Plunking Reggie Jackson

by James Bennett

  “The hell with the team experience! If he can get his head together, this kid may be standing at the threshold of a major-league career! Is that so hard to grasp?”

  Coley scrambled for a cold Pepsi.

  “The difference between the two boys,” she said, “is right in front of your face. What you usually refer to as ‘lack of a killer instinct’ is actually a decent human being.”

  “It’s chickenshit,” argued Ben. “It’s the excuse to fail.”

  “It’s called character,” countered his mother. “If Patrick had had any of it, he’d probably still be alive today.”

  Coley stood up. “Y’all can knock this off right now, or I’m leavin’.”

  “You better leave,” said his father quietly through clenched teeth.

  Coley went downstairs with his food. He could hear the shrill tenor of their raised voices through the open windows. He couldn’t make out all the words, but he knew them anyway.

  You can’t live your dreams of glory through your sons, his mother would say. They weren’t put here to fulfill your fantasies.

  They were put here to fulfill something! Dad would reply. Some level of greatness, some measure of achievement. If it was up to you, all they’d need to do is keep the yard mowed and go to S.A.D.D. meetings after school!

  And his mother would answer by saying in a shrill voice, Maybe you’d better think of another example! If Patrick had ever shown any interest in S.A.D.D. meetings, he’d probably still be alive today!

  How dare you say that to me? Patrick died in a boating accident! How dare you blame me for his death? Drunk, he would sputter out his indignation in a chain of incoherent protestations.

  While his mother, more adept than he in the war-of-words format, and certainly far more composed, would ever so slightly turn the knife that she had skillfully inserted: Did I say that? Did you hear me blame you for Patrick’s death?

  The words might change—some of them, at least—but the agenda itself wouldn’t change, and neither would the animosity. Coley turned up his TV loud to blot out the fevered pitch of their angry voices. He gobbled all three hot dogs in less than two minutes washing them down aggressively with Pepsi-Cola.

  He heard the front door slam hard enough to shake it from its hinges. His father, drunk and pitiful, would swim his way to the Buick in the driveway.

  He heard the car door slam. He heard the tires squeal on the asphalt. He knew his father was headed straight for the country club, where he would find his way to the bar and spend the rest of the evening in the company of some good-old-boy drinking buddies.

  The day she told him she was pregnant they were swimming in the pool. His ankle felt great, even when he swam at full speed in pursuit of her.

  Giggling breathlessly while hanging on to the side, she said to him, “I’ve got big news. You’re going to be a daddy.”

  The demeanor didn’t fit the message. She might have been telling him she’d just scored some floor tickets for a concert. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said. I’m pregnant.”

  “You can’t be pregnant. How do you know?”

  “Why can’t I be? I took a home pregnancy test.” But she wasn’t giggling anymore.

  “Bullshit, you can’t be sure.”

  “I’m completely sure. I just told you, I took a home pregnancy test.”

  “But we used a rubber most of the time.”

  “Most of the time, we did,” she replied. Bree lifted herself so she was seated on the edge of the pool.

  “That’s what I said. We use a rubber almost all the time.”

  “Almost, Coley, but not all the time. It only takes once.”

  “Don’t tell me what it takes! Let’s say you’re right; you don’t even seem bothered about it.”

  “Well I am bothered about it, but it’s not the end of the world.”

  “‘It’s not the end of the world?’ That’s all you’ve got to say about it? ‘It’s not the end of the world?’”

  “What else should I say?” Bree asked. “You want me to go out and hang myself or something?” She stood up and walked away without waiting for an answer.

  Jesus Christ, Coley thought. He could feel a knot of apprehension contracting his stomach. He swung himself out of the pool in order to follow her.

  Bree was on the first row of bleachers, toweling her face and hair. “I thought you might be a little bit pleased,” she said between the folds.

  “Pleased? You’re knocked up and I should be happy about it? Are you crazy?”

  “Don’t say ‘knocked up.’ I’m going to have a baby; your baby. I was hoping that at least a part of you would be happy about it.”

  “What part would that be, Bree? The part that wants to spend my life driving a cab or working at the 7-Eleven?”

  “I should have known you’d be totally negative about this.”

  Coley sighed deeply three or four times before using his own towel to dry his face. It was bad enough to get a girl pregnant, but if she didn’t even seem to have much regret about it … where would you go with a thing like that?

  “You say you’re sure?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “When was your last period?” he wanted to know.

  “I’m two weeks late,” she replied.

  “Two weeks? That doesn’t prove anything,” he said.

  “I already told you about the home pregnancy test. Didn’t I tell you about the Clear Blue Easy?”

  That must be the name of the product, he thought. “So how does it work, anyway?”

  “It takes a sample of your urine, and if two blue lines appear, it means you’re pregnant. It has ninety-nine percent accuracy, right on the package.”

  “So where does it get this urine sample? Do you have to pee in a bottle or something?”

  “Why are you being like this?”

  “Being like what? I’m asking you how the test works. I’m just tryin’ to get some facts here.”

  Near the shallow end of the pool four girls approached the apron, giggling and pushing one another. Bree was watching them.

