Home Run: A Novel

by Travis Thrasher

  “What’s up, Ross?” Cory said. “Doing a little babysitting today?”

  “Just like any other day. Except these kids probably hit better than some of the guys around here.”

  “Heh.” Cory laughed. “So, you play baseball, buddy?”

  For a second Cory wondered if the kid knew how to speak English, but then he heard a squeak of a yeah come out of the kid’s mouth. Cory gave him a nod.

  Cory knew the eyes of the crowd were on him, and as always, he didn’t want to let them down. Not out here on this field.

  “What position do you play?” he asked.

  The kid once again gave a high-pitched yeah, which made Cory think perhaps he didn’t understand English either. And Cory’s Spanish wasn’t so great, especially on the days when his head felt like a catcher’s mitt after a doubleheader.

  How do you say “Too much tequila last night” en Español?

  Cory tapped the kid on the back. “What do you say you and I get to work? Huh?”

  He could have said more, but he walked away. He had made some sweet talk with the kid and had given the cameras a nice shot to show on ESPN. Now it was time to get down to business.

  The crowd gave its loudest roar the moment Cory first approached the plate. The noise gave him a surge of energy and hope just like always. He wanted to answer their cheers with a nice long home run.

  The pitcher eyed him, but Cory was used to that. Pitchers had never intimidated him. He knew they were trying to outwit him any way they could. Cory Brand wasn’t just another player they were throwing to. He was one of the batters they needed to get by.

  The first throw was outside. Cory stepped away and felt anxious for some reason. He quickly got back into his stance and waited for the ball.

  He did everything right when he connected with it on the second throw. He had already started to burst toward first base, knowing he’d hit a winner. But for some reason, the ball seemed to pause in midair and then slow down. He could see the outfielder reaching, catching the ball, and the inning was over.

  Cory cursed as he jogged back to the dugout, knowing his slump had continued, knowing these fans were all feeling the same way he did.

  No-scoring games like this one drained the life out of him.

  He didn’t care about Father’s Day and all those daddies with their sons and daughters. He didn’t care about his team’s losing streak and his batting slump that Helene was all over him about. Yeah, sure, he did care that it was a contract year, but that was about it. He didn’t care about his ninety-year-old knee that needed a vacation in Maui to mend.

  As the sun beat down on the field and the crowd grew restless at the lethargic offenses that had come to play on this day, all Cory could think of was finishing the game and getting rid of the pounding in his head. To scratch the itch, the slow-burning itch that got restless when the excitement wasn’t there. Sometimes he found himself thinking this way in a game, already looking past the final pitch and looking forward to that first drink.

  The first drink was usually the best.

  Yeah, but your first drink came at about nine this morning.

  The little Latino kid was still hanging around, handing everybody their bats and offering high fives to every player even though no player deserved one. It had been cute for a while, but by the time Cory stepped up to take the bat in the seventh inning, he’d grown a bit weary of this bundle of joy.

  “Good luck, Cory.”

  He gave the kid a nod, his eyes already off of him, his focus on the subdued fans wilting under the sun. It was a hot day, and he’d give anything to be a fan in the seats, sipping on a beer. But he’d never really been a baseball fan himself. He never had time. He’d been given a bat and forced to hit, and then when it appeared that he was good at it, that’s what he did.

  He hit and kept hitting.

  He’d been hitting so much that the actual game—the history and the love and the adoration and the mystique—was all a bit lost on him.

  Those fickle fans out there didn’t care about him, not really. They cared about CORY BRAND in all caps and all exclamation points. They cared about the autograph and the value of the card with his picture on it. And they especially cared about the hits. They loved you when you gave it to them, and they started to loathe you when you suddenly went dry. That was the reality of this world, this so-called dream he was living. Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t a dream or a fantasy—not for guys like Cory. It was a job. A job that came with stress and expectations and the spotlight.

  No, the dream came after the spotlight went away, when it was just him alone at the end of the day. Whether he was with the teammates or with a woman or by himself. That was when he could lose himself in his own fantasy. When he could buy into the hype and like that handsome mug smiling on his Facebook fan page.

  The first pitch from Weller was a ball. Cory backed up, then stood back in place, shaking his knee out and getting set. He didn’t scrunch down like some players when standing at the plate. Cory had gotten used to standing tall and just swinging when he was younger and didn’t have an option. Yet he had grown into the habit of a leg kick as the ball came.

  Hence the ninety-year-old knee.

  The second pitch was a fastball the idiot behind him called a strike. He turned around and looked at the umpire, shaking his head. “Seriously?”

  The least the guy could do was give in a little, considering the score and the little kiddies out there looking for some runs.

  Cory stepped away and glanced out to the field. On the JumboTron, he once again saw a flashing sign that said HOME RUN CHALLENGE—$10,000. They especially liked showing it when everybody’s hero stepped up to the plate.

