lives remained intertwined.
Ryan’s career continued to flourish. Peterman followed close and chronicled each event. Up to this point in his quest to reach the big leagues, Peterman’s pen recorded every pitch, and reported every victory.
All came to a head in late June when Ryan invited Roy for a round of drinks at the local pub, The Harbor. Nearly empty, the bar afforded them a table away from earshot.
“I remember your dad and I used to come here,” Roy smiled gently, taking a slow pull from his bottle.
Ryan smiled back. “I didn’t know such things until I got older. He talked about it.”
A peaceful moment past between the men.
“I want to tell you something, Roy.” Ryan trusted the journalist and respected the man’s judgment.
Because Roy had known Ryan most of his life, he could easily determine something was bothering him. “Sure, Ryan, you can tell me anything.”
“But, Roy,” Ryan quickly started, “You can’t write about this. Please promise me you won’t.”
Roy hesitated at first, before reluctantly agreeing. “We’re off the record.”
Ryan told him about the meeting and the side-by-side contest.
The journalist reacted in disgust. “Ramsey told you this?”
Composing himself, Ryan nodded. “Yeah. He told me and Dalton, together.”
A flash of anger seeped out of the journalist’s expression. “’Tain’t right. No one’s got the right to do this to people.” Taking a big swallow of beer, the journalist set his bottle down and stared into the pitcher’s eyes. “Maybe… Maybe you shouldn’t do this, Ryan.”
“I don’t have a choice.” Desperation filled Ryan’s voice. “I’ve got a family to think of.” Taking a long drink of his beer, Ryan said, “Stephanie and little Mitch… depend on me.”
The early June sun set and the men sat in silence, drinking.
Then, Ryan quietly blurted out, “There’s one more thing.”
Again, Peterman put down his bottle. His gift as a listener equaled his loyalty.
“My arm…”
A couple of hours later the men departed the bar. After a close embrace, Ryan drove home, Roy to his office.
After his wife’s death at the hands of cancer, Roy’s work habits intensified. Without telling Ryan, Roy began contemplating a way to help him.
While Roy’s character compelled him to fight against the wrongs men committed against humanity, Ryan’s situation particularly affected him. Because he knew Ryan’s family, he found it extremely difficult to accept it.
Sitting in his cluttered office, Roy Peterman reflected on Ryan. More so, the young pitcher’s family.
Untraceable
The Saranac Chiefs were a powerful minor league team. Year in, year out, it seemed the parent club’s highest prospects filled the team’s roster and a fine line of managers and coaches regularly passed through the team’s lead positions, most eventually migrating to the majors.
On a hot, muggy night, Haddox took the mound against the Chiefs. The night before, Dalton mowed the Chie
fs down, delivering a two hit shutout, 3-0.
Now it’s my turn, reasoned Haddox.
Although he managed to get good movement on his fastball and slider, Haddox got into trouble due to shoddy fielding. Taking advantage of two Panther errors and one throw to the wrong base, the Chiefs took a 4-0 lead through five innings and cruised to a 5-2 victory.
Having suffered through his second straight subpar outing, Haddox sat dejectedly in the whirlpool, ice pack over his arm. He’d blown a golden opportunity to seize a semblance of control in the competition. Not only did his arm feel strong, he’d pitched good enough to win.
Because of his two poor performances and Dalton’s recent surge, the two pitchers were virtually neck and neck by the second week of June. Both had eight starts each and identical 3-2 records, with nearly identical ERAs: 3.19 to 3.34 in Haddox’s favor.
Feeling threatened by his arm injury, the next day an encounter compelled Haddox to consider an extreme action.
“Ryan?” Carson Porter, the Panthers substitute right fielder stood next to him.
“Yeah?”
“It ain’t none of my business, mind you. But last night, I saw you icing your arm…”
The men were in the outfield shagging fly balls.
Haddox slammed his fist into the pocket of his glove and spit into its contour. “So?”
“Well, like I said, ‘it ain’t my business’ but I saw…”
“Come out with it, man.”
“I saw you grimace.”
Haddox shook his head. “I threw a lot of pitches the other night. I’m sure I grimaced a lot.”
“No,” Porter disagreed, “This was different.”
A crack of the bat sounded across the field. Moving smoothly over to his left, Haddox made the catch. Throwing the ball back to the infield, he returned to where Porter stood.
“How old are you? Twenty-two? Twenty-four?”
Haddox straightened out of his crouched position and contemplated the outfielder. “You gonna ever get to your point?”
“I know the pressure man. I’m older than you. Gonna turn thirty next year. These new fuckers coming in are younger, faster… bigger. A man gets to thinking about his family… about his future.”
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