Pete joined me from the opposite side of the fence and said, “I’m really glad you could make it, Blake! I hope you like what we’re trying to do here. Almost everybody on the team has played baseball at least a couple of years in high school. Most have played in college, too, and there are even two guys with short minor league experience like you. This is a way to keep our commitment to the game alive.”
It was definitely different from softball. The speed of the pitches and the crack of the bat hitting the ball led the contrasts. All of the plays were fit and moved with impressive reflexes and speed running the bases. I rubbed my hands on my jeans as I watched. My old enthusiasm for baseball was beginning to return.
At the end of the third inning, I made my way to the concession area and purchased a hot dog and a beer. Those smells were familiar. We didn’t have any food for sale at softball games. I settled back in the stands and took big bites of the hot dog while I watched Pete come to the plate.
He played first base for his team, and he was built solid. His first time at bat he swung at a bad pitch for a third strike. The opposing pitcher had a nasty slider, and he coaxed Pete into swinging at it.
The second time up at the plate Pete looked more determined. He dug his cleats into the batter’s box, and, after two quick strikes, he drove the ball into shallow right field. It fell a good fifty feet in front of the right fielder, and Pete jogged into first.
Two batters later, John, who played left field, hit a long ball to center left. It dropped in and bounced off the wall. Pete dug his way clear around third, and John ended up with a stand-up double. I stood and cheered the play. Then I instantly wished I was out on the field with them.
I was taken back to when I first started to play baseball when I was in second grade. My coach watched me catch the ball and after practice, he said, “Blake, some day you’re going to be a star.” I wrote a letter to him after I was drafted into the minors and got a note back of wonderful support. He still believed in me one day becoming a baseball all-star.
Pete, John, and their teammates won their game by two runs. The last two innings were completely scoreless. There was something appealing to me about having nine innings instead of seven. I think it had to do with the balance of three strikes, three outs, and innings numbered in three sets of three.
I caught up to Pete and John outside of the stadium after the game. John started to talk, but Pete held up a hand and took over. He said, “We’re really glad you watched, Blake. Are you interested in joining us.”
I was completely swept up in being around baseball again. I was intoxicated by the uniforms, the replica of a real stadium, the crack of the bat, and the hard ball. I asked, “Can I come to a practice and see how it feels?”
Pete said, “We can even slot you into a single game. The league allows playing up to two games without paying registration fees. We have a few uniforms in reserve with only numbers and not names on the back.”
“Would I be able to play third base?” I asked.
Pete nodded and said, “I’m sure that you can. Our third baseman is versatile with positions. We can just move people around.”
I looked at John and a big grin was starting to take over his face. He whispered, “Welcome back to playing with the real men again.”
Pete gave him a hard elbow to the gut, and I did my best to ignore the comment. I was too intoxicated with the idea of returning to the game I started playing when I was only eight years old.
I said to Pete, “I’m still not making any guarantees. Those guys on the softball team are really important to me. I’ll come out for a game with you, but I can’t promise that I will stay. Thank you both for giving me the opportunity.”
Pete nodded. “All that we can ask is that you give us a try.” He paused and then added, “But I think you’re going to like it.”
I was fifteen minutes late for work at The Toolbox, and Sally was unhappy. Claw volunteered to stay until I appeared, but she informed me that she was a stickler for schedules. She said, “You’ve grown into a good bartender, Blake, but anyone can be replaced. Now get out there and prove to me you deserve the job.”
16
Ian
Normally, breakfast was a lighthearted affair with Blake. I usually did most of the cooking while he poured himself a tall glass of milk, slowly drank it down and leaned in against my backside while I was trying to fry the bacon. Blake’s playful side was adorable and infectious.
That’s why his distant behavior was so noticeable. I began cooking like normal, and Blake poured his glass of milk, but then, instead of having contact with me, he wandered to the kitchen door and peered out at the rest of the world.
I asked, “Are you watching for something out there?”
Blake said, “No, it’s just another beautiful spring day. I’m looking at the flowers, and the birds. I think you’ve done a great job with the flowers over at my house.”
I said, “We’ve got another softball practice at 5:30 p.m. This is the one that Reggie called sort of last minute because we didn’t have anything on the schedule this week, and he didn’t want to lose our momentum. You didn’t forget, did you?”
Blake’s voice was soft and distant. “No, didn’t forget…” Then he moved to the sink and leaned forward looking out the windows that faced the backyard.
He was almost entirely silent as I finished up the bacon and scrambled some eggs. I placed all of the food on the table and called him to eat it. As he sat, Blake started to tap the table with a fingertip. It was not a normal behavior. Instead it was the tapping of someone nervous and preoccupied.
After taking a bite of the bacon, Blake said, in a flat voice. “That’s good.”
I watched him closely. The finger kept tapping even as he picked up a fork with the opposite hand. He took small sips of the milk and then petite bites of the scrambled eggs. He said, “It’s all good, Ian. Thank you.”