  So far there had been absolutely no money raised for whatever kids’ charity it was going to.

  His first two hits were a pop out and a groundout. Not exactly crowd pleasers. Nothing would get the fans going more than a clean crack right over the grandstands.

  A couple more balls bored both the crowd and Cory. He positioned himself at the plate, the count three and one, feeling that buzz deep down inside of him.

  He was a kid again, standing in the dirt, facing someone he hated. All he could do—the only thing he could ever do—was hit the ball the right way. Bash it far out on their property to make the old man shut up and go away. Make his haughty little smile calm down. Make his mockery and belittlement dry up so he could go have a few more beers.

  Cory swung, every inch of him willing the ball to blast right through the nightmare playing in his head.

  The whack of the ball and the roar of the crowd made the monster and the farm disappear. The ball soared toward center field as Cory hauled his way toward first base. He’d know soon enough if it was a home run.

  He was waved toward second and he kept going, knowing the ball had hit the back fence.

  The crowd screamed, and the figures around him blurred as he kept running.

  I used to be a lot faster.

  But he ran steady and hard, taking second and then continuing to sprint onward.

  Then he saw the third-base coach telling him to stop.

  Yet all around him were cheers and wails and screams telling him to keep running, to score, to “Go, go, go!”

  Cory thought of the banners and the home-run challenge and the kids watching with their proud fathers, and he kept going, heading toward home plate.

  This wasn’t thinking anymore, just acting on pure adrenaline and the rush and the madness and the beating in his head. The defiant will that had always driven him, that had gotten him where he was.

  He neared the plate and began to slide and knew he had made it even before the umpire signaled safe and the crowd went crazy.

  Cory cursed in a triumphant, vicious manner. Then he laughed at the catcher, who’d taken the brunt o
f his slide, as he stood up and brushed himself off. He glanced out around the stadium and took it in. The sights and the sounds of over fifty thousand people cheering and high-fiving and finally being given something to see.

  A group of fans in the stands waved signs that read Young Life and $10,000. He did his part, pointing their way and thanking them.

  I’m just a humble servant, and I do this all for you.

  That’s of course how he wanted to appear. A meek and humble player who made seventy-four thousand dollars per game. A clean twelve million per season.

  As Cory pandered to the crowd, something strange happened. The pitcher stepped off the rubber and threw the ball to third base. The basemen caught it and tagged the base, and the third-base umpire signaled an emphatic He’s out!

  An appeal? For a moment Cory wondered if this was some kind of joke. Were they doing this for show, as part of the Father’s Day celebration?

  There’s no way I missed third base.

  The crowd began to show their displeasure as the image of him rounding third played on the JumboTron.

  No freaking way.

  The shouting and the madness around him went away for the moment as the fury inside of him began to swirl around. Everything suddenly turned red and upside down. Losing control, being unable to do anything, standing there stupid and helpless and out of place …

  A feeling he’d had his whole life.

  “Are you outta your mind?” he yelled at the umpire.

  Suddenly logic and control ceased to exist.

  Cory forgot where he was, forgot the cameras surrounding him and everything else. He just knew he was furious and couldn’t take anything anymore.

  He wasn’t sure how long his hysteria lasted, hurling out curses and insults as the umpire threw him out. Soon he was surrounded on all sides by teammates holding him back, trying to calm him down.

  One of them was his manager, but Cory didn’t care.

  He didn’t understand. Just like the ump and the rest of the world.

  Nobody understood Cory’s pain and rage.

  It should’ve been a home run. God knows he should’ve been safe. For once he should have been safe. But once again something had been taken away from him.

  He wanted to break everything around him.

  He wanted to take the baseball and make the umpire choke on it.

  Ross dragged him off the field and made sure he got into the dugout. Cory didn’t want to look at anyone. He was done. He just wanted to get out of there and leave this stupid game behind him.

  The first thing he saw was the Gatorade cooler, which he wished was the umpire’s fat head. Cory kicked it and sent it tumbling over, with several guys jumping out of its way.

  The booing around the field continued as his cursing in the dugout just got louder.

  A little thing like neglecting to touch third base had managed to get him out.

  It was unfair. It was stupid.

  Cory grabbed a handful of baseball bats, taking them back out onto the field and throwing them in disgust. He heard Ross’s voice behind him and knew the batting coach was trying to calm him down. But nothing was going to calm him down. Not now.

  Don’t you dare touch me or tell me what to do.

  He jerked back, ready to shove Ross away from him, and suddenly he felt something crunch under his elbow. Then he heard a muffled wail and saw the kid in the Bulldogs shirt, holding his nose as it gushed blood.

  Oh no.

  The screaming and booing suddenly stopped as if someone had unplugged a stereo. For a second he stood there, wondering what the stupid kid was doing there in front of him. Wondering where he had come from. Cory started to go help him, but Ross and a trainer and a couple of other guys swarmed him before he could do anything. He started to object, but they grabbed him and made sure he was heading to the clubhouse.

