“So, anyhow, I got my ball clippers out of my drawer and propped my little lady up on the bathroom counter and went to work. Unfortunately, on the first pass, the clippers snagged on her hair because it was so thick, and it yanked her bush a little, so she just kicked as a reflex. Her shin got me right on the cheekbone, and it knocked the clippers up right above my forehead and shaved a nice stripe. Took a little skin too.”
Russ cocked his head, not really wanting to grasp or visualize what he’d just been told. A string of slobber hung from his bottom lip.
“So that’s it?” Tommy asked. “You didn’t get to hit it?”
“No, man, that’s what’s so awesome!” Steve said. “She was still so turned on, we just went at it! We—”
“Wait,” Russ interrupted. “Are you fucking serious? That’s like dirty Kentucky Internet shit there, man. You’re telling me that I’m supposed to think a big-nosed chick with huge calves and half a bush getting it on with a skinny little dude with a blood-soaked stripe shaved out of the front of his head is awesome? Jesus. I’m fucking totally traumatized now.”
“At least you can stand up straight, man,” Tommy said. “If I try to stand up straight, I’ll need a skin graft.”
“Jesus, man, how much tape did that take?” Russ inquired. “I mean, you’re black, so I’m assuming you have tape all the way down to your knee.”
“Yup, no doubt. We can dance and shoot hoops, and our peckers look like elephant trunks. Some stereotypes are very real, my man. It took two full rolls of tape. By the way, I saw your pecker today at the golf course when you drove there naked. I can assure you I could’ve handled that with a Band-Aid.”
“Yeah, well, I never claimed I’d hit the bottom of it,” Russ smirked, then hocked a loogie. “But I’ll knock the shit outta the sides.”
The conversation was abruptly interrupted as the moms and dads who had been accustomed to kissing the previous coaches’ asses, ensuring their children received primo positions on the team, came barreling over to greet the four baseball dads.
“God bless you men for stepping in during this time of need,” one of the large-haired, insincere, fundamentalist, social-climbing moms said. “Would you like to join hands for a moment of prayer before we enter this new chapter with our baseball team?”
“No, not really,” Russ replied.
“That’s a no-go for me too, ma’am,” Steve said with confidence.
“I’m pretty sure God doesn’t care about baseball,” Dwayne responded.
“Well, I just—” the lady was unsure how to continue.
“I’ll say a little prayer for the boys tonight, ma’am,” Tommy offered politely, so as not to jeopardize a future Botox opportunity.
Dwayne was ready to begin and asked the parents to take a seat on the bleachers. He’d made an honest effort to look the part of a baseball coach. He sported a light gray pair of bad “coach shorts” that were so skimpy his balls nearly dangled out of them and carried a very official looking clipboard. He kept the black Wayfarers on at all times to mask how high he was. Good coaches, he convinced himself, were always high.
Once the parents were seated, Dwayne, with the Jedi Alliance supporting him, addressed the crowd.
“Hello, parents. Most of you are at least lightly acquainted with my assistants and myself. For those of you who are not, I’m Dwayne Devero. Behind me are Russ Paisley, Tommy Johnson, and Steve Winwood—no relation. I just wanted to sit you folks down for a moment and let you know a few things about the way we coach.
“You see, there are two main types of coaching in children’s baseball: There’s ‘playing to win,’ and then there’s ‘daddy baseball.’ Playing to win is just the way it sounds. You put players in positions and batting lineup slots according to their level of talent in a way that is most likely to advance the team toward winning baseball games. Daddy baseball, on the other hand, takes talent completely out of the equation. Daddy baseball is typically comprised of a group of ass-kissing parents who tickle the metaphorical ball sack of a head coach in order to ensure that their dipshit, talentless child plays a position far outside his respective wheelhouse. As most of you might have noticed from our horrific record this season, we’ve not been playing to win. We’ve been playing daddy baseball. And now, with the four of us coaching, we’re simply not doing that anymore. I’m sure this news paints an awkward picture for most of you, seeing how I laid out this story and knowing what your role in it has been.”
