Payton Hidden Away

by Jonathan Korbecki

  I sneak out through the window and drop to the ground. Mom knows I do it, and I know she knows it. I could have gone out the front door, but our silent understanding seems to work better. She has plausible deniability, and we don’t fight. If anyone asks, as far as she knows, I’m in my room. Right now she’s sitting in the living room and shaking her head. Later she’ll close the window in case it rains, but after it gets dark, she’ll re-open it a crack so I can sneak back in. I promise to be careful, and she promises not to worry. It’s worked this ways for years, and now that I’m going, I worry about her and what she’ll do once I’m gone.

  “Bye, Mom,” I whisper while watching her watch TV through the big picture window where all I can see is the back of her head and her frizzy gray hair. The house is lit up, bright and warm on the inside. It’s growing chilly out here, and the sun is orange instead of yellow. Daylight will be replaced with night in under an hour, and I’m already late, so I cast one last look toward home before turning and breaking in a jog toward the ballpark.

  I’m sweating again by the time I get there, the game is already underway, and the crowd is already cheering, which means Ritchie is already pitching. As usual, the stands are packed. It’s funny, but volleyball, lacrosse and track fail to garner much attention from the locals. They can barely get fifty people to show up on game day. Even Pirate football games sometimes fail to sellout. Pirate Baseball is the big ticket, though it’s only when Ritchie’s on the mound that the whole town shows up. The bleachers overflow, and the grounds around the park are standing-room only. The feeling is electric. It’s like being at a professional ballpark. The loudspeakers blare every time he takes the mound, the fans leaping to their feet and clapping and singing along to Welcome to the Jungle by Guns ‘n Roses.

  I weave my way through the crowd to the stands, the music and the screaming fans deafening around me. It isn’t so much Pirate baseball as it’s Ritchie Hudson. Makes me wonder why he’s as neurotic off the mound as he is. He should be looking at big-time schools that offer baseball programs. He should be laying pipe with every girl in town. Instead, he follows me around like a lost puppy, his head in the clouds over Joanne as if she’s the only answer to his every question.

  I climb the bleachers to the fourth row, fourth seat. It’s the only empty seat in the house, and it’s been reserved just for me. ‘AAA’ has been etched into the aluminum for nearly three years now. 44 is Ritchie’s lucky number. He was born on February 13th, which is the 44th day of the year. We were both eight years old when we met, and since there’s two of us, eight divided by two is four, and two 4s equal 44. He also wears #44 on the back of his jersey. He didn’t even pick the number. It was just given to him, and since he touts fate as the will of God, he’s convinced everything happens for a reason. Therefore, he decided the fourth row, fourth seat should be mine. Sort of a good luck charm. Baseball pitchers are, by nature, a bit superstitious, but Ritchie is different. He’s an oddball among oddballs, but nobody argues with Ritchie Hudson, and nobody makes fun. If he thinks I bring good luck by sitting in the same seat every time he throws, then who’s to say otherwise?

  “Where were you?” a man asks as I take my seat and begin clapping in tune with the crowd.

  “What?” I shout over the noise.

  “You’re late,” he shouts.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Hudson gave up four runs in the first inning because you weren’t here,” the man shouts back. “Next time, have some respect.”

  I look over at the scoreboard and sure enough, the Sailors have a 4-0 lead. I turn back to the field where Ritchie is staring directly at me, that stupid grin of his plastered all over his dumb face. I shrug and point at the scoreboard before shrugging. He just flips me off, which pisses off the ump, and Ritchie gets a warning.

  The crowd goes nuts.

  Focus! I mouth over the music, but Ritchie just keeps grinning like a moron.

  The music settles down, but the crowd remains standing as Ritchie goes to work.

  “Steeeeeeeeeerike!” the ump shouts, and the energy returns, the crowd going bonkers. Suddenly I know—I just know—that even though we’re losing, we’ll find a way to come back. This game is well in hand.

