There has to be more than this.
There has to be something more.
The ads, the stupid ads, invite the foolhardy to come and experience it all. The money and the fame and the ride and the women and the life.
He doesn’t want this life anymore. It’s a dirty grimy floor that hasn’t been scrubbed in a long time. The late nights have gotten later and the needs have gotten heavier and now all he wants and needs never seems to be there.
The smiling face of the blonde greeting him in the morning feels like the hotel bill slipped underneath his door. Just another payment needing to be made. Not necessarily in monetary terms but in some way. Emotionally. Physically.
Cory knows there has to be something more.
The images and pictures portrayed on the screen of wherever he might be seem wrong. He sees that guy and hears what they say, but he doesn’t like thinking that they’re showing and talking about him. Good or bad. It’s a caricature of a guy he once knew. This empty hole inside needs filling, and he keeps looking. He keeps longing. He keeps lying to himself that it’s just another night and just another moment and just another need.
Then he takes a little more.
But it’s not enough.
So he takes a little more.
But it’s never, ever enough.
Chapter Twenty-six
At Bat
Morning greeted Cory like a bird’s nest stuck in his head. It took a while to open his crusty eyes and even longer to swallow, since his mouth felt like a hundred cotton balls were squashed inside.
Cory stood and stared at the damage from last night. Then he saw a portrait of himself in the mirror and swore.
Good job, buddy. Way to go.
An empty bottle of vodka along with a dozen bottles of beer littered the tables and floor. Another couple of wine bottles were opened and partially empty. He didn’t remember drinking half of the stuff in this room. But there wasn’t much to remember. It would have been the same sad scene from a hundred other nights.
Well, maybe the scene wouldn’t have been this sad.
Cory looked out the window and saw another beautiful day waiting for him.
He didn’t think about the mess around him for long. He was going to take a shower and shave and get ready for today. The Bulldogs had a special surprise in store. So things got a little out of hand last night. It was fine. No harm, no foul.
Athletes loved clichés because they kept everything on the surface.
He’s got to step up now.
And yeah, sure, Cory was going to step up eventually.
He’s going to give 110 percent.
Because lately, he’d been giving about 20 percent and that had been working just fine for him.
It’s time to take it to the next level …
Cory could list off clichés all day long. They didn’t mean anything. Just like saying he wasn’t going to open that fridge last night. He knew he would.
It took him a moment to find another beer. He cracked it open and drained it. It got rid of the dry chalk mouth and made his head feel a bit straighter.
Just one before the shower. Then maybe a few more before leaving. But he knew he didn’t have a problem and could stop anytime.
Then he’d step up to the plate and answer the bell and not pull any punches and finally knock it out of the park.
Yeah, all that. Whatever it meant.
It was the Bulldogs’ first game since the debacle a couple of days ago with Coach Cory getting arrested. Now everybody was on the field except Cory, who hadn’t called or shown up anywhere. It made Emma nervous.
She had asked Karen and Clay if they knew where he was, but neither of them had any idea. The looks they gave her made Emma even more nervous.
The Jets were out on the field practicing. Emma was beginning to think she’d have to coach this game alone. Clay could stand off by the sidelines and shout out orders, but he still wasn’t very mobile, with his arm in a sling and his ribs ginger from the crash.
The stands were full again. Everybody had come out hoping they’d see Cory Brand and witness something awesome and terrifying like the other day. A commotion near the parking lot got everybody’s attention. The Bulldogs were gathering around a beat-up truck.
At least he made it before the first pitch.
Cory was passing something out to the kids. New gear. They were shouting and laughing and putting on new caps and shirts as Emma approached.
“What do you think of the new look?” he asked the team.
Stanton was already wearing the new shirt and cap proudly. “We’re way cooler than the Roughnecks now.”
Emma helped Wick slip his skinny arms into his shirt, then looked around at the joy on the kids’ faces. “Hey, team, what do you say? Thank you, Coach Cory.”
The Bulldogs all joined in unison to echo their thanks.
Tyler came up to her and displayed his shirt and cap in a check-me-out manner. Emma caught Cory smiling and watching the two of them. She couldn’t help but admire his attempts at bribery.
Emma only wondered who it was for: the team or Tyler.
The next couple of hours reminded Emma why she had once loved this baseball player.
It started with the pregame practice, with Emma lining up and throwing perfect pitches toward Cory, who stood behind the plate, advising each player how to stand and what to do.
He was gentle and patient with these kids. Yes, the same guy who exploded on this very field just days ago was totally natural around the young players. He showed some of the less-talented kids like Wick and Wellsey how to do basics, like scooping up a grounder. Even when it seemed virtually impossible that either kid would be able to get it, Cory still kept trying, with seemingly endless patience.