Dwayne scanned the crowd to see if the parents were smelling what he was cooking. Judging by the number of mouths hanging wide open, he knew they were.
Dwayne continued. “I know that this angers some of you. Lots of people don’t like being told things that are true. And that’s okay. I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that I don’t give a shit. I know that sounds harsh, but on some level, isn’t it refreshing? You may come to appreciate my candor. I hope you do. I’m like Obi Wan and Neo, and I can give you multiple orgasms. I know that may not make sense right now, but that’s how I roll. I’m taking over. The other guys … the old coaches … aren’t here anymore.”
“News flash: they’re dead,” Russ interrupted with a jolt. “Sorry, boss. Please continue.”
“Thanks, Russ.” Dwayne kept going. “That’s right. They’re dead. Or missing. Or whatever. They’re not here, and I am. And I’m playing to win. We’re going to be in the championship game, come hell or high water, because that’s how I motherfucking roll up in this bitch. Oh, and one last thing. Some coaches love getting input from parents about who should play where, batting order, game strategy, and so on. And that’s great. I’m just not one of those coaches. If you feel like you have some good insight on what might help us win, or if you think you might have a helpful suggestion, I want you to do me a favor, okay? I want you to make a fist, clinch it up really tightly, and then punch yourself in the face as hard as you can. Then, I want you to take that same fist and stick it up your ass. If you still feel like offering suggestions or advice after that, then you either didn’t punch yourself in the face hard enough, or you didn’t stick your fist far enough up your ass. Any questions?”
The parents looked at each other in dismay. No one spoke.
“Cool,” he said. “We’ll see you back here at 7 p.m. I’ve got a team to coach. Take care.” Dwayne turned and marched toward the field with his clipboard in hand. The other three coaches scurried behind him. The crowd in the bleachers slowly dissipated after a few moments, as the parents made their way to their vehicles and left in almost PTSD-like shock.
Dwayne had the boys form two lines, facing each other, so that they could get warmed up throwing the ball back and forth.
“I think that went well,” Dwayne said to the other coaches confidently, while staring intently at the warm-up exercise. “I expect you all to be dressed like coaches at every game and practice from this point forward, by the way. No one will take you seriously without small shorts and a clipboard. Fucking step up your game, men.”
30.
The practice began to take shape after a half-hour or so. Dwayne and the baseball dads started to notice what Dwayne had suspected all along: some of these kids weren’t half bad. They just needed to play positions according to their talents and be given a bit of direction. The two worst kids on the team ended up being the spawn of the deceased, Ace Dale and Eric Rearden. Still, Dwayne thought there might be hope for the team.
Dwayne noticed that T-Bone Sprinkle, the head coach of the team Dwayne’s team would play next, had come to do some not-so-secret scouting.
T-Bone was a short, bald, goateed, burly little animal of a man. He owned a prominent commercial real estate investment agency, and was an obnoxious asshole, through and through. He had a reputation for arguing with every umpire and every coach on damn near every play, and he verbally abused every child on his team.
But T-Bone Sprinkle won. A lot. Every season, he would finish in a top spot. The Yankees, his team this season, had w
on all but two games. After those two losses, he made every player on his team run bases until they vomited, and then he went home, got drunk, and beat his son and his wife. His team won because of one simple factor. Fear.
“Oh, man, you dipshits sure have your work cut out for you, huh?” T-Bone yelled out to Dwayne from the other side of the infield fence.
Dwayne didn’t acknowledge him. He continued running an infield drill with Steve while Tommy and Russ ran the outfield drill.
“What a bunch of retards!” T-Bone continued, still unable to shake Dwayne. “I swear to God, if I looked up and saw those boys on my team, I’d drive into the woods and put a shotgun in my mouth!”
Tommy and Russ looked to Dwayne. He remained unfazed. They were impressed. They hadn’t reached that level of Jedi meditation yet. They were fast becoming ready to kill.