  Part II

  Top of the seventh. The good guys are up 5-4. Ritchie has pitched six full innings, and he’s gassed, but the skipper sends him out anyway. They should have tapped the bullpen long ago, but since we can’t hit for shit, Coach Dunham apparently feels our best bet is to keep our starter on the mound to protect the one run lead. It’s a crucial game. Everyone in the ballpark is well aware of just how crucial it is, and everyone knows that even at his worst, Ritchie is better than any alternative Dunham has in his hip pocket. But Ritchie looks exhausted. His pit-stains have engulfed his entire jersey at this point, turning the entire thing a shade darker. He’s lumbering his way out to the mound, cracking his neck and stretching his shoulders by rotating his arms in a circular motion. The crowd is uneasy, murmuring while wondering aloud.

  Then Ritchie pulls a Ritchie.

  He turns to us and yells something I can’t quite make out from here but looks something like “make some fuckin’ noise!”

  The crowd rises to its feet. I rise with them, and suddenly we’re all clapping and cheering like crazed animals, praying for a miracle as he tips his hat before going into his routine. Ritchie gave up four runs on six hits in the one inning I wasn’t here. Since then, he’s given up goose eggs while fanning twelve and walking only one. This is high school ball. Twelve strikeouts over five innings doesn’t just happen by accident.

  As Ritchie goes into his warm-up for the seventh and final inning, the music is louder, the crowd louder, the night louder than I’ve ever heard it before. The stands are actually shaking. I feel a weird sense of anxiety gripping my insides, but I also can’t help but marvel at what my friend has accomplished. He’s a dud in the classroom. He can’t even pass remedial math, but out on the mound he’s a god. People are clapping, stomping, graffiti spilling out on the field, the crowd singing along to the music. It’s like we just won the Super Bowl, but we haven’t even won this meaningless regular-season game.

  Yet.

  Even from where I’m standing, I can tell Ritchie is gassed. His uniform is soaked, un-tucked and hanging limply over his gut, his eyes bloodshot with fatigue. He’s exhaling in wide O’s, and he’s stretching to buy time. But I also know him well enough to know that this is what he lives for. He’d rather die than let the bullpen take over. He’ll throw his back out before he throws in the towel, and as the first batter settles into the box, I wonder if Ritchie’s streak will finally break.

  Ritchie goes into the wind and hurls.

  Thump.

  Swing.

  “Steeeeeeeeeerike!”

  The crowd erupts in chorus, and Ritchie waits for the ball to come back. Catching it on the fly, he turns his back the way he always does, his head lowered. He murmurs to himself, his lips moving ever so slightly as he stares at the ground. Returning to face the plate, he’s ready and deals up another swing and a miss. His fastball still looks untouchable. Another windup, another pitch.

  “Steeeeeeeeeerike!”

  The crowd explodes as the batter tosses his bat in disgust. Ritchie just turns his back, head lowered while his big hand massages the ball. Some kids are lighting sparklers from the bleachers across the way, and they’re waving them around. This prompts a reaction from everyone else who owns a lighter, because suddenly there are hundreds, if not thousands, of tiny flames springing up.

  Two outs away.

  The next batter takes his place at home-plate.

  People are shouting themselves hoarse, stomping their feet. I’ve never heard it this loud before. Ever. The crowd doesn’t bother to quiet down even as Ritchie turns back to home plate, reads the signs and settles into his windup. A foul, a ball and a strike later, and the crowd is chanting, clapping, stomping. The world around me is vibrating and shaking. People are wavi
ng flags, T-shirts, sparklers, lighters all the while pumping fists and clapping, rolling in waves, the stadium packed. The streets are empty, the homes empty, the stores and shops closed. Payton is closed—shut down. Everyone’s here. Everyone.

  “Steeeeeeeeeerike!”

  The crowd goes nuts, frantic and falling over one another. Two outs.

  “Ritchie! Ritchie! Ritchie!” the crowd chants.

  One more.

  For his part, Ritchie looks focused. He’s throwing angry, ignoring the calls being sent in. The game is at home plate. Forget the outfielders, and forget the score. This is between him and the last batter. He’s 122 pitches in. He’s exhausted, sweating, angry. One hanging slider and we’re tied. One well-read fastball, and it’s a brand-new game. One slip-up and every fan will go silent. Butts will hit the seats.

