Gods of Wood and Stone

by Mark Di Ionno

  Still nothing.

  Grudeck figured he’d give him a hint.

  “I’ll bet you were a pitcher in high school, huh, trooper?”

  “Sir?”

  “Did you play baseball . . . in high school?”

  “No, sir, lacrosse . . . Mr. Groo-deck. This car is registered to, and insured by, MacIntosh Cadillac. Is that correct, sir?”

  “Yes. I have an endorsement deal with them.”

  Still nothing.

  The kid trooper flashed his light into the car and stopped at the paper bag on the passenger seat.

  “Sir, do you mind telling me what’s in the bag?”

  He thinks I’m drunk, Joe Grudeck thought.

  “Actually, it’s money,” Grudeck said, and held up the brown bag for inspection, ready to explain away the autograph show. “You see, I’m Joe . . .”

  “Stay here,” the trooper said, and walked back to his cruiser. Within minutes, another trooper arrived, same prototype as the first. They both approached, and the second stood in the shadows outside the passenger door, shining a flashlight on Grudeck, and around the cockpit.

  “Step out of the car, please, sir,” the first said. His hand was on his holstered service revolver.

  “Whoa, sport,” Grudeck said, putting up his hands and a weak smile on his face. “Take it easy.”

  His mind raced back to Syracuse, two girls, kneeling on the floor, bent over the bed, not fighting, just still.

  Was this it? Did one come forward after the Hall vote?

  “Keep your hands where I can see them and step out of the car, sir.”

  “Look, there’s some . . . I’m Joe Grudeck . . . the ballpl—”

  “Out of the car, sir. Right now, please. Hands where I can see them.”

  Grudeck wasn’t halfway out when the kid spun him around, not rough, but with authority. The other trooper was there now, and grabbed Grudeck’s right wrist.

  Joe Grudeck flexed up, and protested over his shoulder.

  “Hey, don’t you recognize me . . . I’m Joe Grudeck, the ballplayer. I played for the Red Sox. The Boston Red Sox.”

  “No, sir, I do not. And if I did, it wouldn’t matter . . . Sir, for my safety and yours, I’m going to ask you to put both your hands behind your back.”

  Grudeck yanked his hand free.

  “Fuck this. I’m Joe fucking Grudeck. What is this?”

  “Sir, for my safety and yours . . .” the first trooper yelled, and the second trooper came in with a nightstick under Grudeck’s arm.

  “Motherfucker, put your fucking hands behind your back, now,” he growled. “Or I will spray you. I swear to God, I’ll spray you.”

  “Hey! Hang on!” Grudeck said, still twisting away, but the nightstick was pinned hard against his back, pulling his arm up at an unnatural angle. “Okay, take it easy.”

  “Don’t tell me take it easy,” the second trooper said. “Put your fucking hands behind your back!”

  Grudeck tried to pull free, but the old strength that let him do what he wanted, when he wanted, had diminished.

  “You know, if this was twenty years ago . . .” Grudeck started.

  “This ain’t twenty years ago,” the trooper said.

  Grudeck relaxed, beaten, and they cuffed him and led him to sit on a guardrail.

  “Sir, I’m going to ask your permission to search your car,” the first one said. “If you refuse, and you have that right, I will have it towed and impounded, until a judge can execute a warrant for me to search it, do you understand?”

  “Search warrant! For what? What is this?”

  “Fuck him. Arrest him for resisting . . .” the second one said.

  “For probable cause,” the first one said.

  “What the hell is going on?” Grudeck asked. He was embarrassed how afraid he sounded, but he was. Vulnerable. And overpowered. He thought of the two girls, his hands on their backs, the blonde’s striped, little girl panties.

  “Sir, we’re going to only ask you this once,” the second one said. “Are there any drugs or weapons in this car?”

  Grudeck then got it.

  “Drugs! Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m Joe Grudeck, for Christ sakes, the ballplayer. Joe Grudeck. Call your fathers and ask them who the hell I am if you don’t know. Deal drugs? I made that money signing autographs . . .” God, he sounded hysterical.

  “Calm down, sir,” the first one said. “We’re going to ask you one more time, in accordance with law. After that, I call a tow truck.”

