Home Run: A Novel

by Travis Thrasher

  For a moment he laughed, thinking of the utter ridiculousness of his collision with his adopted nephew at the ballpark. The only thing that could have been worse was if it had been a girl he’d hit. In a wheelchair.

  That’s cruel.

  And yeah, he knew it was cruel, but it still amused him. Being thrown out of the game and now ending up here.

  All he ever told people was that he was just trying to have a good time.

  Knocking a kid over in anger?

  And he was passionate. That was all. What was the big deal? He got a little excited, and things happened. A little angry, and an adopted nephew suddenly popped out of the magician’s hat.

  Oops.

  A little bit reckless, and a tractor suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

  Double oops.

  Thinking of the tractor driver made him laugh again.

  “I’ve had that tractor forty years,” the farmer had said. Insurance would pay for it and give him a brand-new tractor, so again, he was getting off good. Like Carlos and his teammates. Like this whole town that was about to be put back on the map.

  He filled the glass and hit shuffle on his iPod, and a familiar song came on—Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street.” It had been one of his father’s favorites.

  For the first time in his life, Cory sat and listened to the song all the way through, draining his glass and then filling it again to drain it one more time. The sax and the guitar soared, and Rafferty’s laid-back, cool voice sang about life and loss and dreaming big.

  Then a wave of goose bumps drifted over him, and Cory got it. He suddenly heard the song not the way a kid might listen to it on the way to school as his father blasted it from the truck’s tape player, but the way a grown man might listen to it, thinking of the man who was once the same age he was now.

  This Baker Street wasn’t a place, but a fantasy. It was a dream of hope imagined by a restless, troubled soul. A man who was trying but could never find the home he was looking for, even though it was right there in front of his face the entire time.

  Suddenly Cory didn’t like how he was feeling. His amusement was gone.

  The booze wasn’t working the way it should have. The picture next to him mocked him. The sun outside beat down and cut through the blinds. Cory changed the track. But he couldn’t find his own personal theme song to soothe his troubled soul.

  He was far beyond that, and he knew it.

  The moment she walks into the room, Emma bursts out crying.

  “Hey—come on—I’m not dying or anything.”

  He still feels drunk and surely sounds the same. She walks over to the side of the bed and puts her head against Cory’s chest.

  “If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy,” he continues to joke.

  “The cops aren’t going to file any charges.”

  “I know,” he says.

  The bar fight was stupid. Cory knows the only guys who would’ve been arrested were the two who helped make his pretty face look ugly. He could’ve gotten a drunk-and-disorderly, but they’re letting the baseball star of OU go.

  “They just wanted to take a look at me,” he says. “It’s just a concussion. First one I’ve ever had.”

  Emma looks at his right hand, which is bloodied and cut up, especially around the knuckles.

  “Good thing I’m not a pitcher.”

  “Cory.”

  “It’s all good,” he says. His way of apologizing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Infield

  Cory looked like a bona fide Little League coach, dressed in his red Bulldogs polo shirt and matching baseball cap, all thanks to Helene. She had stopped by his motel shortly before the practice to give him the gear. She’d also told him to clean himself up and look like the Cory Brand in the magazines and not the Cory Brand in the tabloids.

  Now he was back on a field, though this one was a little different from the one he was used to playing on. Helene was directing everything; she shuffled and moved photographers around as Cory greeted his nephew with Karen by his side.

  “Hey, big man,” he said, smiling and greeting the kid like he was his own. “Looks like you’ve got your nose on straight.”

  Carlos was still wide-eyed and excited to see him, though the same couldn’t be said about his mother. She forced a polite smile on her pretty face. It was just for show, like everything else going on.

  There were a couple of duffel bags full of Denver Grizzlies swag that Helene had brought for Cory to give to Carlos and the rest of the team. Right now, she was making sure that the shots of Cory greeting Carlos were just right. Cory knew that they were being watched, not just by the photographers, but by the other parents. He made a big deal of stepping up to Carlos and offering his hand to shake.

  “I am so sorry about that.”

  “Aw, that’s okay,” Carlos said in a voice that was a little more audible than last time.

  Cory smiled and shook the kid’s hand, and the clicks of a hundred photos being taken went off. Helene, who looked dressed more for a night on the town than for a Little League baseball field, nodded approval.

  “I got some Grizzlies gear for you and some other stuff you might like,” Cory said as he opened one of the duffel bags.

  “Awesome,” Carlos shouted as he took the T-shirt Cory handed him. “Thanks!”

  Karen still didn’t look impressed. Cory had casually asked her how Clay was doing and received a very short and cutting “Fine” in reply. He hadn’t asked her any more questions.

  “Okay, Carlos, let’s see that famous thumbs-up for the camera,” Helene called.

  Carlos eagerly complied, embracing his role as a celebrity for a few extra moments. Cory followed suit, smiling shamelessly for the cameras.

