Soon each person in the group began to share something going on in his life. The hard-edged rocker type named Rick cursed, then apologized to J. T. for his language.
Cory wanted to ask if he was kidding, but Rick didn’t appear to be the comic type. This group took their rules seriously.
A man named Herb was talking about his neighbors being loud and obnoxious, and without thinking Cory chimed in. “Man, I hear you.”
J. T. politely reminded him there was no cross-talk.
So this is AA with a bunch of rules and a hallelujah at the end.
Yet as the men around him spoke, none of them seemed churchy or phony. There was Abe, who had once been in prison and was now serving at local prisons, helping other inmates. There was Steve, a businessman who had been abused as a child and still had major trust issues with everybody. But most of the sharing was optimistic and hopeful.
The meeting lasted an hour. There was still a lot that Cory didn’t understand, like “chips,” for instance. Or the step studies. Or other lingo that went over his head.
Afterward J. T. came up to Cory and shook his hand. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“That was pretty heavy, what Abe was talking about.”
“One of the things about small groups is the need for confidentiality. As I said, what’s shared in the group stays in the group. We don’t talk about it anyplace else. We want this place and these groups to be safe.”
“And no cross-talk,” Cory quipped, trying to play the game.
“There’s a reason for that. It avoids people giving their personal opinions. We’re not here to fix each other. We’re here to support each other.”
“So how is this different from AA?” Cory asked. “Besides letting overeaters and meth users in?”
“Celebrate Recovery is based on Scripture. It gives you God’s perspective while you’re working through the steps.”
“Okay.”
J. T. smiled. “This place changed everything about my life, Cory. But it wasn’t the people or the program that did it. It was the Lord who brought me here. I have a feeling He brought you here too.”
“Can I blame my recent batting average on Him too?” Cory cracked. All this God talk was making him tired.
“You can certainly try,” J. T. replied. “But believe me—that blame game doesn’t work. I’ve tried every sort of way possible.”
“So are you my sponsor?” Cory asked. “Or do I have to ask someone else?”
“We call it accountability partner.”
“That means if I don’t show up, I’m accountable?”
“Something like that,” J. T. said with a smile. “But remember—I am responsible for signing off on your official paperwork. And I’m not fudging the facts.”
J. T. told him he looked forward to seeing Cory next time they met.
As Cory walked outside the church and felt the cool night air hit him, he wondered who in this town had started Celebrate Recovery, and if any other churches in Oklahoma were doing the same strange thing.
The open sky and endless stars beckoned to him, but Cory ignored them as he tried to ignore the comments swirling around in his head from the last hour.
He remembered one of the guys referring to “God the Father.”
It was a nice thought to think that God was like a father who sometimes heard you, but Cory knew better. He didn’t need some father figure in his life. He’d made it thirty-three years without one. He could make it a little farther.
Cory’s never been inside Hank’s Tavern, but he knows it well. It’s the place his dad has gone to drink most of their lives. Just a small square building that looks abandoned except for a few neon beer signs in the windows.
Cory wants to get some answers. He knows his father is inside. He wants to meet him on his home field. He wants to talk to his father man-to-man.
Emma is three months pregnant. He’s gone with her to a couple of doctor’s visits. Both times the doctor has hinted at other options, but they’ve never spoken about it because Cory knows Emma.
The question has never been whether to have the baby.
The question is what will happen with the two of them. With Cory and his baseball career.
A thousand different scenarios have played out in his head, and that’s why Cory is here.
He doesn’t want to ask his mother. He already knows what she’ll say. He doesn’t want to involve Clay or his friends or anybody else.
There’s a man drinking his life away in this tavern, and Cory knows that man will tell him the straight-up truth. For better or worse.
Chapter Seventeen
Strike One
When Cory woke up Monday morning, he wasn’t sure where he was. He knew he was in Oklahoma. But his last memory of the night before had been getting a call from Clay inviting him over to their house. Cory told Clay maybe, and he genuinely thought about going.
But the thought had turned somewhere else, just like his truck had. He skipped the Sunday evening family outing and instead found some watering hole to visit. The bar had been full, and the patrons had gotten a kick out of his stopping by. Especially the cute college-age girls who seemed barely old enough to drink.
The last thing he could remember was taking shots like a frat boy with those girls.
He looked around his motel room, checking to see if there were any signs of one of the girls coming back with him. But he knew he was alone. It was almost ten in the morning, and he was alone with a dry cotton mouth and a splitting headache, not to mention a throbbing knee that wouldn’t stop.
The two days after his first Celebrate Recovery meeting had been a blitz of drinking. Cory had woken up Saturday morning and found himself bored and more bored, with a fridge full of booze. Obviously there was only one thing he could do. The same went for Sunday morning.
