Eight
Yesterday
“Baseball ain’t all that different from life,” Ritchie says as he tosses me the ball. He’s all worked up again, a bead of sweat threatening to roll from his upper lip into his mouth. He’s not even throwing hard.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“I said baseball ain’t all that different from life. The pitcher in any game is only as good as his defense. Kinda like a man is only as good as his word. It’s symboliasiam.”
“Symbolism, dummy.”
Ritchie frowns, but he’s determined to make his point. “The pitcher puts the ball over the plate, and sooner or later, the batter’s gonna make contact. From that moment on, the infield or the outfield either makes the pitcher look good or…it don’t.”
Philosopher Ritchie is about to go off on one of his epic, if not pointless, soliloquies. It’s happened before, and the end result is usually pretty disturbing.
“A guy hits a pop-fly, and it’s an easy out,” he continues. “But if there’s no one to catch it, the pitcher looks like a turd ‘cause he let a hit drop. Maybe a run scores. Maybe two. Now his ERA’s for shit. He threw a good ball, and the batter popped it up, but life let him down.”
“That’s pretty profound.”
“Look at it upside down.”
“You mean the other way around?”
“Multiple things can bail your ace out of a bad inning, but if the infield mucks it up, runners score. If the ace jams the guy and your infield has even an inkling of a clue, they turn a double-play. It’s a thing of beauty. You set it up by throwing the perfect pitch, but you still need your guys to turn a six, four, three.”
“I once saw a game where they turned a one, two, one triple play or something like that.” My words just hang on the air. Ritchie stares at me like I have absolutely no conception what baseball is or what it means. “I mean, you know...”
“That’s impossible,” Ritchie argues.
“It was something like that.”
“It was nothing like that.”
“How do you know? Were you there?”
“No, I wasn’t there. Were you there?”
“No.”
“That’s because it’s impossible.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s hotter than hell out here.”
“And you criticize me for my dirty mouth? You’ve been cussing all day.”
“That’s one of them good bad words. God lets those slide.”
“You know this for certain?”
“I know this for certain. My dad taught me.”
“You hate your dad.”
“That don’t make him wrong.”
I smile. “Déjà vu, huh?”
Ritchie frowns. “What?”
“We practically had this same exact conversation just the other day.”
“What conversation?”
I shake my head. “Never mind.” Frustrated, I hurl the ball back as hard as I can. Ritchie catches it like a pro before lowering the ball to his side, his eyes never leaving mine.
“What was that?” he snaps. “What did you just throw me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you just throw heat?”
“No.”
“That was heat.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“You want me to start throwing heat?”
“Not especially.”
Ritchie rears back and hurls the ball my way. I react defensively, scrunching my face, lifting a leg defensively while holding out my glove. The ball strikes dead center, smacking my palm and sending a bolt of lightning through my body.
“You like that?” he calls. “Feel good?”
“That’s it. I’m out. I’m done.”
“It’s time for ice cream anyhow,” Ritchie says.
I shake the pain from my hand while biting my lower lip. I make a slashing sign across my neck. “No can do.”
“Why not?”
“I spent my dough on Kristie,” I say. “I’m waiting for my next paycheck.”
“It’s on me.”
“Do I look like I take charity? Why is everyone offering to buy for me lately?”
Ritchie approaches, that dumb grin on his face, and slaps me on the back. “I am a man with a plan, my man. There’s someone I’d like me to meet.”
“Another girl?”
“No, a dude,” he answers sarcastically.
“I thought you wanted Joanne?”
“I do want Joanne, but Joanne needs to know she has competition. Otherwise, what’s her inception to chase me?”
“Incentive.”
“Huh?”
“The word you’re looking for is ‘incentive.’ God, you’re a moron.”
“I’m also sweating my ass off.”
“You’re always sweating your ass off.”
“I want ice cream.”
“You always want ice cream.”
“And I told you I’m buying.”
I pinch my lips, but say nothing.
“I’m buying,” Ritchie repeats. “Let’s go.”
Part II
We head downtown, all the while tossing the ball back and forth. Underhand, overhand, over the road—over the top of passing cars. It’s a game. I can’t throw like him, but I love baseball the way Ritchie does. We watch the Tigers religiously whenever they’re on local channels. We’ve even made the trek out to Tiger Stadium to catch a double-header. Twice.
Like gangsters, Ritchie and me walk up to the Soft Spot like we own the joint. Ritchie shoves the baseball in his pocket, leans into the service window, takes a toothpick from the dispenser, pinches it between yellow teeth and winks at the girl working the counter. Her name is Rachel Russell. She’s in two of my classes, and she’s a cutie, no question.
“What’s up, sweetheart?” Ritchie asks.
Rachel frowns. “What do you want, Ritchie?”
“A little bit of chocolate, a little bit of vanilla and a little bit of you,” he says with a grin.
“Nice.” She snaps her bubblegum, her eyes unimpressed.
“Come on, everyone loves Ritchie Hudson. We’re in first place ‘cuzza me. We’re in the running for state title.”
“For what, polo?”
