Paint Black

by Bolado, Baltazar

  “My man made breakfast!” shrieked Stephanie, lifting little Mitch to her bosom. “Isn’t daddy amazing,” she questioned the baby, who quickly giggled in the sunlight.

  They ate on the patio table.

  Following the meal, the family lounged in the sun, enjoying the newfound peace lingering in the air, afraid to disturb its fragile tendrils and discover it merely existed in the imaginings of the desperate.

  After washing dishes together, Stephanie put little Mitch down for a nap and hurriedly rushed to the bedroom where Ryan waited.

  Desperate want flowed through them.

  “You make me happy I’m a man,” Ryan whispered into Stephanie’s ear.

  It had been so long since they’d held themselves like they held each other now.

  No reservations. No worried thoughts about tomorrow, or pronounced feelings of financial hardship and doom lingered.

  Nothing but genuine love went through them,

  “Oh Honey,” moaned Stephanie, running her hands through his hair.

  “Oh, Baby,” groaned Ryan, loving the feelings of freedom. Worry and strife continued to empty out of him, leaving him calmer and relaxed.

  “Honey, please tell me again,” Stephanie encouraged him.

  “Holding you, feels like this,” he said, placing a trace of gentle kisses around her mouth.

  They made love feeling the urgency of the solitary and the afraid. The pressure felt between them during their monetary trial reflected in their physical tenacity.

  Afterward, Ryan and Stephanie lay quietly next to each other, afraid the slightest movement would shatter the intimacy.

  “You make me strong, Baby.” Ryan’s voice sounded renewed in the aftermath of awakened passion.

  In spurts they spoke. Until passion overtook them again, provoking them to explore their appetites with intense sincerity.

  Neither of them spoke about the decision to dip into the savings. Both seemingly afraid of discovering a flaw in their logic.

  Using the money brought peace. Lovemaking followed.

  Having grown tired of their issues, the couple elected to protect the small amount of peace the money had purchased.

  Life in the minor leagues caused great strain on a marriage. During the long road trips, Ryan missed his wife and son most.

  The single players had an “out” night and often invited him on their escapades.

  “Hey, Ryan!” At the door stood Phil Simon, the Panther middle reliever.

  Removing his earbuds, Ryan remained lying on the bed.

  “You wanna come with us?”

  “You and the guys?”

  “Yeah, me, Faught, Cruz, and Rod—we’re gonna catch some tit and grab some ass.”

  Kyle Faught, Hector Cruz, Phil Simon, and Estephan Rodriguez were a group of young Panther players accustomed of going out on the town together.

  Having no intention of going, Ryan asked, “Where?”

  Simon gave a shrug, “No clue.”

  Ryan gave a slight shake of his head. “Naw, I think I’ll pass.” Putting on his earbuds, he went back to his music listening.

  Playing ball for a living was a lonely business and some single ballplayers took full advantage of the “gypsy life.”

  Rather than give in to the temptations of the road, Ryan elected to avoid them. In the past, he could recall the times when he’d considered going out with the guys on a night of wild revelry. He was happy that he’d fought off the temptation to do so.

  Ryan, like all the Haddox men who’d come before him, held the firm conviction that the love of one good woman made better sense than a screw the world lifestyle.

  In the end, he believed faithfulness made his marriage stronger.

  During a rain delay in late April, Ryan learned about his catcher—the Panthers’ highest touted minor league catching prospect. In between raindrops, minor league players’ words fell harder than the rain.

  Rain delay storytelling and male bonding endured a baseball tradition. A time when men came together and learned about themselves.

  Normally the storytelling and male bonding took place in groups, but not always. Sometimes players found themselves on a one on one moment of camaraderie.

  “I was born in South Philly,” started Borelli, adjusting his catcher’s gear. Borelli’s way of talking never came across brashly. While he spoke slowly, he exuded confidence. His train of thought remained constantly centered, knowing exactly what he wanted to say.

  “I always knew I wanted to get out and see the world. Do things, you know? But like I used to tell my parents, ‘No matter how far I go, I says, I’ll never forgot my days growing up or who I am.’”