  Emma deliberately arrived late. As she walked onto the field and saw the commotion by the pitcher’s mound, she let her son carry his bag and follow her. The bag was almost as big as he was. She hadn’t told Tyler the news she’d learned this morning from Karen. The news about Cory being at practice today. Hopefully she could keep it from him just a little while longer.

  You mean hopefully you can keep Cory away from Tyler just a little while longer.

  She slowed down by the dugout as she saw half a dozen photographers taking shots of Cory giving Carlos hats and jerseys and other bribes. He looked different from the guy who’d left ten years ago. Not just older but bigger, fuller. Stronger was the word that came to mind, but nothing about the man standing out there represented strength to Emma. Not anymore.

  A man scrambling to keep his squadron alive, that represented strength. Scrambling to buy drinks for everybody in the bar was stupidity.

  Tyler kept trudging along with the duffel bag over his arm. Emma signaled to Karen and mouthed the words Come here!

  She couldn’t go out on the field. Not just yet.

  Karen walked up beside her with a serious look on her face. “You ready?”

  “Does he know yet—”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Emma sighed.

  “Like I told you, things are going to be fine,” Karen said. “You’ll get through this. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Karen was the sister Emma had never had. She was the picture of strength, a woman who had gone through so much and yet remained optimistic and giving.

  Emma glanced back out to the crowd and noticed a glamorous African-American woman talking to the cameras, making some official statement. A publicist for the Grizzlies, or someone official from the league? As soon as the lady was finished, Carlos started talking Cory’s ear off once again.

  “I can’t believe you’re our coach. We need major help. You’ll see. We’re not even close to as good as the Roughnecks. They can hit the ball so far. Like as far as that building over
there. Which is where you get the best ice cream ever.”

  Karen couldn’t help smiling as she glanced over at Emma.

  “He just adores Cory,” Emma said.

  “I know,” Karen replied. “Scary, huh?”

  Several other parents were beginning to walk up around Cory now. Emma knew it was almost time.

  You can do this. You have nothing to worry about, not a thing.

  Just as she was drumming up the confidence, still feeling like the shy high school girl that the handsome and popular Cory Brand decided to ask out, Emma glanced over to see Suzanne Fairchild standing by the side of the field, refluffing her hair.

  You’ve gotta be kidding me.

  Emma looked back onto the field and noticed the striking businesswoman next to Cory commanding everybody’s attention. Perhaps she’d get some competition now in the form of a blonde bombshell about five years past her prime. Not that Suzanne knew that, since every man around her still managed to look her over. Perhaps it was because of her tight clothes or the fact that she had enhanced that already shapely figure of hers. Everybody knew it, and Suzanne didn’t seem to mind that they knew it. It was impossible not to notice.

  “Oh, please. Suzanne’s here?”

  “In heels,” Karen added.

  “Haven’t seen her all season.”

  This was pitiful. Emma standing there afraid to go onto the field, afraid to go face the kids she helped coach, afraid to face a man who was the coward and ran away.

  Enough, Emma.

  She had a job to do. So she walked over toward the team—her team—and called out to them. “Let’s warm up. Come on. Take a lap!”

  They were typical ten-year-olds, taking their time, distracted, moaning about having to run. Even her son wasn’t immune.

  “Aw, Mom.”

  “No way.” That was Wick, a tiny mouse of a boy with chocolate-brown skin and big glasses.

  They began to run while Emma awaited the inevitable intersection of her past with her present.

  As the team began running, Karen urged her son to join them.

  Her son, Cory thought.

  It was amazing to think that Karen and Clay were parents now. This bright-eyed kid was their son. Carlos headed toward the rest of his teammates, then turned back to Cory.

  “Do we get to call you Coach?” he asked.

  Cory knew the cameras and reporters were still nearby, still waiting for any and every opportunity, good and especially bad.

  “Of course,” he said. “Just don’t call me late for dinner.”

  As the obligatory laughs came, Helene urged Carlos to leave as she stepped forward to bid farewell to the reporters. “We’re done here, everyone. Thank you.”

  But of course, you don’t tell reporters you’re done.

  You’re never done with the media. It’s if and only if they’re done with you.

  “Cory, your suspension hit the wires today,” a young guy in his twenties began. “How long do you think you’ll be doing community service?”

  Before Cory could even try to answer, Helene cut him off.

  “Thank you, everybody.” The way she said it sounded like a president, or the father of a family of five.

  Helene was finished. Cory knew to just remain silent and go his way. No small talk and no eye contact and nothing between him and the media. He stood with Helene and acted like he was debriefing on how the session with the media went, but really they weren’t debriefing about anything.

  Emma still didn’t know who the lady in the fancy suit and even fancier heels was. “Who is that woman?”

  Karen shook her head. “His agent.”

  “Since when do agents look like that?”

  “Well, she is representing Cory.”

  Emma tightened her lips together, glancing across the field. “Ugh, I gotta do this. I have a stomachache.”

  “Breathe,” Karen told her.

  “I haven’t breathed this much since having Tyler,” Emma said, straightening up and walking toward the outfield.