  “Search the goddamn thing, I don’t give a shit,” he said, relieved it wasn’t about Syracuse.

  They popped the trunk lid and engine hood and bent deep into both with flashlights. Grudeck’s golf clubs were taken out, the bag emptied and shaken. The first trooper got on his hands and knees, and shined the light up into the wheel wells and around the undercarriage. The other trooper then went through the cockpit, emptied the glove compartment and the console bins, and raked under the seats.

  Another cruiser pulled up, and two sergeants emerged, older and thicker, but cut from the same cloth. The first trooper showed them the evidence—the bag of money—and Joe Grudeck’s license, registration, and insurance card. He did most of the talking, often signaling back to the Cadillac with his flashlight.

  After a few minutes, one of the sergeants came to the guardrail where Grudeck sat.

  “Mr. Grudeck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Joe Grudeck?”

  “The same.”

  The light in his face turned out to be one of merciful recognition.

  “Okay, then, let’s get you on up and outta here.”

  The cuffs came off and the apologies started.

  “I’m sorry for my young colleagues’, ummm, exuberance, but we get a lot of drug and weapons mules here on Route 78, going from Newark to Easton. You know, the luxury car, lotsa cash, the speed, you kinda fit some of the profiles.”

  “I’m a middle-aged white guy, for fuck’s sake!” Grudeck said.

  “You’d be surprised,” the sergeant said. “The young man here was just doing his job.”

  “No apologies necessary,” Grudeck said, cooler, but with an edge that suggested they damn sure were. “It was my fault . . . I was the one speeding, that’s for sure.”

  “Okay, well, we’ll let that one slide now, for your trouble. But try to keep it double digits . . . the trooper clocked you at one-twenty-two. No doubt you can handle that . . . it’s the other idiots on the road we worry about.”

  The sergeant fished in his pocket for his own summons book and produced a pen. “Hey, while we’re here, can you sign this for my son?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Meet Joe Grudeck Night was held on the last Saturday in April. Spring had arrived only on the calendar. Winter’s damp hangover stuck in Grudeck’s joints and knuckles, making them scrape like rust on rust. He wished the golf course were green and firm; instead, the trees were still barren against battleship-gray skies, and the fairways spongy enough to leave footprints. The only warmth Grudeck felt was from inflammation.

  Grudeck parked in back, in the darkest part of the lot, and hoisted himself out. He was stiff and shook his legs out, not wanting anyone to see him limp.

  The steps of the parish hall were lit, and Grudeck saw people hurrying in. He watched for a few minutes, hidden off. Each time the door would open, the noise from the party inside would drift out; laughter, loud voices, the sounds of a reunion. He had played before thousands in the stands and millions on TV without an ounce of self-consciousness, but now he was nervous. He was home. He began flexing his fingers and palms, a warm-up stretch for the handshake and signing that awaited him. It would be one of those four-Advil nights.

  He started out across the blacktop, cracked and pocked in places, and felt the loose stones roll under his steps. He played basketball in this yard and kickball and four-square, and touch football and baseball, and it probably hadn’t been repaved since. In the dark, he could b
arely see the faded white lines. He climbed the steps of the parish hall—a very plain stucco building where the children’s Sunday Masses were held—and entered into the light.

  Grudeck, through the ages, was everywhere. The walls were decorated with giant-sized pictures, Grudeck larger than life, playing in high school and the bigs. Grudeck and McCombs. The Series homer. Tipping his hat on Farewell Joe Grudeck Night. On either side of the crucifix over the stage/Sunday altar were Topps cards blown up as posters; Grudeck’s rookie year, and one from down the line.

  One wall was just from high school. Grudeck, returning state wrestling champ, arms raised over the whalelike mound of the black kid he pinned in the final. Grudeck slamming helmet-to-helmet with two linebackers at the goal line to win the state title game against Elizabeth. Grudeck trotting bases after one of two homers to beat Summit in the county final. Grudeck, always in the center, always the winner.

  In all, there were a dozen such photos, hanging on every wall. Grudeck took it all in with his catcher’s eyes before anybody noticed him. Good thing, because he couldn’t have hidden his embarrassment at the excess.

