He pointed at another picture and couldn’t help bursting into laughter. As he did, Karen stood behind Cory and did her bug eyes while Emma smiled.
We’re seriously still acting like we did back then.
“Those clothes are classic.”
She glanced at the page and saw the two of them, high school kids during the era of grunge—Emma in her floral dress and boots while Cory looked like a Kurt Cobain wannabe with his flannel shirt and long hair.
It still felt like yesterday to her.
Just a decade and a ten-year-old son later …
Carlos couldn’t resist sticking his nose in the fun as well. “Hey, Coach, does this mean you and Coach Emma K-I-S-S-I-N-G-ed?”
The rest of the team howled and gave a chorus of “ewwws.” Emma knew she needed to get control of this situation fast.
Cory grinned and glanced over at Carlos. “How about I K-I-C-K all you Bulldogs’ B-U-T-T-S-es out onto that field. Now.”
The kids all started to run onto the field, laughing and joking while Cory followed them, slapping the rears of the slower ones. Emma glanced over at Karen again, disbelief and humor and horror all mixed into one expression on her face.
She could only mouth the words Oh my gosh.
As she followed, she couldn’t help smiling. The yearbook thing could have gone down a lot differently. Been a lot worse. But they’d been laughing and joking about it.
She couldn’t help feeling a bit of relief.
The girl with the french braids was undeniably cute, but she could also play some ball. During the practice game, Cory decided to give her a few pointers before she went up to hit.
“You’re a lefty, kid, like me, so that gives you two extra steps to first on the drag bunt. I promise you—”
“There are two outs,” Kendricks said with disbelief.
“Trust me, think like a gazelle,” Cory assured her. “Lay it down and don’t look back.”
She went up to the plate and went with the bunt on the first throw. Everybody was surprised, just as Cory had said they would be, and Kendricks easily made it to first base. Cory clapped and cheered her on as he beamed over to the pitcher, who didn’t even have time to field the bunt. Emma picked up the ball and gave Cory that look he remembered. She hated losing, and she was a fierce competitor.
“Nice bunt, Kendricks,” Emma shouted.
Kendricks wasn’t her competition. But Cory knew he was another story.
Near the end of practice, the team sat around third base while Cory took the stage and gave them a new set of batting signals. Some of the kids, like Tyler and Carlos, listened attentively while others, like Stanton, seemed bored, or, like Wellsey, seemed in a slight daze. Even though the signals were a bit too complex for the kids, Emma couldn’t help being impressed. Cory kept surprising her moment after moment, whether it was something he did for one of the kids, or some ridiculous display of talent, or simply by making her and everybody else laugh.
Why are you so surprised?
This was just Cory being Cory.
So what about that guy who went ballistic during the home game? Or the guy who nearly got his brother killed in a car accident? Or the wild party animal in the tabloids?
It was so easy to be swept into the whirlwind that was Cory Brand. But Emma knew that tornadoes were beautiful but also furious, leaving only wreckage and destruction in their wake.
Cory was still talking. “Back of my hat means we’re going to bunt, double steal, suicide squeeze.”
Most of the kids sat cross-legged and watched with confused looks on their faces. Emma knew they had no idea what Coach Cory was talking about.
“Anything goes,” he said. “We are going to smoke ’em, shock ’em, scare ’em. We’re gonna fart in some runs if we have to.”
Obviously Cory had noticed they were beginning to fade out, so he used the good old fart trick. But it worked, getting their attention and making them wake up and laugh. Wellsey, the redheaded kid who was usually off in outer space, particularly liked this joke and couldn’t stop laughing.
Cory glanced at Emma, and she caught herself smiling at him. Giving him one of those grins she gave him years ago when they still wore grunge clothes and listened to Pearl Jam.
What are you doing, Emma?
She looked away quickly and tried to remember where she was and who he was.
She was staring the center of the cyclone in the eyes. Emma knew she needed to get as far away from it as possible.
Wreckage and destruction, a voice reminded her. Over and over again.
“It’s going to get better,” they tell him.
“Just major-league blues,” they say.
But he feels like he’s managed to come all this way to get nowhere.
On the plane late one night, his body aching and his mind and heart tired, Cory wonders if he made a mistake. A huge mistake.
He cranks up the music. But something is wrong, because instead of enjoying inspiring power rock, he’s suddenly listening to a bunch of ballads about long-lost love, and he’s thinking of Emma and Tyler.
Everybody loves Journey, right? Their greatest-hits album rocks. They’re always playing “Don’t Stop Believin’” at the parks, and he’s gotten into it.
But now these songs are making his hitting blues even worse. Songs like “Who’s Crying Now” and “Separate Ways” are making him wish his Nine Inch Nails album was nearby. But he keeps listening and can’t help thinking of them.
What if he only makes it a year or two? a voice asks.
What if they don’t invite him up to the show?
What if he’s forced to go back home?