I ate my food mostly in silence, but then something snapped, and I couldn’t take the odd behavior any longer. I asked, “Are you okay, Blake?”
He looked up as if startled. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
The finger stopped tapping, and I said, “Because you seem so preoccupied, and that’s making you distant. I don’t know what you’re thinking about. Is there something you haven’t told me?”
“Preoccupied?” he asked. “It’s a beautiful day outside. Do you think I’m acting different just because I want to look outside?”
I shook my head. “No, I think you’re acting different because you are acting different. What happened to the Blake that downs a huge, tall glass of milk in three gulps and then grinds into my ass while I’m trying to cook?”
He said, “I thought you said that makes it hard to concentrate on your cooking.”
Sighing, I said, “It does sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I hate it. Something is up. Are you going to tell me there’s nothing going on in your head?”
Blake put his fork down and said, “Okay, I’ll tell you, but I don’t think you’re going to like it. Just remember, I haven’t made any decisions. Things are completely in flux.”
I didn’t know what to think. My mind raced in all sorts of directions. Is Blake moving away? Did he find someone else? Are we breaking up? I did my best to take a deep breath and listen.
He looked down at his plate and said, “It’s about those guys that were at the softball game the other day. Remember the ones I met by the fence, and you asked who they were?”
I said, “Yes, I do, so what’s going on, Blake?”
“They play in one of the baseball leagues here in the city. I’m still not completely sure how they tracked me down. They said that it had to do something with a baseball fanatic that figured out a minor leaguer was here in the city. Anyway, they wanted me to check out one of their games.”
“And you went?” I asked. “When did all of that happen?”
He nodded yes. “The other night when I said I had to leave for work early to go to t
he Toolbox. I went to the game first and then went to work.”
I bit my lip realizing he didn’t tell the truth, but I stopped short of blurting out anything and I let him continue.”
He said, “There’s a new-ish little stadium dedicated to adult baseball. I really enjoyed it, Ian.” He finally looked up again and stared into my eyes. “You may not understand it at all, but I started playing baseball when I was in second grade. There’s something different about the sound of the bat when it hits the ball. There’s a different rhythm to the game.”
“So you miss it?” I asked.
Blake nodded again. He said, “Yeah, I realized I do. The guys seem really nice, and I’ve volunteered to try playing in a game to see what I think.”
“And the Soft Serves?” I asked.
He sighed heavily and looked down again. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. Like I said, I don’t know where any of this leads. Maybe I could do both. Maybe I’ll hate the baseball when I do it again. You guys really are great, and I love the softball, but it’s incomplete…somehow.” Raising his chin, he asked, “Do you understand how really hard this is for me, Ian?”
I started by saying, “Yeah, I guess I do. You worked really hard on baseball for most of your life. Are you thinking this is a first step back to the minors? I still think that’s pretty unrealistic.”
He said, “No, this is just a chance to play a game that I love. I don’t have any plans to go beyond the local team. It’s about the game not the glory.”
I said, “I definitely can’t stand in the way. It’s your thing to sort out, Blake…”
He jumped on my words and his voice perked up. Blake said, “Thank you, Ian. I knew you would understand. I was so worried that you would be pissed off.”
I set my fork down and said, “But there’s one other thing.”
“Something else?” asked Blake with a perplexed look on his face.
“Do you remember what you said when I asked you about the guys at the softball game?”
In all seriousness he asked, “Did I change the topic?”
I stared into his dark brown eyes and said, “You told me that it was nothing. That was a lie, Blake. You knew it was something. You were already planning to go to the game.”
He sputtered briefly and then said, “I meant that it was nothing we should be concerned about. None of this has anything to do with my relationship with you. You make me so incredibly happy, Ian…”
I could feel my jaw starting to set in place. “And you lied to me.”
He placed his hands on the edge of the table and gripped so tight that I could see his knuckles turn white. “Maybe it wasn’t true, but I didn’t mean it as a lie. Now you know anyway. I’m not keeping something from you. I’m sorry if you don’t like it.”
Our voices were starting to rise in volume. I had a brief thought in my head that this was the first argument with Blake, and it was normal to have arguments…but then that thought was overshadowed by rising anger. I said, “I don’t like that you didn’t think it was important to talk to me. I had to drag it out of you.”
Blake stood up and he slammed one hand down on the table. “This is exactly like I thought it would be. You don’t really understand, and you’re trying to accuse me of something that I didn’t intend. That’s a lousy tactic, Ian.”
I tried to stay calm and said, “I just don’t like being lied to, particularly by my boyfriend.”
Blake glared down at me and said, “Wake up, Ian. Sometimes it’s hard to talk about something. You can’t expect the whole damn world, including me, to talk about every damn topic on your schedule. The whole damn world isn’t about you.”
I said, “I’m just talking about us, Blake.”
“Well, I’m not feeling much ‘us’ right now. Fuck it. I’m going home.” He stomped to the kitchen door, opened it, and then slammed it hard behind him.”