When he found his phone and plugged it in to charge, he saw he had missed several calls. A couple from Clay and another from Helene.
He didn’t listen to them because he already knew what they said. It was the same old stuff. Clay trying to fix things and placate him, and Helene trying to fix things and placate him.
Thank God the Bulldogs’ practice wasn’t till later this afternoon. If he had to go looking and feeling like this, there might be some more drama on the field.
He remembered dancing in the bar and kissing some stranger’s lips. Cory winced. Then he thought of Emma and Tyler, knowing that was the last thing the two of them needed. Some bar-hopping daddy stumbling home in the middle of the night.
“Any word on Cory?”
“You think I know where that man is?”
It was Clay’s first day back in the office. His arm was doing okay in the cast and sling; it was his ribs that were slowing him down. He was taking pain medication, but he hated that stuff. He knew well enough that certain things ran in the family, like addictions. The less Vicodin he could take, the better.
It was around lunchtime, and this was the first time today he’d been able to call to see where Cory might be. Emma was obviously as clueless as he was.
“I invited him to our place last night and he said he was going to come, but he never made it,” Clay said.
“That sounds familiar.” Emma’s voice sounded cynical and annoyed.
“I just wondered—”
“I’m sure he’ll be out on the baseball field later today. Walking around like a coach.”
“Emma—”
“What?”
“I didn’t bring him back to Okmulgee.”
“I know,” Emma said, her resistance gone and her voice more relaxed.
“Please don’t blame me for my brother’s mistakes.”
“I don’t. It’s just—ever since I heard the team was going to the Grizzlies game, I had this sense of
foreboding. Somehow I knew that Cory Brand was going to come back into our lives. All of our lives.”
“It’s funny how so many people say his whole name,” Clay said. “Like a product, you know. Folgers coffee. Nike shoes.”
“Idiotic baseball players.”
Clay laughed. “Look, if he doesn’t show up at practice, let me know.”
“I’m sure Karen would do that for me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she would too.”
Clay told her good-bye and sat at his desk for a few minutes, thinking. Part of him wondered if he should head down to Cory’s motel.
He’s a grown-up man who needs to take care of himself.
The phone rang. There was too much work to do here for Clay to take off and start searching for Cory. He’d lost enough time because of his brother.
He would keep praying that Cory was okay. And that this was the wake-up call Clay had been asking God for ever since Cory left Okmulgee to pursue his dreams.
There was nothing wrong with dreams unless a person forgot himself and where he came from in pursuit of them.
The question is: the love or the dream.
Cory knows they’re a world apart.
The dream of playing professional baseball isn’t just an idea that’s never going to happen. It’s there. It’s reality in his hands. It feels as real as holding a bat and belting a home run. It’s as real as hearing and seeing the world applauding around you. Of cracking that bat and knowing. Just knowing.
But what about love?
Love can conquer all, right?
There is no rule book to show him what’s right or wrong. There’s no parent to show him the way. All he knows are his gut and his instincts. All he knows is the now.
There is something blinding and crazy about the world out there. And he wants it. He wants to escape. To go far from Okmulgee.
Is it the right decision?
Maybe he should be asking that, but he doesn’t.
He just wonders how to tell Emma he’s leaving.
How to make sure she’s going to be okay when he knows she won’t be.
No one else can understand. Because they aren’t him. They don’t have this gift that he has. To be able to stand there and face the fears head-on. To launch the unlaunchable. To hit all those balls the pitchers don’t want hit.
That is a talent.
That is something.
And Cory is leaving knowing he has the talent and that’s something and he’s going to go far and that’s okay and if love can survive then so be it.
Chapter Eighteen
Stolen Base
Driving this beat-up Ford truck reminded Cory of his father and the steady supply of useless vehicles he went through. Sometimes Dad would total a truck and need to find a new clunker for the road. They all learned you got what you paid for.
Being in the pros had been one of the easiest ways to forget about Dad and everybody else around here in Okmulgee. It wasn’t just playing baseball, which was a relentless sport that took your time and took your energy and sometimes took your soul. It was the money that came with playing, especially if you were good. Once the money really started to roll in, Cory could spoil himself with fancy cars and gadgets and toys and whatever else he imagined.
It was hard to imagine much while driving in the country in this jerky truck and listening to country music.
When Cory arrived at the baseball field, parents and kids were already filing onto the field. He could see Karen walking with Carlos as he parked the truck and climbed out.
“Hey, Cory. Did you have some huge boxes delivered to the house?”
No how are you or how’d you sleep or how’s life treating you.
He ignored her abrasive tone. “Oh, yeah. They arrived. Great. Hey, Carlos.”