  But that’s only if…

  Fourteen strikeouts. Fourteen out of the last eighteen batters have gone down on strikes. That’s unheard of.

  Ritchie’s back is to home plate and he’s massaging the ball while the batter takes a few warm-up swings. Ritchie turns around, the crowd roars, rising to its feet. We all stand at once, and I can hardly see over the raving wall of raised fists in front of me. Looking around the stadium, I can’t help but smile. Everyone is here for him and everyone is here for this moment. We’re one out away from an unbelievable come from behind victory—the kind of thing people will recount long after the season ends.

  Ritchie rears back and hurls a fastball.

  “Steeeeeeeeeerike!”

  The crowd is electric. Two more strikes. That’s all he needs.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump. Shoes, flip-flops and boots stomp the stands, hands clapping, people shouting and shrieking. Ritchie stretches a bit, and I smile, wondering if it’s for show—even if just a little bit.

  Ritchie faces home plate, spits, adjusts his cap and goes into his wind. He throws a curveball that causes the batter to chase it into the dirt, and the crowd roars with enthusiasm.

  Two strikes.

  One more. One more and this place is going to implode.

  The feeling around me—pumping and vibrating—is surreal. So much energy, so many hopes and so much fear. One bad pitch and this crowd will panic. Never mind the four runs he gave up in the first inning. And never mind the fourteen strikeouts since. It comes down to this. The guy on the loudspeaker is trying to call the game, but you can barely hear him.

  Ritchie faces the batter, goes into his wind and rears back. Flashbulbs go off, the sounds around me deafening, and the ball leaves Ritchie’s hand. His fastball has been good all night, but this is something else. He found every last ounce of energy, and the ball is in the catcher’s glove before either the batter or the umpire have an opportunity to react.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper in awe.

  Around me, the crowd boils over as the umpire calls the final strike. Ritchie just stands there, his arms spread—palms up, a big Ritchie grin is on his face. He suddenly tosses his mitt high in the air. His teammates are rushing the field along with the fans, while I stand rooted. All I can do is shake my head, inspired by my friend’s performance. This wasn’t just a game. This was a monumental moment in the history of Payton County.

  Fireworks explode overhead, lighting the sky. Ritchie is hoisted up on the shoulders of his teammates. He looks my way and tips his hat the way he does when we win. But he looks different. This time he looks like an angel. All that talk of incompetence, all those fears of inadequacy, all that concern of being fat and ugly—it’s all forgotten. Out there it’s just Ritchie, a big oaf. My best friend.

  I’m still clapping, still whooping, still pumping my fist as I stand to leave—fourth row, fourth seat—and make my way toward the stadium exit. The crowd around me is nuts, the world around me all about Ritchie. We’re here for him.

  But it’s different. He’s different. He’s smiling, but he’s not happy. He’s empty, and even though this evening is supposed to be about him, it’s not. This night is all about her. He’s acting excited while she’s nowhere to be seen. And it’s not like he doesn’t notice.

  I clap anyway.

  Part III

  The crowd has spilled onto the field, and it’s still so loud that I have to shout. I yell my lungs hoarse, but Ritchie just shakes his head, hands out like he can’t hear me. “What?”

  “I gotta go!” I shout again.

  Suddenly, the smile slips from his face. “What do you mean you gotta go? There’s nowhere to go. This is our night!”

  “It’s your night, buddy!”

  “You gotta stay!”

  “Go with your team,” I say with a reassuring smile, the crowd pushing me back. “I need to be somewhere.”

  “But…you’re my best friend.”

  “Brothers in arms, amigo.”

  I keep getting pushed further and further back, like a boat pulled from the shore. People are crowding him, spraying him with celebratory soda. His uniform is ruined, but he’s not thinking about his uniform. He’s staring directly at me.

  “Fine,” he mouths, looking suddenly lost and ignoring the girls grabbing at his shirt. “Fuck you.”

  I frown.

  He waves me off before turning away and allowing the crowd to carry him away.

  “If I don’t see you tomorrow, I’ll see you on Saturday!” I shout over the crowd. “At Greg’s party!”