T-Bone was irritated that he couldn’t rattle Dwayne. He’d have to step up his game. He moved along the fence, closer to where Dwayne was running his drill—directly behind home plate.
“Jesus, you guys are awful,” T-Bone said, now less than ten feet from Dwayne. “I’m gonna take a victory tomorrow, and then I’ll go have my way with your wife for a little while. If she gets home late tomorrow, don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her.”
Dwayne paused. He lowered the bat he’d been using to hit grounders, and stared down at the ground for a moment.
“Oooh, that got you, didn’t it?” T-Bone taunted. “I guess I found your weak spot. I’ll remember that. You know, if Alex is free tomorrow after he loses, he’s welcome to hold my beer while I make your little lady squeal. He’s gotta be good for something.”
Dwayne tapped the bat on home plate two times, and then smiled as he lifted up the bat to inspect it. A wave of fear swept over Steve. He knew what Dwayne had become capable of. He was afraid that T-Bone was about to find out.
Dwayne looked out at Tommy and Russ. They hadn’t been able to hear the last barbs from T-Bone, but they could tell something was up. Dwayne motioned for Russ to head over.
“Steve, take over for me,” Dwayne said. “Hit some grounders to shortstop and third. Have them work on the double play. I’ll be back in a few.”
T-Bone puffed up his chest. He had a feeling he was about to be in a fight. That made him happy. He didn’t lose fights.
Russ and Dwayne walked off the field together, not saying a word. They headed toward T-Bone. A small flash of concern hit T-Bone when he saw the look on Dwayne’s face.
“Parking lot. Now,” Dwayne told T-Bone. “I’m not doing this in front of the kids.”
“Jesus, Lawn Boy, relax.” T-Bone attempted to maintain his badass demeanor, masking a growing fear. “I’m just trying to rattle you. You don’t want to do this. I’ll fucking rip you to pieces.”
Out of nowhere, Dave the umpire appeared. He had been watching the confrontation unfold from the scoring box above the concession stand. And while Dave and Dwayne had their differences lately, and he and Russ had often been at odds, there was no parent or coach at Jenny Field that belittled and talked down to the umpires more than Coach T-Bone Sprinkle.
“You fellas want to borrow the scoring box for a few minutes to settle your differences?” Dave asked, looking at Dwayne with a sinister grin.
Dwayne grinned back. Russ watched the manner in which the two of them looked at each other and figured there was something larger between them that he was unaware of. Russ and Dave certainly had developed some history. Maybe this was some form of reckoning, Dwayne figured.
Or maybe Dave had become a Jedi, too.
“The scoring box is probably a good idea,” T-Bone responded in a shitty tone. “You don’t want Dwayne to leave on a stretcher.”
Dave held open the door to the scoring box. The four men made their way up the stairs above the concession stand, and the three coaches sat at a small conference table by the scoring window where the pitch count was kept and the scoreboard machine was operated. It was a small, dark, cheaply decorated room, with an old ceiling fan spinning and squealing overhead above brown shag carpet.
Dwayne and T-Bone stared at each other across the flimsy off-white conference table in silence as Russ looked on in anticipation. He was anxious to see what the new and psychotically improved Dwayne would do next. Dave dug around in the lost-and-found closet behind T-Bone. The sunlight tore through the mini blinds into the dankness of the room, and a horizontal fraction of light caught Dwayne across the eyes in a perfectly evil way.
“So, what was it that T-Bone said that had you so upset, Dwayne?” Dave the umpire asked from the closet.
“Fuck you, Dave, this doesn’t concern you,” T-Bone replied. “If we want to know what uneducated dumbasses think about things, we’ll ask one of Lawn Boy’s coworkers.”
Dwayne smiled at T-Bone. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t break eye contact at all, even when Dave appeared behind T-Bone clutching a confiscated big-barrel bat that was illegal during regular season little league play.
“Hey, dickstain,” Dave said to T-Bone.
T-Bone turned around just in time to see the bat coming full speed at his face. He took a solid hit right in the teeth and dropped unconscious onto the dirty floor.