He frowns, angrily. “No, not polo. Nobody plays polo. We don’t even have a polo team.”
“She was kidding,” I mumble.
“I don’t like baseball,” Rachel says defiantly.
“Well, there’s your problem.”
“I don’t have a problem.”
I have to admit, she’s scoring major points in my book with the way she is handling my over-ambitious friend. I never realized she was so witty. Freckles aside, she just jumped two notches higher on ‘Tony’s Official Hot List.’ She’s now bordering on I’d-like-to-know-more.
“Yes you do,” Ritchie says. “You’re too uptight. Pinched too tight to get me and my friend here a cold one on the house. How about a little team spirit?”
“My boss is from Lawton. Technically, you’re the enemy.”
Ritchie shakes his head. “Now I’m getting upset. Lawton? Those small-town motherfuckers couldn’t pitch a campaign.”
“Enough,” I interrupt. “You said you’re treating.”
Ritchie bites his tongue, eyes the menu and looks at Rachel. “You’re lucky my friend’s here. He’s the voice of wisdom. He keeps me in line—keeps me calm. It’s pretty hard to make him mad, but once that chain’s rattled, you’d better look out.”
“Ritchie,” I warn.
He frowns. “Two soft-swirls, sweetheart. Chocolate.”
Rachel smiles…at me, and her smile is really quite cute. “$4.77.”
There’s something about ice-cream on a scalding hot afternoon. It’s an early spring, and it’s too late to say no. It’s also one of those moments I’ll remember for the rest of my life. Someday I’ll tell my kids how ‘back in the day’ we used to buy ice cream while tossing around a baseball instead of playing vide
o games. Of course, by then, Main Street will be six lanes wide, and ice cream shops will be a relic of the past. We’ll probably be zipping around on flying scooters and taking college courses on that new thing called the ‘internet’ with virtual instructors who are made up of ones and zeroes instead of flesh and blood.
“You seein’ your girl tonight?” Ritchie asks.
“We saw each other last night.”
“You fuck her yet?”
“Jesus Christ, Ritchie. What kind of question is that?”
His face contorts. “Why you gotta be so vulgar? What did we talk about?”
“I’m being vulgar? What did you just ask me?”
“Did you hear me get all blasphemous?” He pouts, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching the melting ice cream cone. “There’s a difference in the way you say it. I ain’t kiddin’.”
“Tell you what, you watch your mouth, and I’ll watch mine. How’s that?”
“Just don’t piss Him off. That’s all I ask.”
“Then don’t talk shit about my girlfriend. That’s all I ask.” I don’t stand up to him very often, but this time he crossed the line. Truth be told, Kristie and I did do the deed. And I give credit to Joanne, because she knew her sister would never have a moment alone with me so long as Ritchie was hanging around, so she took him aside and gave him his first tutoring lesson. Kristie led me to her room where she quietly shut her door and locked it. I think we were both embarrassed and shy and nervous, because we both knew what was about to happen, yet neither of us really knew how to start things off. I remember wishing I had brought a condom, but I didn’t want to look like a schmuck for expecting something I didn’t have a right to expect.
Kristie kept herself busy by putting a red T-shirt over her lamp to create a mood—albeit a T-shirt-over-a-lamp mood—before putting on some soft music. It was lousy music, but whatever. Then we both sat down. Then we made eye-contact. Then we looked away, because we were embarrassed. And shy. And nervous. I wanted to be ‘the man,’ and I wanted her so bad that my heart pounded a million times a minute, yet at the same time, I wanted the ‘event’ to be like in one those grainy pornos Ritchie’s dad recorded and left laying around. I didn’t know if I could actually maneuver my body into those positions, but I would give it a go while trying to make it look natural. Carefully, I—
“Tony!” Ritchie shouts, dragging me back to reality. “You listenin’ or what?”
I nod, ice-cream running along the cone and over my hand.
“So, what do you think? Should I send her flowers?”
“Who?”
“Joanne.”
“What’s the big deal with Joanne? There are a hundred other girls just as pretty as her dying to get your attention.”
Of course, I already know what the big deal is. Joanne’s the one that doesn’t want him back. She’s allusive and therefore a prize. Then again—
“Because she’s like Kristie,” he mumbles.
This is not the answer I expected.
“You and Kristie have this perfect ‘thing’ goin’ on,” he continues. “That’s what I want.”
“Are you saying you have a crush on my girlfriend?”
“No.” He tosses his ice cream away. “I ain’t sayin’ that at all.”
“You’re saying something that’s bordering on awfully awkward.”
“Forget it. It’s too hot for ice-cream. Damn thing’s melting everywhere.”
“Then what?” I demand.
He looks at me, and it’s the sheepish—almost embarrassed Ritchie who’s eyeing me. “You’re like my big brother,” he says. “I look up to you.”
“You’re older than me.”
“I’m trying to be serious for once.”
“Then be serious.” I have no idea what this has to do with Kristie, but if he starts making moves on my girl, I swear I’ll—
“If we’re dating sisters, then there’s no competition.”
I frown. “What competition?”