The two of them walked onto the field while Karen followed behind. Cory much preferred the peppy little guy to his mommy. He wanted to tell Carlos that sometimes his mommy seemed to be crabby for no reason. He wanted to add that all women at some point were going to be crabby for no reason; it was just a fact of life. But something told Cory that Karen might not appreciate this … wisdom.
“So how’s your daddy?” Cory asked.
“He went back to work today.”
“Good for him. Did you join him?”
“No,” Carlos said. “I’m only ten.”
“What? Only ten? Come on, I thought you were at least twenty-seven.”
Cory knew the juvenile humor was lame, but Carlos indulged him. Soon they were joined by Tyler, who came sprinting up behind them.
“Hi, Coach.”
“Heeeey, Tyler.” Cory knew he was overdoing it a bit, so he scaled back. “Ready to work hard today, guys?”
They both told him yes. Cory liked watching Tyler right next to him, literally walking in stride with his father.
“What are we going to work on first? Sliding?” Another kid joined this group. For a moment, Cory struggled to remember the kid’s name, and then it came to him. Stanton. The know-it-all of the team, the one who was never going to be much of a player because he acted like he was great when he wasn’t exceptional at all. Acting the part of a great player only made you an actor.
“We need to work on our hitting,” Tyler said. “We suck. I mean stink—”
Cory only smiled at him.
“We could work on winning,” Stanton said. “That’d be nice.”
Cory was glad that this smug, sarcastic kid wasn’t his son. He liked the fact that Tyler was the nicest kid out here. And among the best players on the field.
Just like his daddy. A nice guy and a great player.
He wanted to tell Stanton that winners didn’t talk, but he kept his mouth shut. Stanton would learn that the hard way, like all kids.
At this age everybody played the game. Then year by year, play by play, the game weeded out the weak and the worthless. Soon only the strong played the game, and even they couldn’t play it very long.
Cory wondered how many years he had left to play professionally.
Not many, if I keep coaching Little League and never get back to home base.
The two mothers followed Cory and the boys at a slower pace, watching them converse as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“How weird is this for you?” Karen asked.
“Weird.” Emma just watched Cory and Tyler and how they both walked the same way. There was the big version and the little version. The more she thought of this, the more her head hurt. “Actually more like—scary.”
“Are you feeling anything for him?”
“Well, now that you brought it up, I have to tell you—he came over last night and spent the night. It was the most amazing night of my life. Until, of course, he burned down our house.”
Karen laughed.
“You can’t be serious,” Emma continued. “Yes, I’m feeling like he’s in my space and needs to go back to his big faraway life.”
“That big faraway life might not take him, you know. There are rumors about whether he’ll be able to go back to the Grizzlies.”
“I don’t pay any attention to those things. Never have.”
“I can’t help it,” Karen said. “Clay does it for me. I call him obsessed.”
“He called me wondering where Cory was.”
“He told me.”
“I’m not Cory’s caretaker. I have one boy to take of, and that’s enough for me.”
“Amen,” Karen said, putting her arm around Emma as they walked out onto the baseball diamond.
Emma assumed this wasn’t going to be any ordinary practice, not with Cory being around. But this time it wasn’t Cory’s fault that the practice got off track from the very start.
It was Wick’s fault
.
He’d brought an old yearbook to show his fellow teammates. A yearbook that just happened to have Cory Brand smiling like he always did as a hunky senior in high school. Then there was the skinny and big-haired Emma Johnson, who happened to be in a lot of pictures with Cory Brand.
Especially the infamous “Cutest Couple” picture.
When Emma and Karen arrived at the dugout, they saw the mischievous grins and the secretive conversation going on with the team. Right away, Emma knew this wasn’t going to be good.
“Mom. Why didn’t you tell me?”
For a moment her heart stopped beating, knowing there was no way Tyler could know, yet wondering how he did. Then she saw the yearbook in his hand.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Wick brought it.”
She snatched it out of Tyler’s hand and glared at little Wick.
He shrugged. “My dad got it out for me last night.”
“Really. Remind me to thank him.” She held the yearbook up like a trophy. “I’ll keep this until after practice.”
The team giggled and groaned and continued talking about the photos they’d seen.
Cory stepped into the dugout looking curious. “Keep what?”
“Nothing,” Emma said.
She hid the yearbook behind her back and suddenly felt like that senior girl again, looking at Cory in a playful way. She knew he would go overboard once he found the memento of their teen years.
“Let’s see.”
“No.”
For a moment Cory played it cool, then he quickly reached around her and snatched it. Emma couldn’t believe how fast he was for such a big guy. When he saw what she was hiding, Cory laughed in amazement.
“Oh, this is classic,” he said as he opened up the yearbook.
“We need to get to practice.”
He immediately found one of the first few pictures of her, a smiling shot by her locker. “Look how cute you are.”
She knew this was just Cory being Cory. A guy being a guy. A jock being a jock.
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