  “Hey. Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you, I heard you. You don’t go in a cup or anything, you just let your pee dribble on this applicator while you’re going to the toilet. Are you satisfied now, Coley? This is, like, real embarrassing.”

  “What’s embarrassing is what the hell we’re going to do about it if you’re pregnant.”

  “I don’t know what you mean—‘do about it’? If I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant.”

  This remark would have signaled extra trouble if he had allowed himself to pursue it. Instead he asked her, “What’s an applicator?”

  “It sticks out from the main part of the test—it’s about the size of a Popsicle stick.”

  “You piss on a Popsicle stick and that can tell you if you’re pregnant? You can’t go by something like that, Bree, you have to go to a clinic like Planned Parenthood or something.”

  “Don’t tell me what I have to do!” She turned her flashing eyes to glare at him.

  “I’m just sayin’ you can’t be sure that way.”

  “There are two tests in the package. I can do the test over again in a couple of days. Does that satisfy you?” She was on her feet now, wrapping the towel around her waist.

  “No way am I satisfied, not with Clear Blue Easy or any other test you do at home. There’s no way to be sure unless you go to a clinic or a doctor’s office.”

  “So why is that so important? Why is it so important to be sure? Time will take care of it, and then there won’t be any doubt at all.”

  Coley couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. “Why is it so important to be sure?”

  “Yes. Why is it?”

  “Because if you’re pregnant, we have to get an abortion.”

  “We have to get an abortion?”

  “Okay, you. We have to start makin’ plans, because you can’t get one unless you go
to Chicago or St. Louis.”

  “I would never get an abortion.” It wasn’t a defiant statement, but a simple declaration, the way he’d heard her once decline the purchase of a fish sandwich at McDonald’s.

  “You would never get an abortion.” Coley could only repeat her own words back to her while he felt his contracted stomach sinking like a stone.

  “I could never get one.” Her back was to him now; she was heading toward the girls’ locker room. He heard her say, “That’s the same thing as killing a baby.”

  “Killing babies? Do you have any idea what you’re sayin’ here?” He was too stunned to chase after her. Besides, she was already rounding the cinder-block partition that hid the entrance to the girls’ lockers. Their voices must have been louder than he’d realized—the four girls in the shallow end had stopped talking to look and listen.

  Coley didn’t get much sleep the next two nights, but he pitched against MacArthur on Saturday. For three innings he had his best stuff. He felt loose and strong and fearless, with respect to the ankle. It was a very warm day, which gave him a comfort zone of sweat. He struck out three hitters on called strikes and three others swinging.

  In the fourth inning he saw his mother’s Century 21 car pull up behind the left-field bleachers. Bree was with her. Just after he retired the first MacArthur hitter on a pop-up, he could see that Bree and his mother had taken seats in the bleachers next to his father. Bree said something that made his mother laugh.

  On the next pitch Coley had pain. First in the ankle, then a few pitches later in the lower back again, the sharp, slicing kind that told him he was pitching with his upper body. How could he truly dwell on pitching mechanics though? After he walked a batter, the next two made outs; but the outs were both solid line drives to the left fielder. Line-drive outs were worse than cheap hits.

  As soon as Coley got to the bench, he slumped his head and draped a towel over it. “Take me out,” he said to the coach. “That’s enough.”

  “That’s all you want?” asked the surprised Mason.

  “That’s enough. I went four innings.”

  “You looked strong, Coley. You feel okay?”

  “I’m good,” he lied. “I just need to pace myself.”

  “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  Coley bent over to wrap a towel around the ankle, but it was a hollow gesture. There was nothing the matter with his ankle or any other part of his anatomy. It was abundantly clear to him now that any problems he might have that affected his pitching were strictly mental. It’s all in my head. All of it.

  He spent the rest of the game with his head bowed down and his elbows on his knees. He wore the towel over his head like a cowl. Rico and Jamie persisted in trying to comfort him.

  “We’re still gonna win, man,” said Quintero.

  “I know,” Coley murmured. He didn’t lift the towel, though.

  “We’re still good,” Rico reminded him. “Don’t forget the whole scenario. We’re not even into the regionals yet.”

  “I know.” During the last two innings he glanced at the crowd once or twice from beneath the hem of the towel. His father was gone, but his mother was still there and so was Bree. She’s pregnant, he thought to himself. She’s knocked up and she doesn’t want to do anything about it. Her stepfather beats her up. Jesus Christ.

  A seldom-used sub named Robert Greene was walking batters, thus prolonging the game. At this moment Coley couldn’t imagine how he might have cared any less. A hard knot was constricted in his stomach; the world was closing in somehow. Oh shit, was all he could think.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Coley avoided Bree for the next week, although it wasn’t easy. He only knew he needed the space. He could only think of the child—his child—growing inside of her. Was that real?

  She was persistent on the phone, but he let the answering machine take her calls. He didn’t return them. If his mother wrote down the messages, he didn’t return those, either. Thank God Bree didn’t have her own car or she would have been parked on his doorstep.