  He’s not looking anymore. The fans are mobbing him, the mob pushing me back—squeezing me out. I’m suddenly on the outside looking in. Ritchie is drifting away. It’s quieter now, but maybe it’s because I’m watching instead of participating.

  I turn away.

  Nobody’s trying to leave the ballpark yet except for the few visitors’ fans who made the trip in from Muskegon, so it’s not hard to get out of the stadium. I walk through the quiet town. Most of the houses are dark, and I imagine almost everyone is still at Pirate Field with the exception of the older folks who have drawn their shades to block out the world.

  Eventually the houses thin. Then the paved road gives way to dirt. Then the dirt road gives way to weeds, and I’m all alone in a vast field. I reach Beaver Crossing, tightrope my way across, and finagle my way through the tall grass leading into Lawton. I knock on the Kristie’s front door, shifting uneasily as I wait. Mrs. Lambert opens the door and steps back, her nose wrinkling. “You stink.”

  “It’s not me,” I say nervously.

  “Oh?”

  “I mean it is me, but it wasn’t me. There was a game tonight. Ritchie pitched. I was there, and it was…they were…the fans got rowdy.”

  “You smell like beer.”

  I smell my shirt. “I thought it was Pepsi…”

  “Hmmm,” she answers. “It’s also late.”

  I frown and look at my watch. I have to lean forward into the light in order to see. “It’s only…”

  “She’s messing with you,” Kristie calls, approaching from the stairs, grinning.

  Mrs. Lambert frowns. “What happened to your face, Anthony?”

  “Oh, my god,” Kristie says, the smile vanishing. “What happened to your face?”

  Apparently, they’ve noticed my face.

  “It doesn’t look as bad as it feels,” I say before frowning. “Or, the other way around, I mean.”

  “I got it, Mom,” Kristie says.

  Mrs. Lambert smiles at her daughter before scowling at me, and suddenly it’s a long lost episode of Leave it to Beaver. Small town principles combine forces with protective parental boundaries to form Super Mom and her scowl of death.

  “What happened?” Kristie asks, pulling the door shut as she steps out onto the porch, her soft fingers exploring the bumps on my face. “Did you get in a fight?”

  “Yeah, but it was for a good cause. There were these three guys picking on a girl.”

  “A girl?”

  “Yeah, but we weren’t—”

  “Which girl? Is she pretty?”

  “Huh?”

 
“Is she pretty?”

  “No, I mean…me and Ritchie were—”

  “You and Ritchie?” She sighs and backs up. “Well, that figures.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you don’t get into fights,” she storms. “Only when your good buddy Ritchie tells you to.”

  “Ritchie’s my friend,” I answer.

  “I know he’s your friend.”

  I turn my back. “It was Mandy Ferguson. They were—”

  “Mandy Ferguson? Jesus, Tony, she’s nuts.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Then how was it like?”

  “It was Ritchie who stepped in. I had to take his back. I had to. It’s not like I wanted to fight, but sometimes you do things you don’t want to do if it’s for a friend. You just do it.”

  She stares at me. She doesn’t shout or yell or bawl, kind of like I half-expect her to. We’ve apparently reached that point in our relationship where we can accurately judge tone and inflection. Either that or we can’t yet we pretend that we can.

  “So, what happened to Mandy?” she asks, yet her voice has changed. Her tone is softer.

  “She ran off,” I answer. “Somewhere in the middle of it.”

  “It?”

  “It was a fight. Guys fight.”

  “Over girls.”

  “I told you, it wasn’t like that.”

  “I really wish you’d stop hanging out with him.”

  “He’s my best friend.”

  “I’m your best friend!” she shouts. “Have you fucked him?”

  “That’s a ridiculous question. You know what I mean.”

  “Do I? Then are you just fucking me for sport?”

  “Do you have to use that word? It’s not like that. Mandy was—”

  “I’m not talking about Mandy. We’re past Mandy. We’re on to Ritchie, and Ritchie scares me. I don’t like the way he looks at me, and I don’t like the way he looks at my sister. Come to think of it, I don’t even like the way he looks at you.”

  I shake my head. “Ritchie’s a big teddy bear. You’ve said it yourself. And he adores you and Joanne. He’d lie down in traffic for the both of you.”