  For what it cost, they could have built the goddamn gym without his help, he thought. What a waste. They built a shrine. And for what? To create an atmosphere? They could have done with just one on each wall. Why go over the top? To impress him, their kid from Union? Did these people, his hometown people, forget who he really was? Them, too?

  All that, and besides, it just illuminated the fact that he was no longer the kid or guy on the walls. He was older now. Creaky and gasping, feeling vulnerable, not immortal.

  He stood at the door, unnoticed, for only a few heartbeats before . . .

  “It’s Joey!” came a shout from the crowd, the voice of an older woman.

  “Joe’s here!” came another, almost simultaneously, from a man. The gym lights were dimmed, and a brilliant white illuminated square from a computer projector went up on a wall.

  The SportsCenter video from the day he got inducted began to play. Twenty years in the bigs, forty-six years on earth, his life, his persona edited down to a ninety-second segment of highlights and stats, narrated by one of the actor-anchors, dripping sentiment about how Joe Grew was one of the good guys, and one of the last of the lunch-bucket ballplayers, blah, blah, blah.

  Joe Grew will be remembered not for his heroics or home runs but for how he played the game. With hard-knuckled heart. With body-racking passion. Joe Grew is a Hall of Famer now, a player for the ages, because, in baseball, love of the game never goes out of style.

  The screen went dark, the lights came up, and the crowd broke out in applause. Showtime. All the years of meeting fans, all those interruptions in hotel lobbies and restaurants, in meet-and-greet memorabilia shows and charity dinners, Grudeck always put on a good face. Forced, but good. Maybe transparently phony, but the fans never seemed to notice, or maybe they just didn’t want to believe it. That Joe Grrreww, what a good guy. But here, back in Union, he suddenly felt at home.

  Crazy thing, though. No one approached him. Instead, they backed up slightly, as if to give him more room on center stage. All those years, all those strangers came right at him, but here at home . . .

  Grudeck forced a smile, but his self-consciousness was expanding to fill the space. With his face getting hot, he made one big wave, and then walked into the crowd to stop the clapping. He felt moistness in his armpits and on his shirt collar, and hoped his palms weren’t sweaty as he shook hands with old classmates and teachers and coaches and neighbors and his father’s friends from Jenn-Air and mother’s friends from St. Joe’s.

  There were smiles all around, but he saw something in their eyes . . . a nervous glance, a cloud of . . . what was it? Disappointment? Concern? He was forever young in the pictures and the video, but now, as they saw him with their own two eyes . . .

  The crowd did not envelop him; he moved into them, and shook hand after hand, and offered his cheek to the women, some of whom grabbed his head with both hands to pull him down to their level. Some faces he knew. Others he recognized, but the attached names were long forgotten.

  His mother came forward and grabbed his arm and led him to the Rosary Society ladies. He kissed their papery cheeks, which smelled of lavender powder.

  He leaned down to say hello to shy children who were shoved toward him, finally brought to meet the man they’d heard about all their lives, Joe Grudeck, the living proof of all that was possible for someone from Union who worked hard and kept their nose clean. He moved forward, sweating his balls off in his charcoal cashmere pullover and black wool sports coat. These were his people. But still, he felt a distance. Something was not right. What was it? Him? Or them?

  Were they puzzled by his open affection? Did they expect arrogance? As he opened himself up—no, threw himself into them—did they think his warmth was all show? Were they, too, blinded by his fame, even though they knew him before he attained it?

  Or was it the opposite? Did they feel sorry for him, because, in truth, he was not who they remembered? He was middle-aged, losing breadth of shoulder and roll in his walk. He was no longer Chuck Grudeck’s kid, the eternal boy of summer. He was now a sideline-sitter, just like them. In his smile and willingness to embrace, did they detect weakness, a need to be loved and not forgotten? Did they feel embarrassed for him?

  Or was it simply that he had been gone so long, he was no longer theirs?

  * * *

  GRUDECK EXCUSED HIMSELF, chased by these swirling thoughts, and went to the men’s room. It was unchanged since he was a boy. Old-fashioned Standard porcelain urinals that went right to the floor, gray-and-white-checked tile floor. Black tin partitions between the crappers, but no doors. Everything the same, just more dull and filmy. He cupped his hands under the cold water and splashed some on his face, then downed the first two Advil of the night.