In the third inning the two of them worked as a perfect team when Cory sent a runner rounding third toward home, with the ball following him to the plate. On cue, Emma sent the hitter from first to second. They pointed to each other like fellow coaches and friends and one-time long loves.
One inning later, as the Bulldogs headed out of the dugout to go back onto the field and Emma followed, Cory gave her an easy and natural high five.
During the fifth inning, as Cory was desperately trying to get Kendricks’s attention on the field, Emma noticed and let out a high-pitched whistle that people in nearby states could hear. Kendricks turned toward them. Cory laughed and gave Emma a look that asked, Where did you learn to do that?
Near the end of the game, the Bulldogs had a man on second with two outs. It was Tyler’s turn to bat again, and so far he hadn’t had a very great day. His biological parents were somehow performing better than he was. As he settled into his stance, far out of the batter’s box, Cory noticed what was happening and called for a time-out.
Tyler went over to where Cory stood between home and third. Emma watched from first base, knowing that Cory was surely trying to encourage him to step up to the plate.
As Tyler glanced up at him, face full of nerves and adrenaline, Cory acted like it was just the two of them standing in an empty field with time to kill.
“Tyler. Look at me. How many years have you played ball?”
“Five.”
“How many balls do you think you hit before one got you in the face?”
“I dunno.” Tyler was white and breathing heavily.
“Ten, twenty?”
“For sure.”
“Fifty? Sixty?”
“Probably.”
Cory nodded, still acting casual and carefree. “What are the odds that you’re going to get hit today?”
Tyler shrugged.
“Probably not gonna happen,” Cory said.
“Probably not,” Tyler said, thinking about it.
“All right. So
get in there and step up to the plate. Like really and truly step up to the plate.” Cory leaned down and looked his son in the eye. “Nothing good happens when you hang back.”
“Okay.”
Tyler understood. Cory could see it in the kid’s eyes. There was heart and passion and a fierce desire.
Cory stood back up and tapped Tyler in the helmet. “Now, hit the ball, knock Carlos in, and let’s win this game.”
They each returned to their respective bases. When Tyler stepped up to home plate and assumed the proper stance, Cory saw Emma’s surprised look.
The first pitch was thrown a bit too close, and Tyler really had to step back or get hit. Cory clapped in affirmation.
“You can do it, Tyler,” he said. “Stay in there.”
Cory wanted this more than he had wanted that last hit in game six of the championship game.
He swallowed and stared and waited for the pitch.
Come on, Tyler, come on.
The pitch came, and Tyler hit it dead on.
The look on his face was everything Cory could have wanted and more. He beamed and looked a bit surprised as he tossed the bat down and took off toward first base. Carlos was running, and Cory waved him on toward home.
Soon they were all jumping and cheering and celebrating the victory.
Mother and son were over by first, hugging and giving each other high fives. The rest of the team cleared the dugout and celebrated with them. The bleachers were joyous, and the smiles were everywhere.
For a moment, Cory looked at this scene and felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Pride.
The name blasted by the announcer on the speakers with the true high-definition sound.
Cory Brand
The bright neon name aglow with sparkles and diamonds and lightning.
Cory Brand
The name in the scrolling news on ESPN.
Cory Brand
The name followed by the number and the stats.
Cory Brand
A persona. An actor. A model. A machine.
Cory Brand
The boy wouldn’t recognize you, and the man doesn’t want to remember who you once were.
Cory Brand
The bright lights and big city know the name and know it well.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Curveball
It felt natural, walking to the parking lot alongside Tyler, Carlos, and Emma.
For a few moments Cory forgot that this was not his home and these people were not his family. Listening to Tyler and Carlos swap stories about the game was priceless.
As they neared Emma’s truck, a honk from down the row got their attention.
“Carlos,” Karen shouted from inside their SUV. “Let’s go.”
Clay was sitting in the passenger seat next to her. Both of them had avoided Cory, which he understood and didn’t take offense to. He wanted to be spared the high and mighty treatment from the couple who had it all figured out, so it was fine with him that they were keeping their distance.
Now, instead of bringing the cops to arrest him, Cory had brought the Bulldogs a win.
“Awesome game,” the animated Carlos said. “See ya later.”
They told him good-bye and watched him rush off with his gear in hand. Emma tossed a couple of bats and Tyler’s hat in the back of her truck as Tyler held off and faced Cory.
“Thanks for helping me today,” Tyler said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Emma watched them, appearing surprised at Tyler’s admission.
“Hey, the team couldn’t have won it without you,” Cory said. “You were awesome out there.”
Cory got an affirming smile from Emma just before she climbed into the truck. Tyler followed her, closing his door and rolling down the window.
“Talk to you later, Coach.”
The last word seemed to pull Cory back like a fishhook.
It’s too early to watch these two leave. Way too early.