  Borelli stopped adjusting his gear.

  Ryan had a ball in his hand—an old habit he’d developed since youth to practice his pitching grip—shifting, one by one, through all of his pitches. The men were sitting alone at one end of the dugout.

  “I grew up in a big house on Washington Avenue,” Borelli continued, barely above the pelting of the raindrops. It’s the smells I remember the most. Ain’t nothing like it. Cheese shops, pasta shops—the spices, the meats, the fruits and vegetables—good food for little money. Between Washington and Carpenter—that was my world.”

  Talking about his boyhood home, Borelli’s eyes steadied.

  “Things have changed. The market,” Borelli shook his head sadly, “it’s starting to die. Some stands are closing down and it just ain’t the same now.” A smile crept over his face. “But it’s still the best damn place on earth. Paesano’s Restaurant—there’s a place to eat and see good people.”

  Nikolai carried a passion to inspire men to follow his leadership. An invigorated nature set him apart from the leader who used only charisma to stir a team’s morale.

  “Salvatore, my brother,” Borelli once said to Ryan, in a rare moment of total openness. “He’s a good brother. We grew up playing ball together. We’re tight, you know?” Shrugging his shoulders, he went on. “But we… Growing up, being kids… we weren’t close.”

  A far away rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. An impending game call off loomed, but if the heavy rain stayed away there remained the hope of a ballgame.

  A bike accident…” Borelli shook his head. “He loved bikes.” Through a smile, Borelli shed further light on his brother’s passions, “But he loved baseball. Growing up, Salvatore loved baseball more than me.” A distant look came over the catcher, and he went silent.

  Ryan waited. Closing his eyes, he felt the entirety of the ball’s seams with the tips of his fingers.

  “He was the catcher. I played the outfield. Him being older, he took the lead. My dad never got involved. He loved baseball too and just let things play out.”

  Mild shock came over Ryan. He’d believed Nikolai Borelli had always been the dominant one on a baseball team. Fashioned in the womb to be a catcher.

  Borelli smiled again. “Salvatore loved the catcher’s equipment. Putting it on, he said, was like a warrior putting on his shield, getting ready to do battle. He called the catcher’s gear an old-fashioned term: the tools of ignorance.” Pausing, Borelli’s face became serious. “To Salvatore, you needed a brain to be a good catcher. ‘You gotta be in control of everyone and everything, Nikolai,’ he would tell me.” Borelli turned to look at Ryan. “Salvatore liked—the control.”

  Returning his attention to adjusting the gear—he repeatedly checked every part of the equipment.

  Seconds later, Ryan went back to going over his pitching grips.

  “Then the accident. In his prime, Salvatore had the body of a Roman God, a fuckin’ stud. Not ’cause he’s my brother.” Nikolai looked out into the rain. “He’s never walked again.”

  Ryan stopped going over his pitch grips. He sat silent, unmoving.

  The wet, late afternoon air closed in on the two men.

  “His legs… they’re all fucked up. He needed operations just to keep him alive. He never complained. Through everything, I never heard hi
m cry. He never said, ‘Look at me. Why are you trying to save me?’”

  Lifting his head to heaven, Borelli seemed to offer a plea to God. Then, looking back down at his tools of ignorance, he gave a snicker. “He never lost his love for the game. Even now… we talk about ball.” Borelli snickered again lightly. “Like he can still play.”

  The revelation displayed Borelli’s strength.

  “Seeing what happened to Salvatore, I know my best chance for a better life is to make it to the majors.” Nodding his head in measured conviction, he declared, “I’ll make it one day. I have to. Salvatore…” he said, going back to fidgeting with his tools of ignorance.

  In the heat of summer, through the dog days and intensity, Borelli glistened in the sun like an olive skinned god. He commanded the Panther defense on the field. Above this, he controlled the pitcher’s game.

  At first, Ryan, being headstrong and confident in his cerebral grasp of the pitching art, leaned on his intellect to “call” his pitches. Over time, trust developed between the men and Ryan developed faith in the catcher’s mental ability and knowledge of batter weakness.