I lowered my head into my hands as a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions swirled around. I could feel some relief that we both lived through a first argument. Now it was time to apologize and patch things back together. Unfortunately, I was also scared that it was bigger than an easy patch back together. He told me that his game was baseball, and softball wasn’t enough. In his own words, it wasn’t complete.
17
Blake
I was nearly blind with anger as I slammed Ian’s kitchen door behind me and stumbled across the driveway between our houses then climbed the steps to my own kitchen door. I slammed it as hard or harder than I did the door at Ian’s house.
Then I threw myself down into a chair, and cursed the tears that began to roll down my cheeks. I hated emotional arguments. When I was a little kid, I woke up in the middle of the night hearing my parents arguing in the kitchen. I don’t think it ever descended to violence, but it was loud, and it was mean. My mom often ended up in tears.
On more than one occasion, one of my parents stormed out the door into the night. They never got in the car and drove off. I watched out my upstairs bedroom window, and I could see one parent following the other still shouting, stumbling around in the dark. Eventually, I usually crawled back into bed and fell asleep.
The next morning my parents acted like it never happened. They didn’t make an effort to explain anything to me. They acted like they assumed that I didn’t know. I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t be so ridiculous when I grew up.
Now I was sitting with my head in my hands after a shouting match and storming out slamming a door behind me. I wasn’t really sure what happened next. Even though Ian and I spent most nights together, we didn’t officially live in the same house. If we were going to “sleep it off” together, I would need to get back into his house or get him into mine.
Then another wave of anger welled up inside. I couldn’t just sit at the table. I needed some kind of physical release. I stood up and kicked at the baseboard along the kitchen wall. I knew better than to use a fist against a wall. My buddy James put his fist through the drywall in his bedroom as a teenager. To teach him a lesson, his parents made him rehang the drywall on all of the walls of his bedroom.
I growled through clenched teeth and spoke out loud, “What the fuck, Ian? Do you really think I’m a liar?”
Maybe the rumors and reputation were right after all. Gay men were just too fucking emotional. It was just a brief hello and conversation with two guys that appeared out of nowhere. All that I did was try to deflect talking about it until I knew enough information to be able to see the entire picture.
Ian had to know everything as it happened, or he felt like I was trying to hide things. Where was my privacy?
I tried settling down on the couch and distracting myself away from thinking about Ian. As luck would have it, the TV was on a sports channel when I last turned it off. When the picture popped in, they were covering a softball game.
I watched intently for a few moments and then shook my head. It wasn’t the game that I now knew was still lodged in my heart. It wasn’t baseball.
For a moment, I thought about going back to Ian’s house, knocking on the door, apologizing, and trying again to explain the differences for me between baseball and softball. Then I saw the look in his eyes again. He was angry and emotional, and it wasn’t a big thing, at least not yet. No decisions were made.
After sitting on the couch a few more minutes and staring forward into empty space, I came up with a plan for my day, at least the time that would elapse before softball practice. I decided to opt for riding on my own to practice. I could send Ian a text message later in the day and let him know I was out in the city and would drive to practice directly.
The sports complex that held the baseball stadium also housed batting cages to practice hitting the baseball as hurled at you by a machine. It sounded like the perfect way to work off some of my frustration, but it didn’t open until 2:00 p.m., and it was still only 10:00 a.m.
I decided to revisit the basement of my house for the first time in several weeks. I thoug
ht about bringing some of the glass and old photos upstairs for decoration.
After I descended the stairs into the dimly lit space, I could easily pick out the boxes I already explored. They were coated with significantly less dust than the neighboring boxes. I pulled out one of the boxes holding glass dishes and set it on the floor. Then I pulled out the box holding old family photos and stacked it on top.
I decided to open up another box and see what treasures it might hold. I was surprised to see that it held a baseball catcher’s mask on top. Crumpled newspaper filled the box below, and I could tell that more items were buried deeper. I wasn’t in the mood to be bombarded with more baseball items, so I closed that box up and took all three chosen boxes up the basement steps to the living room.
I spent the next couple of hours before lunch trying to find places in the house for beautiful old glassware and photos of families that I didn’t know. I liked the old-fashioned retro feel it gave the house. I didn’t know how good I was at placement of items, but I just shifted things until they looked good to me.
For lunch, I put together a quick ham and cheese sandwich along with chips and a beer. I tried to ignore how much I was normally doing with Ian and focused instead on being self-sufficient. It was my life and no one else’s. I needed to convince myself that I could handle it.
* * *
The batting cages were empty except for one that was occupied by two skinny teenage kids. My best guess was the pitching speed was dialed up to about sixty. They missed several, but I also saw them take some pretty solid cuts.
I signed up for an hour in a cage, and I suspected I might want even more time. I had a lot of anger and frustration to work out.
I set the speed to eighty to start, grabbed a blonde wood bat and dug in to hear the crack of that bat hitting a real baseball. I laughed to myself when I missed the occasional pitch. I was rusty. Hitting a ball delivered horizontally at high speed was entirely different from the high, slow arc of a neon green softball.
Complete Game: The League, Book 1 Page 10