Crushed
Page 26
“Okay. Sorry.” He did not sound remotely sorry. In fact, his sarcastic manner was still in full swing.
“I want to review what we’ve done to date.”
“Review? Jeez! Look, can I just do some exercises or something and get this hour over with?”
“Harrison, you haven’t been doing any exercises.” I nodded, putting my hands together the way one of my professors had done in class when she was making an important point. I channeled her right now. “You need to lose your attitude, and you need to lose it right now. Understood?”
“Look, Miss… What is your name, miss?”
“Scarlet Ravenwood. And it’s Ms., please,” I knew that he knew my name, but he was just trying to be an ass.
However, when I said my name, it was as if he suddenly was hit by a bolt from the blue. “Scarlet Ravenwood? That’s your name?”
“Yes. Why? Is there a problem?” I asked.
“It’s a beautiful name, that’s all.”
I felt myself blush. Damn him! “Thank you,” I replied.
It was this kind of thing that got me all flustered. He would say something nice and I would respond with something stupid and then we get off on the wrong foot and the session went badly and he didn’t do his goddamn exercises, and I was a failure.
“Anyhow, you have a beautiful name. I suppose your parents were big Margaret Mitchell fans.”
“Not to my knowledge,” I said.
“Huh.” He raised his eyebrows at me and smiled. “What do you know?”
“Indeed.” I looked at him. I hated that he looked so good. And that he didn’t like my looks, as far as I could see. “Okay. As I was saying, I want to go over what we’ve accomplished so far. Is that acceptable for you?”
“You bet.” He sounded sarcastic. And sexy. I sighed.
“Okay then.” I sat there like a sap and went over the things I had suggested but that he had tacitly rejected. It basically left one remaining thing — his attitude. He had a terrible attitude. He was critical of everything.
He hated the Toledo Spark Plugs, and he hated the fact that he had to play, and that he was a second-string relief pitcher even here, thanks to Clay Carter, who seemed to be getting better with every game. Add to the fact that Clay was young and in perfect shape, and it was demoralizing for Harrison. Of course, Clay was not a good looking-guy and he was notoriously vindictive. He was a fan favorite because they didn’t have to interact with him. Period.
“We’ve been through many exercises, and these exercises tend to work on people who actually do them when they’re not just right in front of me. You won’t do that. You told me so. So, tell me, Mr. Brett, what am I supposed to do with you? Quit? Because that’s not really in my DNA.”
“What is in your DNA, Mizzzz Scarlet?” He accentuated the z sound in Ms. Mocking me again.
“Nucleotides, mostly,” I said. Two can play at that game. “And they’re firing right now, giving me all kinds of useful information. But you know something?”
“No, what’s that?”
“Nothing works because you refuse to do what I am hired to tell you to do. So, Mr. Brett, it seems we are at an impasse.”
“Hm,” he said, and this was the first time he didn’t sound sarcastic.
So, I tried something. “I have a suggestion.”
“You do, huh? And what is that?”
“Yoga, Mr. Brett. Have you heard of it?”
“Yeah. It’s that stuff made of sour milk,” he chuckled, but not in a mean way.
“Very funny. Actually, I am being serious. And I have a yoga class tomorrow at ten in the morning. How about you try coming?”
He laughed. “Yoga class? With the downward dog and that?”
I got his attention.
“You gonna wear yoga clothes?” he asked with one eyebrow cocked.
“That’s the attire of choice in yoga class.”
“Sign me up then,” he said. He was smiling. Not sure what that meant. It could be mocking, it could be that he was interested in seeing me in yoga attire, it could be he was taking this seriously.
I was a little thrown off my game. I actually expected an argument. Nothing came. He was cool with it. “Have you done yoga before?”
“Nope. I’m from Detroit. We don’t have yogis there. Except Berra. And, technically, he’s from St. Louis.”
“So, will I see you tomorrow morning?”
“With bells on.”
Chapter 3
HARRISON
“YOGA. GIMME A break.” This was a new and incredibly stupid plan.
I was sitting in Buzz Nolan’s office, wondering why exactly I was there. Buzz was the manager of this two-bit, dog-and-pony show they call a team.
“Listen, Harrison, we’re all trying our best here. Well, not you, but the rest of us. And we’re doing it for you. Scarlet is doing her best, and she has a lot of innovative ideas that have helped others. Why not give her a chance? I don’t get it.”
“You don’t get why I don’t want to bend myself into a pretzel? Well, maybe it’s just that I know myself pretty well, and I think I’m doing everything right. It just hasn’t quite kicked in yet.”
“And when is it scheduled to ‘kick in’?”
“You sound like you don’t have faith in me,” I grumbled.