  In the minors—even in the majors—many pitchers pitched off a script. Ryan, being a veteran, respected enough to call his game. Embroiled in the side-by-side contest gave him even more sway in his pitch calling.

  Despite this, Ryan trusted Borelli’s knowledge and relied on his baseball IQ to assist him in his pitch call.

  There remained three series in the season.

  Three pitching outings for Young and Haddox remained to decide the Southern Side-by-Side.

  7th Inning Stretch

  Nobody likes to hear it, because it's dull, but the reason you win or lose is darn near always the same—pitching.

  —Earl Weaver

  Baseball is a red-blooded sport for red-blooded men. It's no pink tea, and mollycoddles had better stay out. It's a struggle for supremacy, a survival of the fittest.

  —Ty Cobb

  A pitcher has to look at the hitter as his mortal enemy.

  —Early Wynn

  Clay

  Leon Hounsfield’s office sat on the fourth floor of the Panthers’ Headquarters building in downtown Frankfort, Oklahoma. Although his authority answered to the C-level order of the Panthers hierarchy—the president and his executive branch, and the many partners of the Panther Organization—Hounsfield desired to keep a low profile.

  His office contrasted his professional restraint. Walnut cabinets gave way to a maple, handcrafted desk that stood dominantly at the corner of the office, providing Hounsfield a powerful view of Frankfort’s antebellum houses and buildings.

  Even though he exerted incredible power over the organization and the players who played under its umbrella, Hounsfield tried to remain centered in his character. In a life full of financial stability, Hounsfield’s heart seemingly incapable of partaking of normal emotions, not because he lacked the humanity but because he considered it beneath his formality and genetics to exhibit the appearance of fleshy weakness.

  Leon Hounsfield came from old money; he’d never suffered through the common pains of life. He concluded that to lower his standing in the eyes of humanity would be a step down from the Hounsfield family history.

  So when Clarence “Sonny” Ramsey expressed concern about the Southern Side-by-Side between the two prominent pitchers on his pitching staff, it never occurred to Hounsfield to react in any way but with a business mindset and a financially logical view.

  “What’s the problem, Clarence?”

  “Well, Sir, it just seems to me we should consider a more definitive method of settling the dilemma between Haddox and Young.”

  Hounsfield starred at the manager with a peculiar gaze. “Definitive method? Dilemma? Say what’s on your mind.”

  Taken back by the man’s callousness, Ramsey shifted in his seat. “I think the organization owes some obligation to its players. If anything, to at least honor the promises and commitments it’s made.”

  “And you believe we’ve failed to honor the promises and commitments we’ve made to our players?”

  Being careful to frame his words delicately, Ramsey said, in an even tone, “I think there’s been some shortcoming in our dealings with Ryan Haddox.”

  “How so?”

  “For the past three years we’ve hinted to him certain career advancements that haven’t… materialized.”

  A pained expression formed on Hounsfield’s face.

  Ramsey ignored the man’s display. “And now we concoct this scheme.” The manager shook his head. “Sir, the man and his family deserve—”

  Ramsey stopped in midsentence because the general manager held up his hand in objection.

  “Scheme?” Hounsfield’s expression remained stern, uncompromising. “To what scheme do you refer to?”

  “Well, Sir—”

  “Let me make this abundantly clear for you.” Hounsfield’s voice came out strong, forceful. “Neither I, nor the Frankfort Panther Organization, concoct schemes. Is that clear?”

  Without any other recourse, Ramsey quickly retreated. “Crystal, Sir.”

  “Clarence,” Hounsfield resumed, using a softer tone. “Nothing’s been concocted. Ryan Haddox is the ace pitcher of the Lockhart Panther’s isn’t he?”

  “Yes, Sir, he is.”

  The general manager spoke firmly. “That’s an opportunity we’ve provided him. Correct?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Ramsey reluctantly confirmed. “But what opportunity are we offering him in the end?”