  Cory Brand was definitely done for the day.

  He pried the hands off his uniform and tried to go back to see if the boy was okay, but the guys wouldn’t let him.

  Now the booing and yelling was intensified.

  Suddenly Cory felt like he was part of the visiting team. Suddenly he felt like he was back in LA with all those fans who hated him because he’d beaten them so many times.

  I didn’t mean to hit him. It was an accident.

  He was forced to go to the locker room by himself. Cory walked there in the darkness of the hallway, the sounds of the crowd fading behind him.

  For a while he just stood there in the clubhouse, watching the incident replaying on one of the monitors on the wall. Seeing his own behavior made him cringe.

  I gotta get out of here.

  Yet he continued watching to see what happened with the kid.

  The boy was flocked by the trainer and a couple of other guys, but soon he held his nose and gave a thumbs-up as he was led off the field.

  The camera panned to his fellow Little League teammates cheering and yelling in the stands.

  It wasn’t Cory Brand they were cheering, however.

  It was the kid Cory Brand had knocked over and bloodied on his home field.

  “Come on, man. Nobody’s gonna find out.”

  “I don’t care if they do.”

  Rex is two years older than Cory but can’t hit a ball like Cory can. Nobody can, to be honest. That’s why the older kids look up to him, and why he’s been invited to this house where the parents are gone for the weekend. Rex’s older brother is a junior in high school and is taking care of Rex, whatever that means.

  It obviously means Rex has the house to himself and is now searching for booze.

  “Roger does it all the time,” Rex tells him.

  Cory could tell Rex that his father does it all the time too. He’s not impressed with drinking.

  “Come on. Roger got a case of beer. He won’t care if we have some.”

  Cory doesn’t tell the seventh grader in front of him that he’s never had beer in his life.

  “I don’t want any.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just because.”

  “You’re not gonna get in trouble.”

  “Did I say I was gonna?”

  “Lighten up, man. Come on.”

  Cory looks at the kid and doesn’t intend to back down. One part of him is defiant … but another part is curious.

  “I don’t want any beer.”

  “Yeah, you told me that.”

  “Do your folks have anything harder?”

  Rex looks at him and smiles. “They got a whole cabinet in the other room.”

  “Okay, then. What are we waiting for?”

  It’s the first time Cory takes a drink. The first time he feels the burn in his throat and his stomach. It’s pretty awful. But he doesn’t back down, not after Rex takes his second sip.

  Cory never backs down. He decides to take another sip.

  It won’t be his last.

  Chapter Four

  Cleanup Hitter

  Clay was dumbfounded. Not at the train wreck he and the rest of the country had watched up close as Cory flipped out and got thrown out of the game.

  No.

  What he couldn’t believe was his son’s response. The only thing that could possibly have topped the day for Carlos was if he had personally slammed a home run to win the game. He seemed to have forgotten what had actually happened and who had done this to him.

  As the Bulldogs and their parents gathered around, Clay walked Carlos to the bus. His son held an ice pack like a trophy as several of his teammates rushed around him to ask how he was doing. His nose had gotten dinged, but it wasn’t broken. He was going to live.

  As for his uncle’s career … that was a different story.

  Karen hurried to
ward them, a concerned look on her face. Clay hugged her and gave her a kiss on her forehead.

  This Father’s Day hadn’t exactly turned out the way they had imagined. Or at least the way he had imagined. Karen probably was biting her tongue to keep from telling him “I told you so.” Because she had told him so, several times.

  He was sure they’d be talking about it soon enough, but now wasn’t the time. Especially since he had something else to tell her.

  “I’m thinking about sticking around.”

  Now it was Karen who was dumbfounded. With the hum of the bus motor next to them, they were safe from being heard by the rest of the group.

  “Are you serious? Why?”

  “I can’t leave him like this,” Clay said.

  Karen gave him a look of disbelief. “What can you possibly do for him?”

  “I don’t know. Just talk. Find out what’s up.”

  He didn’t want to share how he really felt. He wasn’t just worried about Cory. His worry had turned to fear, the same kind of fear he’d felt growing up around Dad.

  “That’s ridiculous, Clay. How are you even going to get home?”

  “I’ll figure it out. I’ve got cash and credit cards.”

  His wife still didn’t seem to believe what she was hearing. She waited for more of an explanation, but Clay didn’t offer one.

  “I would think—under the circumstances—you’d be heading back with us,” Karen said.

  He glanced over at Carlos. His teammates all surrounded him as he told about going inside the stadium to the trainers’ room to be examined. One of his friends asked to hold the ice pack.

  “Just for a second, Tyler,” Carlos said in a serious tone that caused Clay to smile. “It’s an official ice pack only for players and people who work for the team. And I need it.”

  “Dude, you were on that giant screen,” the normally unfazed and cool Stanton said. “The whole place was cheering for you.”