  At school they had none of the same classes, but they did have the same study hall, fourth hour. He got passes from Coach so he could spend the period shooting baskets in the gym, or he got passes from Mrs. Alvarez so he could go to the computer lab. He even changed his hall routes during passing periods so he wouldn’t have to confront her between classes. All of this purposeful maneuvering, though, was so stressful it convinced him that you couldn’t really make much space for yourself if you had to work so hard to manufacture it.

  They went to an invitational tournament in Galesburg, which took them out of town for three days. Coley’s sense of relief was strong, and it showed on the mound. He pitched the first four innings against Moline, during which time he was overpowering. He struck out six, walked one, and gave up only two hits. The hits were both cheap flares; nobody made solid contact against him.

  Two days later, on Sunday, he pitched the last three innings against Galesburg. The team was behind 4–3 when he took the mound, but Galesburg never got a sniff of another run. Or even a hit, for that matter. Coley was as strong as he’d ever been—maybe even stronger. He struck out seven batters while retiring the other two on infield pop-ups.

  He pitched with no pain at all, driving fearlessly on an ankle that felt whole again. Before he pitched to the final batter, he stood on the mound in a euphoric condition that bordered on ecstasy. The weather was perfect, the maple trees were rich with the leaves of May. In the bluest sky were a few puffy white clouds that seemed pasted in a permanent position.

  His father was not among the spectators, lurking to challenge him to move his game “to the next level” or give him a sermon about mental toughness. Bree wasn’t watching him, to remind him of his paternity dilemma. There was no answering machine back at the motel, and he was throwing 94 mph fastballs without effort or pain. He had his best velocity and his best control. As disproportionate as it seemed for a pitcher who had thrown five no-hitters by the end of his junior year, he felt so free there were actually tears forming in his eyes.

  And they were winning. He felt like part of a unit that could beat anybody.

  On the bus ride home Coach Mason sat beside him for a while. “Only ten days till the regional,” said the coach.

  “I know,” Coley replied.

  “If you’re gonna have that kind of stuff, we won’t have to stop at that level; we’ll be set for the play-offs all the way to state.”

  Did the coach want a promise? “I’m ready,” said Coley. “I’m all the way back. Just give me the ball.”

  “Did you have any pain at all out there?”

  “None. I was all the way loose. I was free. Too bad there weren’t any scouts watchin’.”

  “There was, though. I saw Bobby Ricci in the third row behind the plate. Had the JUGS gun and his clipboard.”

  “Who’s Bobby Ricci, Coach?”

  “He scouts for the Royals. I used to watch him pitch at Comiskey Park.”

  “I never heard of him.”

  “You’re young, that’s why. You kids never heard of anybody. If I asked you who Robin Roberts was, you probably couldn’t tell me.”

  “Who’s Robin Roberts?”

  “Exactly.”

  The coach was making his rounds on the bus, encouraging, scolding, advising. When he left to talk to Jamie Quintero, Rico moved in next to Coley.

  “We’re just about where we want to be, man,” Rico said. “You were awesome up here.”

  Coley smiled. “I felt good.”

  “You trust me now? I told you I had the scenario. Two weeks till regionals; we’re gonna be zoned.”

  “Ten days,” Coley corrected.

  “Ten days, two weeks, what’s the difference; we’re there, dude.”

  Coley knew he was right. A state championship wasn’t out of the question.

  Rico changed the subject. “I got an offer,” he said.

  “What offer?”

  “I got a
letter from Wabash Valley. They offered me a scholie.”

  “That’s great, Rico. Didn’t I tell you to be patient?”

  “Yeah, but it’s still only JC. Can they do that?”

  “Can they do what?”

  “Can they give full rides? Can a junior college do that?”

  “Sure, if they’re Division One. Wabash Valley is Division One. I think they can give up to eight or ten scholarships, somethin’ like that.”

  “You think it’s for real, then.”

  “Sure it’s for real,” Coley replied.

  “But it’s still only junior college,” his friend persisted.

  “A full ride is a full ride, though. Plus there’s guys that get pro contracts out of JCs. It happens all the time.” Coley could see his friend felt better. He added, “And don’t forget, this is only your first offer. Keep patient like I told you. There’ll be others.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’ve been right so far, haven’t I?” The two of them sat in silence for a few miles. Some of the guys were sleeping. The corn in the fields that zoomed by was ankle-high. Coley knew he had to tell someone about it, and it might as well be Rico.

  He told him about Bree’s pregnancy.

  “Are you sure? Is she sure?”

  “That’s what she says. She took one of those home pregnancy tests.”

  “It could be wrong, though.”

  “I know, I know.” But Coley could feel his stomach tighten. “I could, like, hope, but she seems real sure about it.”

  “Didn’t you use a rubber, man?”

  “Most of the time we did.”

  “Most of the time?”

  “Yeah, Rico, that’s what I said. Most of the time. A few times we just got carried away.” Coley spoke louder than he meant to. He glanced around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping.

  “What are you gonna do?” Rico finally asked him.

  “I don’t know. She says she won’t have an abortion.”

  “Say what?”

  At this moment words just came as if by rote; Coley felt like he was talking to himself. “She says she won’t have an abortion. She calls it baby killing.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “That’s what I say.”