  Observing the manager’s dissenting retort, Hounsfield ascended from his incredibly powerful high-backed chair. Standing in front of his picture window, he loosened his tie and rubbed the back of his neck. Returning his concentration to the manager, Hounsfield walked back and took a seat on the front edge of his desk. “Clarence, we have 12 minor league affiliates and various sub affiliates. At any one time, we oversee the progression of literally thousands of prospects. We offer each one player the same opportunity we offer all of our many projections. We’re the potters, Clarence. Our thousands of players are the clay. You are one of the instruments we use to mold our clay.” Taking the time to consider the manager, the general manager extended a hand out, threatening to pull out his guts and heart. “We don’t owe our clay any explanations. We present opportunity. It is up to them to make use of the possibilities before them.”

  Unsure how to respond to the general manager, Ramsey remained silent.

  Realizing the manager no longer offered resistance, satisfied his persuasiveness had resolved the man’s internal conflict, Hounsfield softened his tone. “Clarence, I appreciate your thoroughness in seeing to the care of our prospects. Again, your role and contribution to our farm system is of vital importance to our organization.”

  Designed to settle the manager’s reservations, an awkwardness spread across the elegant office.

  “I can assure you,” Hounsfield finished, “if the man smartly made use of his signing bonus, he’ll be far ahead of any shortsighted blowup that’ll come of this.”

  Ramsey felt powerless, his mind resigning to the apprehension that the general manager existed on a higher, more sophisticated world than he did.

  “Here, please join me in a comforting glass of brandy.” Reaching for a bottle of Remy Martin Cognac, the general manager poured two glasses and extended one of them to the manager.

  Still harboring guilt over the situation, the manager took the glass and sipped the unique bouquet of flowers and rich configuration of vanilla. Surprised by the initial flavor outburst, a complicated brioche consisting of orange fruit and dark, mature produce overwhelmed his taste buds.

  Each drink of the sophisticated liquid, allowed his consciousness to become dull and cold.

  Yet no amount of liquor succeeded in drowning his guilt.

  Don’t wait

  Roy Peterman possessed a strength originating from a time when men of iron sailed on wooden ships. Every word he penned on The Sandlot—th
e local paper he wrote and edited, dedicated solely to high school and youth baseball—he evoked the spirit of a generation of men raised to achieve quietly, without too much fuss or show.

  Although a man of the written word, he lived by the same code as the men he honored in his life’s work.

  By example of his way of life, he hoped to inspire the young men he wrote about to strive to live lives of greatness. This honorable hope became the catalyst for him becoming Mitch Haddox’s assistant coach in Lockhart’s summer baseball program.

  He recalled the event, twelve years earlier, fondly.

  “Hello Mitch.”

  Haddox looked up from raking the mound. “‘Lo, Roy. What brings you out here? Don’t you have a paper to tend to?”

  Peterman smiled. “I certainly do.”

  Haddox went still. “You’re here on business? Hell, we’re just a summer league team. All your writing should be saved for the high school squad.”

  “Mitch, I heard Andy Parsons couldn’t help you coach summer baseball anymore. I thought I’d see if I could step in and help.”

  Mitch Haddox welcomed his help with his usual open-mindedness. Coaching together, a friendship developed. Friendship developed into brotherly bond.

  Equally, the men’s wives took a liking to each other. Hazel Peterman and Dorothy Haddox often spent time together. From baseball, the couple’s friendships blossomed into weekend get-togethers and Sunday morning church gatherings.

  Because the Peterman’s children were all grown up and moved out, it came naturally that Roy and Hazel would warm up to Ryan. Many times Ryan reflected that even though he’d lost his biological parents at an early age, he’d gained two sets of parents.

  Roy Peterman flourished being Mitch Haddox’s summer baseball assistant coach. Not only did he relish teaching the young minds fundamental baseball techniques, he regularly immersed them in his long list of quotes and military maxims designed to not only educate but to inspire.

  “Don’t wait and let the next man do what you can do. You’re the hero this team needs to deliver,” Roy would often say.