What if …
The plane wings its way through the night sky, and he feels lonely and empty. He wants to do just like the song says and send her his love.
Broken hearts can always mend. Can’t they, Cory Brand? Can’t they?
Time has faded, and it’s too late to send her his love or to send her anything because she has moved on.
He needs to get sleep for the game tomorrow. But he can’t. He finds the bottle of vodka and takes a few sips to try to lighten up.
The night devours the weak, but Cory vows not to be among them.
Chapter Nineteen
Checked Swing
The four walls around him felt like a prison. A prison that allowed you to go through the drive-through at McDonald’s on the way back to your cell. Cory’s stomach felt full on fast food, but he still felt empty. He’d been in the room only a few minutes before looking to see if the fridge was fully stocked. Chad hadn’t let him down.
He closed the door without taking anything.
I don’t need anything tonight. I’m fine just hanging out in this room by myself without the need to drink.
He took off his shoes and turned on the television and checked his email. He felt bored now after the full, fun day. At least the full, fun afternoon. Being around the kids reminded him of something good that had been gone for a while—that wonderful “love of the game.” Those kids loved the game, even if they had a hard time picking it up.
Emma’s smile filled his mind. Being around her had been a good thing too.
This humming deep inside his soul never turned off.
For a moment he thought of tomorrow and looked forward to the game. Emma had said there were four practices a week along with a game or two on the schedule. Cory found himself eager to go back out on the field with the team.
He looked at the fridge, ignoring the television. He knew he was going to open it, that he was going to drink tonight.
I don’t have to, but I want to. There’s a difference.
There was no point in making some grand stand, because it didn’t mean a thing. He could drink tonight, or he could not drink
. But not drinking meant he’d be more bored and restless for no reason.
I can stop whenever I want.
It was hot, and he slipped off his shirt, tossing it over a chair. Once again he glanced at the fridge, as if he thought it might start talking back at him.
Nobody was there. His brother wasn’t around, and Emma wasn’t about to come by tonight. It was just him.
He checked a few messages he’d gotten from some of his female friends. He wouldn’t mind one of them stopping by, but Okmulgee was a bit far for all of them.
Cory cursed and turned up the volume of the television, resisting the urge to get something to drink.
I don’t have to, and it’s that easy. If I don’t want to, I won’t.
But nobody watched and nobody cared. Not in this motel room. Not now.
Tyler smelled like shampoo and was dripping water onto his bed. It was a little past his bedtime, but Emma still did their regular routine of reading to him. They were going through The Prydain Chronicles and were on book three, The Castle of Llyr. James had turned Tyler on to fantasy classics like this. Of course, the first series they’d read to him was The Chronicles of Narnia. James had wanted to read some of these easier series before diving into Harry Potter and then graduating to The Lord of the Rings.
Emma fully intended to read all of those books to Tyler even though James was no longer there. Normally Tyler was enthralled with the nightly chapter, but tonight he didn’t seem to be paying attention.
And I bet I know what he’s thinking about too.
When Emma closed the book, Tyler looked at her with curiosity.
“So you, like, dated Cory Brand in high school?”
There was the inevitable moment of Tyler meeting Cory that Emma had feared. Then there was the next inevitable moment, of Tyler learning who his real father was.
Not “real,” but technical. James was and will always be his father.
“Yeah, sweetie,” Emma said as she tucked his blanket around him.
“Was he a good baseball player in high school?”
“You kidding me? Of course he was. People would come from other schools to watch him play.”
“Really?”
“You bet.” She smiled. “He was fun to watch.”
“So then why—why didn’t you keep going out?”
Emma brushed the wet strands of hair away from his face. She couldn’t help being amused at his logic.
Cory Brand is a great baseball player, so naturally you’d want to keep dating him, right, Mom?
“He moved away to play baseball.”
She’d once thought those six words would forever sum up her life.
“Oh, cool.”
But then two other words entered her life and would forever define it.
Tyler Hargrove.
“You think I could do that one day?” he asked her.
“Do what?”
“Play baseball like Cory Brand.”
“Then you’d have to move away from your mother,” she said, feigning a deeply serious tone. “Sorry, but I can’t allow that.”
“Mom.”
“Nope. I think you need to be a veterinarian or something.”
“No,” Tyler said. “I want be like Cory.”
You already are. So much so it scares me.
“Well, you keep practicing like today, and who knows,” she said.
Tyler had been through enough in the last year. The last thing Emma was ever going to do was tell him he couldn’t dream.
He needed to dream for the both of them. She’d stopped dreaming.
The problem with dreams was that deep down you always hoped they’d come true. And hope was a dangerous thing for Emma these days.
It had found her in a dark spot the moment James entered her life. It hurt too much to expect that hope could come walking into her life a second time.
The numbing feeling was like someone wrapping a warm towel around his knee. Except in this case, it was his head. And instead of the throbbing stopping, it was the thinking. He drank so he could stop all that thinking running around in circles in his head.