“I mean…” He kicks a rock. “You’re better than me…”
“Ritchie,” I try, but I don’t even know what to say. Everybody looks up to Ritchie. He’s the small-town hero. I’m nobody. I’m just an average guy trying to finish out high-school, get my ducks in a row for college and romance my girl. My life’s a disaster due to all those things that make being a teenager so difficult. “Ritchie, there’s no competition. You can date anyone you want, and it’s cool, man.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“I’m…”
“What?”
“I can’t explain it.”
“Well, you’d better try, because I’m starting to freak out.”
He bunches up his face. Kind of like Yoda. “I want the all-American dream. I want you and me to have side-by-side backyards. I want us to have matching three-bedroom ranchers. I want to let my dog out the back door at the same time you let your dog out the back door. We’ll wave even though we won’t have nothin’ to say. Then, on Saturday nights, we’ll have backyard barbecues. One week I’ll barbecue, and you and the missus will bring a dish to pass. The next week we’ll trade off. Your wife will look like mine. Your house will look like mine. Your dog will look like mine. We’ll be brothers. Forever.”
I stand there. “That’s a little weird.”
He frowns. “If you marry Kristie and I marry Joanne, then they’ll wanna be neighbors too. There won’t be no argument. There won’t be no competition. And you won’t go away to college.” Ritchie comes from a messed up family, but he’s always been innocently naïve, oblivious to reality. He’s a brute, just like his dad, but different. “I told you it’s stupid,” he mutters.
I look down at my sticky fingers. “How did the tutoring session go last night?”
He shakes his head. “Fuck prepositions.”
That’s my friend, and that’s his way. He’s right. Life is like baseball. He does it his way. Rules don’t apply, not because he’s defiant, but because he doesn’t understand the politics. He just wants to throw the ball.
“Prepositions aside, how did things go with Joanne?”
Ritchie shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“She’s tutoring you for free. She wouldn’t do that for just anyone.”
“It’s not like it was a date or anything.”
I finish my ice cream and toss the baseball back Ritchie’s way, knowing the best way to change the subject is to distract him. Ritchie holds onto the ball while looking off to his right. He’s staring, straying from the sidewalk as he leans in the direction he’s looking. He’d walk right into traffic if I don’t grab him by the shirt and yank him back.
“What are you looking at?” I ask.
“Is that Mandy?”
“Mandy who?”
“Ferguson.”
“Mandy Ferguson?”
“Yeah, Mandy Ferguson.”
I look across the road and across the vacant Walmart parking lot where a woman is arguing with some guys. To be honest, we’re so far away I can’t really tell, but Ritchie knows his women the way he knows baseball.
“I don’t know,” I say. “What’s it matter? You got a game tonight. Let’s go.”
“She don’t look happy.”
“How can you tell? She’s like an inch big from here.”
“Come on,” Ritchie says, darting across the road.
“Ritchie!”
“Come on!”
Groaning, I follow. Mandy is standing by the boarded up entrance to the old Walmart, and there are three guys crowding her. She’s arguing, and by the looks of things, they’re not happy either. This shouldn’t surprise me. Mandy’s been a problem since grade school. She’s always getting into trouble for something. She’s always getting suspended for things like fighting or smoking or getting caught screwing in the bathroom.
Not that any of that matters to my friend. He likes girls, and he likes fighting. All he needs is a reason. He probably hasn’
t bothered to notice that there’s two of us and three of them. We’re out-numbered, but Ritchie was never very good with math anyway.
Part III
“Gentlemen,” Ritchie says, walking with long strides. “What’s up?” He’s intimidating as hell, and I envy that in him. If I looked that bad ass, I’d probably go looking to pick fights too.
“Yeah, what’s up?” the biggest of the three says as we draw nearer.
They’re seniors. I don’t know them by name, but I recognize all of them. They’re bigger than us. Bigger than me, anyway. Ritchie can probably hold is own, and judging by the way his hands are twitching at his sides, he’s ready to throw down.
“None of this concerns you, Hudson,” another says.
“You’re right, it don’t,” Ritchie answers. “But it concerns my friend.” He thumbs in my direction.
I frown.
Mandy turns to me. We even lock eyes.
“We’re just conducting some business,” the one guy says.
“Stock market’s closed, boys,” Ritchie says.
“Good line,” I murmur, wishing like hell I could pull stuff like that off the way he does. Ritchie can hardly string together a coherent sentence until he wants to fight. Then suddenly he’s Shakespeare. He lowers his head, lifts his eyes until they gleam, his mouth turned downward, fists at his sides. Mandy looks shaken. Some of her eye-shadow is running. She’s been crying.
“Just go,” the big one says. “Before anyone gets hurt.”
“My friend is also offended by your suggestion that he or I might get hurt.” Ritchie says.
“Well, your friend is awfully sensitive.”
“I didn’t actually say anything,” I whisper.
“Mandy?” Ritchie asks. “You okay?”
She nods, looking really small, and she’s looking directly at me.
“So, what’s the problem?” Ritchie asks arrogantly, pacing with wanton energy. “You guys queer for my ass, or are you hanging around here just for the hell of it?”
Payton Hidden Away Page 11