  * * *

  IN HIS FIRST FEW YEARS in the bigs, when he returned to Union in the off-season, Grudeck walked among them and there was novelty in his new fame. He went to stores with his mother, to high school wrestling matches, and out to dinner and bars with his friends, on him. Everyone was always happy to see him . . . snapshots were taken, drinks were bought. But the routine soon got old—for him and the people of Union. The small talk that revolved around his career became stilted, he felt big and clumsy and conspicuous in the bleachers at the high school gym. He began to stay in more when he came home, spending his days eating his mother’s cooking and resting his body.

  Winter hung around like a feral cat, and as the gray, damp days dragged on, Grudeck couldn’t wait to leave Jersey and drive south. Midway through the trip, somewhere in the Carolinas, he could turn off the car heat. Next he’d put the windows down, letting the lush, musky air of the Georgia countryside rush over him. By Florida, the air was sunshine-hot, and it blew through the car, blasting the chill of winter from Grudeck’s bones.

  He loved that drive: the twenty-four hours to Daytona. It was a test of his focus and endurance, and the durability of whatever machine he drove, from the Pontiac Grand Prix he bought after his second-year contract, to the high-end BMWs he owned when he was a star, to the final years in MacIntosh Cadillacs. And for those twenty-four hours, he never felt more free. Alone. Out of reach. Phone off. Best of all, anonymous.

  All those bleary-eyed overnight gas station attendants on interstate access roads in Harleyville, Virginia, and Alcolu, South Carolina, and Intercession City, Florida, never recognized him. In all those years, only one guy, an old chaw-spitter in janitor green, said to him, “Ain’t you a ballplaya?”

  “No, a salesman,” said Grudeck, out of the car only to piss, stretch his legs, and buy a Coke. “But some people tell me I look like one.”

  “Sho’ do. Big dude like you. Like, wha-sizz-name? Dat big catcha boy. From Boston.”

  “Don’t know,” Grudeck said. “Don’t follow sports much.”

  * * *

  WHILE HE WENT ON WITH his career, his frien
ds went on with their lives. Those who went to college were around town less and less. Those who stayed in Union and worked locally started growing up. They got married (Grudeck would be invited, but could never make it). They had kids. They had budgets. More and more, the things in their lives were things Grudeck could not relate to. And Grudeck’s life, to them, was pure fantasy—glory and money, women galore. Their friendships became good-old-days memories, and Grudeck became the guy on TV, or in the newspaper: someone everybody once knew, but nobody knew anymore. As Grudeck became more famous, winter in Union became his chance to hide. The constant assault of strangers during the season left him drained, so he withdrew from his friends just to recover.

  So now, back in this crowd of familiar faces, Grudeck made the first moves. He stepped up to Eddie Spallone, a guy Grudeck had known since kindergarten, a childhood best friend. Grudeck grabbed him and pulled him in for a hug.

  “Eddie, hey, Jesus Christ . . . how you been?” Grudeck asked, slapping his back.

  “Not as good as you!” he said.

  “Don’t believe it!” Grudeck said. “You look great, better’n me.”

  That was the truth. Spallone still looked boyish, a young man in a mid-forties body. Quick smile, teeth white, wavy hair, black and intact. Why did Grudeck feel so old?

  “How’s . . . ahh . . . ?”

  “Maureen.”

  “Right. Maureen.”

  “We got divorced five years ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. Best thing for everybody. Nothing was ever enough. Turned into a Class A, like her mother.”

  Grudeck wanted to hear more, especially about Maureen—what was her last name? Walsh?—and wondered if she ever told Spallone about those couple of times in the backseat of his father’s Malibu. But he was grabbed by the elbow. It was Anthony Morello, the guard on Grudeck’s football teams.

  “I’m divorced, too,” he said to Grudeck and Spallone. “I wanted to bring my boys tonight, but she wouldn’t let me. Not my weekend. I said, ‘There’s fifty-two fuckin’ weekends a year . . . how many times they get to meet Joe Grudeck?’ You know what she says? ‘You’re always bragging what great friends you used to be . . . have them meet Joe Grudeck on a weekend that’s not my weekend.’ That’s the shit I put up with.”