Cory wanted to call Emma. He wasn’t going to, but he wanted to. He remembered how they used to be, and he wanted that back. She was fun. And she was wild herself. She certainly enjoyed herself around him. There had never been anything that Cory had done with Emma that she didn’t want to do. That was the complexity of Emma, and one of the things he loved about her. Or had loved about her. This contrast in personalities, being this cute and innocent and lovable girl one moment, then the feisty and assertive and take-control woman the next.
This same girl who had fought for him and been so loyal and loving to him had also helped him dream for something more.
Until, of course, it became more than what either of them wanted, and the dream turned into something bigger. Something heavier.
Cory worked on another bottle since he’d already drained the vodka. He needed to tell the kid to buy more vodka. But it didn’t matter. He was tired and drifting in and out of sleep. He’d seen himself twice on ESPN and swore at himself both times. If he didn’t change the channel, the third time he might break the television screen with a flying bottle.
Emma.
He wanted to call her and say come on over. Just to relive old times. There was still something between them. He’d noticed it all afternoon.
Yeah, idiot, it’s a ten-year-old kid, and his name is Tyler.
What a buzz kill. The boy. The buzz-kill boy. Oh, he was loving Tyler, but when it came to Emma, there was always going to be Tyler. Cory couldn’t escape that reality.
He felt warm and slow. The pictures and words on the television plodded by. He caught bits and pieces. He didn’t know what time it was, didn’t care. He couldn’t sleep, because he wanted Emma next to him. And if it couldn’t be Emma, then maybe someone else, but he hated feeling alone.
He’d only felt this way his entire life, and after thirty-three years he still wasn’t used to it.
Boo hoo cry me a river suck it up you pathetic loser.
Maybe that was his father talking. At this point Cory wasn’t sure.
His last sip of the night spilled a mouthful on the bed, but he didn’t mind because he didn’t notice.
Soon he was out cold, sitting up in bed with the television blaring and empty bottles around him, and somewhere in the back of his blurry mind Emma and Tyler were watching with the rest of the disappointed world.
The pounding in his head from the night before gets a little worse when he cranks up his iPod to the familiar song. Freddie Mercury and crew sing “We will rock you,” and Cory drowns out the rest of the world. Not just the locker room and the stadium, but the memories and shadows that follow him. He moves his head, and the dull throb feels better. The voices and the whispers fade away as he feels his body getting ready. It’s always the same. This crowd in his headphones cheering him on right before the guitar wails, muffling every other voice wanting to speak.
Nobody out there knows where he comes from or what he’s had to do to get here. Nor do they care. What they want is the long ball and the chant of the home run. What they want is a W and a good time and to leave the ballpark with a good feeling in the gut from a few beers and a few runs batted in. Cory knows there’s one reason he’s here, and that’s it, and that’s all he cares about. To go out there and do this thing that he’s heard is a blessing and a gift, which is all fine, but it’s just about hitting a ball. He doesn’t really love this sport, just because he’s getting paid an insane amount to hit a little ball. That’s all. Hit a ball and become a champion.
Chapter Twenty
Strike Zone
Cory couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to win a game so badly. He stood over by the dugout and g
lanced out at the largest crowd this Little League field had ever seen. The stands, nothing more than several rows of wooden beams over concrete blocks, were jammed full. People lined both sides of the field. He wanted to show a great game to all these townspeople who had come to see the first official Bulldogs game with Cory Brand as coach. He wanted to give them a win.
He also wanted to beat the other team. The Roughnecks were the “unbeatable” champions who always crushed the Bulldogs. Cory wanted to show them that you didn’t have to wear fancy new top-of-the-line black-and-gray jerseys and look like some New York team to win on the field.
He also wanted to show them that you didn’t have to be a jerk to coach a team. He recognized the Roughnecks’ coach from the hospital: Pajersky, the cop who had wanted to throw him in the slammer for driving drunk. His idea of coaching seemed to be yelling at his players.
It was the top of the fourth, and the game was tied three to three. The Bulldogs were hitting, and the tall pitcher, who looked as though he knew what he was doing, just walked another batter.
“C’mon, Caleb,” Coach Pajersky screamed. “What are you thinking?”
The way he said it made it seem like this was beneath them. Not just being tied to the lowly Bulldogs, but the mere fact that they had to play them.
It’s a Little League game, buddy.
Several of the parents seemed embarrassed at the spectacle. The most embarrassed, however, seemed to be the pitcher himself.
“Throw strikes,” Pajersky continued. “You can let this team try to hit, just don’t walk ’em.”
Something deep inside of Cory started to vibrate.
This isn’t the scene of any crime, and this isn’t some random car you pulled over. It’s a Little League game.
Cory walked over to the edge of the Roughnecks’ dugout, looking cool and collected behind his shades and cap. He watched the game for a moment, then turned to Pajersky and tried to be as friendly and affable as possible.
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