He saw Emma’s pretty face leaning over and looking at him through the window. “Good game, Coach.”
“Yeah, good game. We made quite a team out there, huh?”
She gave him the polite, safe smile, not saying anything.
“Hey, you guys want to grab some pizza?”
“No.”
Emma’s reply was out almost before Cory could finish his sentence.
“Come on, Mom.”
“No, but, uh, sorry. It’s just—we have this thing.”
Cory reverted back to his high school ways, giving Emma a sad face that was partially to try to be funny but also to show how he felt.
Emma, however, looked like she was a long way away from high school. Her serious eyes and tight lips didn’t budge as she shook her head. Soon she was backing out of the parking lot with a disappointed Tyler in the passenger seat.
Sorry, kid. I tried.
“Bye,” Tyler called.
“Have fun at your ‘thing,’” Cory joked.
He watched the truck drive off, along with a few of the other vehicles leaving the park. Then he glanced over and studied the saddest, most pathetic truck still in existence.
Yep, that about sums it up.
He didn’t want to be left alone, not tonight. Not after the victory and the game. It would be a total letdown.
It’s not like I’m going to try anything with her. I just want to hang out with her and with our son.
But maybe that was the point. He was already thinking of Tyler as “their son,” which Emma would probably find offensive.
He was almost to his truck when a familiar voice called out his name. Cory turned and saw J. T. walking toward him.
“Got plans tonight?”
Cory raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Yeah, ESPN. Then ESPN. And then, after that, maybe I’ll try a little more ESPN.”
J. T., who had missed his calling in life to be a reverend or a priest, simply gave him that patient grin. Silence always unnerved Cory, especially since most people he met couldn’t shut up when they were around him.
Cory stated the obvious. “No, I don’t have plans.”
“You want plans?”
I want to wake up without feeling like the Budweiser Clydesdales have been walking over my head.
“Sure.”
“There’s a Wild West Chili Festival,” J. T. said.
Oh no.
“A festival.”
“I’ll come by your motel around six.”
“Sounds absolutely great.”
J. T. couldn’t miss his sarcasm, but he didn’t bother responding. He walked over to his own truck, where his wife was waiting.
Somehow his grand plan of pizza with Emma and Tyler had morphed into a chili festival. One where he couldn’t drink ’cause he’d be with Mr. J. T. Celebrate-Being-a-Teetotaler.
Cory was still wet from stepping out of the shower and had started to shave when Helene decided to check on him. He wanted to hurry up and get out of this room, because if he didn’t, he’d start doing some spring-cleaning again on the fridge. The game—not just the game, but the win—had rejuvenated him and made him feel like the old Cory.
He pressed speaker on the phone so he could keep shaving.
“In an effort to earn the money I soak you for, I’ve scored you a national television interview this Sunday.”
“Hello, Helene,” he said. “Nice of you to call.”
“We need to get you back in the public eye looking clean and sober, and get people to love you again.”
“Oh, please. They’ve always loved me.”
“That’s ’cause I remind them how much they love you.”
Ah, Helene. Always w
orking the angles and reminding me why I keep her.
“What would I do without you?” he joked.
“Well—I’d rather not say.” She didn’t sound like she was joking.
“Okay, book it. Let’s get me ‘seen.’”
She didn’t stay on the phone or end it with a Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite or anything like that. She was gone in a blink, just like always.
After finishing shaving, Cory felt his mouth water and thought of the mini-fridge.
My whole life these days revolves around a three-foot-tall cooler.
He grabbed the bottle of vodka and studied it, then bit his lip and sighed and stashed the bottle back in the fridge.
He could wait. He had to wait. He could show J. T. that he was just fine and that he didn’t need to drink.
Cory knew it wasn’t just about showing J. T. anything. It was more like staying out of the guy’s way. The stuff he’d already been exposed to—the stories like the one he heard the other night from Rick—was great and powerful and everything, but it wasn’t for him. Cory didn’t need J. T. and didn’t need Rick, and he certainly didn’t need to celebrate any kind of recovery because he didn’t need to recover.
The only celebrating he wanted to do was to celebrate leaving this place and getting back on the field in Denver.
He just hoped that day would be coming soon.
Cory had forgotten that festivals like this still existed in small towns across the country. In fact, he’d managed to mostly forget about small towns like Okmulgee.
They’d never done anything like this when he was young. Concession stands covered the sidewalks and streets downtown. The park where Cory walked with J. T. and his family had a line of glowing neon rides in all shapes and colors, including a small Ferris wheel and one of those mock flying airplane rides that would make you barf the hot dogs and cotton candy you ate just minutes earlier. Kids wearing fresh face paint wandered around carrying balloon animals. Ticket counters were spread throughout, to force you to purchase a fifty-pack just to make it through the night.
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