  Helene was already working her phone and ignoring him. It always fascinated him that in front of the rest of the world, she would take a bullet for him. But one-on-one it seemed like she never stopped and looked him in the eye or stayed around long enough to be considered a partner or a friend or anything.

  “My work here is done,” she said without looking at him while she texted.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home.” She glanced up and ignored his needy look. “We’re good. I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “A few days? What am I supposed to do now?”

  The Energizer Bunny began walking again, always walking, always on the move, always ignoring the obvious. She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. “Start coaching.”

  Helene said he sometimes acted like a baby, but it was because she treated him like one. He watched her walk off the field and then turned to go see the kids and try to figure out what in the world he was supposed to do.

  Then he saw her.

  Walking toward him.

  For a moment he turned back around, but Helene was gone. She couldn’t help him anymore or protect him from unnecessary questions.

  His buzz was already wearing off, and he had summoned all his energy and goodwill for the reporters. For a moment he felt like a trapped animal with nowhere to crawl to.

  “Cory Brand.”

  She still looked the same as she did when he fell in love with her. Sweet, innocent, with eyes that never ceased to make him smile. Yet she wasn’t smiling back at him. She wasn’t trying to be sweet or innocent.

  “Hey there, Emma Johnson.” He tried to be his usual confident, casual self.

  “It’s Hargrove,” she said in a softer tone. “I mean—it’s been Hargrove for the last ten years.”

  This was an invitation to say more, but Cory never responded to invites like that.

  “Right. I’m sorry. Wow—great to see you.”

  He said it as though he had run into her on the street corner in some big city. But this was her home. Their home.

  Emma responded with a timid “Yeah,” but her eyes weren’t on his anymore. She was nervous, just like she’d been that first time he came up to her in the hallway. The pretty cheerleader who didn’t think she was as pretty as the other girls.

  You haven’t changed a bit. You’ve only grown more—

  But he stopped that train of thought quickly. He dipped his head down so he’d catch her glance again.

  “Hey, that is so cool of you to come out here today,” he said.

  “I’m actually the Bulldogs’ other coach.”

  Hence her T-shirt and cap, you moron.

  Cory looked at her and laughed. He had to laugh because this was too much to take in.

  “You? Seriously? Come on.”

  His lighthearted Cory Brandish mode of talking was quickly reigned in as Emma grew serious.

  “Yeah. Listen. I know you’re caught up in some kind of PR mess, but let’s be real—”

  Cory wiped his brow as he glanced around, making sure nobody could hear their conversation.

  “The parents are never gonna go for you coaching their kids,” Emma continued. “These are salt-of-the-earth people, and you’re … pretty much a wild-child felon to them.”

  For a moment he looked at her in disbelief. The smile filling his face was genuine, and genuinely amused.

  You think I don’t know the kind of people living around here?

  She thought she had him all figured out. Which was fine.

  Suddenly he liked the idea of coaching this team.

  He liked it a lot.

  “Well, wild-child felon or not, the Bulldogs are out one coach.”
r />   Emma took a deep breath. “Yeah, but we don’t need you.”

  A couple of fathers approached them, so Emma finished quickly. “Here comes the truth. They probably have a volunteer all picked out, and then you can be on your way.”

  Cory was about to say more, but one of the fathers/fans/freaks forced a handshake and a smile on him before he could respond.

  “Dan Stanton,” said the man with the round face and rounder bald head. “I own the hardware store and gas station. Welcome home, Cory.”

  Of course you own the hardware store and gas station. If Cory was to picture someone who owned a hardware store and a gas station in Okmulgee, it would be this guy.

  “Thank you very much,” Cory said, avoiding the wisecracks going off in his head.

  “Greg Kendricks,” the other guy said, shaking his hand. “Honor to meet you. Thrill to have you here. You’re a dream come true to these kids.”

  “Not to mention us dads. If you need anything at all, feel free to call the store.”

  Cory smiled and glanced at Emma.

  I win. I always win.

  Emma didn’t say anything, but stepped away from the chattering fans as she looked to see what the kids were doing. She escaped the man-love and went over to where Karen was standing on the side of the field.

  “Unbelievable,” Emma uttered.

  Karen could only give her a knowing smile. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  “You’d think those guys would have a little better sense.”

  The two women began walking toward the group of kids, who were finishing their lap. The team really was an odd assortment of misfits and lovable losers. A team that seemed destined for someone like Cory Brand to coach.

  There was Tyler, by far the best player, following in his genetic father’s footsteps. Carlos had energy and enthusiasm for the game, but he also had a lot to learn.

  She scanned the others. There was Stanton’s boy, Mark, whom everybody just called by his last name. Stanton was a cynical kid who acted a little too cool for anything. He was talking to Wick, whose real name was Theodore Washington. The kid was a walking encyclopedia whose ready stock of minutiae had earned him his nickname. Near them was a redheaded, freckled-faced kid named Wellsey, who was lost in his own world.