“Now, you listen, and listen good. I have faith in one thing — success. If you can get your fastball back, get yourself healthy, get your shit together, I’m happy to support anything you want. But right now, at this moment, you’re coming up dry. Got it?”
“Of course I do. It’s just that I have been in a slump. Read the papers — it happens to the best of us.”
“Yeah, well, papers don’t win ball games, so if you want me to have faith in you, get your shit together and help us win. We’re the laughingstock of the league right now, and lots of that is because you haven’t given us much success. So here are your marching orders, Harrison, get your ass to that yoga class. I don’t care if you wear a pink tutu to do it. Just go, and try your best.”
“Fine. I’ll go tutu shopping today.”
I left the office of this fast-talking bonehead. Buzz was my boss and that was the bottom line, even if I thought he was bat-shit crazy. I had to do what he wanted or get out. And besides, we had a game later, and I had to be on my best behavior. I hated this situation, and I hated where I was. It seemed like a guy couldn’t get a break.
I opened Twitter and of course, everyone is talking about how I was finished. I had a strong feeling that it was just a continuation of the usual crap I’d been getting since I made it to the Majors. “Brett’s father bankrolled him”, “Harrison gets preferential treatment.” Truth was, my dad owned the Toledo Spark Plugs and the Detroit Diamonds, but that was literally an accident of nature. He hated me and he always had. For as long as I can remember.
I needed to talk to somebody. But who? Living in this fly-over town was depressing. I didn’t know a single soul and I couldn’t stand the team — it was a collection of young fools who dream of making it to the Majors and over-the-hill players who had no hope of getting back into the Majors. But I needed to talk to someone, so I called Clay. At least we had something in common — we were both pitchers.
“Yo, Brett, what’s the good word, homeboy?” God, he was annoying. He was supposedly from LA, and so he fancied himself some gang-banger. Truth was he was white, skinny, ugly, and way too desperate.
“Hey, Clay. What’s up today?”
“Not much. Just the usual prep for the game. Went to the gym, ate a good breakfast. The usual. You gonna be there for the pitcher’s stretch?”
“Naw. I got a show-and-go.”
“And? So did I! Don’t mean I’m gonna pass on it, bro. Buzz watches me like a hawk. I got a feeling he’s got his eye on me for the Majors, and I ain’t gonna fuck it up.”
“You young kids don’t get it. You gotta get your game under your control, you gotta play the way you play. It’s about character.”
&
nbsp; “Hey, no offense there, old timer, but if that was legit, I wouldn’t even know yo ass. You should be in the Majors, but something went pear-shaped, and I don’t plan to fall into that trap.”
“Well, when is it?” I asked.
“When’s what? The stretch? One-thirty.”
“Isn’t the game at three or something?”
“Seven, braw. You got a schedule?” He said it in that annoying high-pitched voice he used when he was mocking.
“Sure. Somewhere.”
“Man, you are not well organized, are you?” He laughed at the other end of the phone, and it stung. Fuck you.
“Heh, naw. I put all my energy into the game.”
“Jeez. I would of thought showing up at the right time was the first order of bidness. No’m saying?”
“Yeah. I guess.” I was losing it. I knew it.
“So why you callin’ me in the middle of the day? Ain’t you got no friends?”
“Just thought maybe we could meet up for lunch. Get to know each other.” I wanted to slam the phone down so bad. I was striking out on this call.
“Brother, you and me are not allies,” said Clay. “Let’s get that straight. Not allies at all. I want what you had, and I know in my guts, you want it too. Tell me I lie.”
“Now, I guess I don’t have the burning desire I used to have anymore. Anyway…” I trailed off.
“Hey listen, Harrison, rain check? There’s no game tomorrow, and I’m goin’ to that yoga class. We could check in after that if you’re up for it.”
“Yeah, sure, if I make it.”
“The yoga class? Bro, you have no idea what you’re missing. It’s not just a workout — it’s eye candy. There are chicks. In tight gear. Trust me, you do not want to miss this. Even the instructor is a babe. Scarlet. I’m gonna move on her.”
“You don’t want to do that, my friend. You know the ‘no fraternizing policy’? That means no moving on nobody.”
“Oh. Even her?”
“Yeah. Anyway, I’ll probably be there.” I hung up, shaking my head. What the hell was wrong with me? Trying to make friends with that dick. He was way too naturally talented and way too ambitious for me to hope to make friends with him. And now, I really needed to get my ass to the pitcher’s stretch.
I looked at my phone. It started in like half an hour. I just gave up on eating, gave up on meeting anyone. I supposed if I showed up and gave it some effort, the pitching coach would see and report me to Buzz. God! This lethargy was killing me.
Okay. Turning over a new leaf, now! I got up, shook off the cobwebs and let her rip.
***
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