“Jesus, Dave, you’ve got a great swing,” Russ offered. “Fucking fantastic form.”
“Thanks, man,” Dave replied, throwing the bat up over his shoulder, where he let it rest. “I was All State in high school, then I got a full ride in college. I had over a .500 average for three years.”
Dave fondly relished the good old days before his eyebrows turned downward and his attention was brought back to a twitching and contorted T-Bone Sprinkle. “Then I went to prison.”
Dave picked the bat back up off his shoulder and swung down as hard as he could at T-Bone’s skull, which cracked open like a coconut. Blood splattered out onto Russ and Dwayne’s faces and across the surface of the old conference table. It shot through the mini blinds and dripped down the window of the booth.
T-Bone’s body fidgeted a few times again. It was probably just nerves, but Dave wanted to make sure, so he hit him in the face with the bat three more times at full strength. Each time Dave swung the bat, bits of blood would stream from it, catching in the scattered sunlight like confetti reflecting off a disco ball in a dark dance club.
Dave stood heaving over the lifeless body. He had so much blood on his face that he had to wipe it away from his eyes so he could see. He kicked a couple of skull fragments and an eyeball that had popped off with his weathered work boots, then chuckled to himself. Blood began to pool all around in the old shag carpet. He tossed the bat onto the floor.
“So I’m guessing we’re all cool now, huh?” Dave the umpire asked Dwayne and Russ.
“Yup,” Russ answered. “I think we’re okeydokey.”
“Yeah, I’d say we’re cool, Dave,” Dwayne said. “And by the way, if you’re ever free when we’re practicing, I’d love it if you could head on over and show the team that swing. No bullshit. It really is outstanding.”
“That’d be great.” Dave was genuinely flattered. “So, ummm, we’ve got a dead body here now, so that might be something we should address.”
“Yup. No doubt about it,” Russ said back, lighting a joint and passing it to Dave.
Dave took a toke, then tilted his head, raised his eyebrows, and gave Russ a thumbs-up.
“Can you keep this building secure until about 11:00 p.m. tonight?” Dwayne asked.
“Sure, man,” Dave replied. “I’m pretty sure I’m the only one that has a key to it, but I’ll throw a padlock on the door anyhow.”
“You got shovels here?”
“Yup.”
“Power washer?”
“Yup.”
“When our practice is over, I think you’ll need to redo the pitcher’s mound. You think you could dig out the existing one? Maybe go six feet deep or so? It should be pretty soft. It’s mostly red dirt and sand.”
“No prob, Dwayne.”
> “Russ and I are going to run to the restroom and wash any residual blood splatter and brain matter off our faces and clothes, and then we’re going to go finish our practice strong. We need a win tomorrow. The three of us will meet back here at 11:00 p.m. tonight. Sound good?”
Dave the umpire and Russ nodded in agreement.
“By the way, Dwayne,” Dave said. “I just wanted to let you know that I think it’s great what you’re doing here, bro. Too many douchebags have been fucking up our game. This is baseball, for God’s sake. I’m glad we’re taking it back, man. Win or lose, you’re going to show these kids the way the game is supposed to be played. That’s awesome.”
“Thanks,” Dwayne replied softly. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”
Russ and Dwayne headed to the restroom and then down to the field while Dave locked up.
Steve became concerned when Russ and Dwayne resumed their positions on the field. It did not go unnoticed by him that four men had entered the scoring box and three had returned.
Dwayne smiled at Steve. “Well, let’s hope T-Bone had a better backup coach than Ricky Dale.” Dwayne gripped his bat and continued the infield drill. “Two to one, then fire it home!” he yelled to the infielders.
“Oh Jesus, Dwayne,” Steve said. “I think you need a vacation.”
“Fuck that, hombre,” Dwayne shot back. “Why should life be so difficult and full of bullshit that we need a break from it? Life is my vacation now.”
Steve had become a bit nervous about the course his friendship with the other three had taken.
“You know, Dwayne, I saw Star Wars,” he said. “I mean, it’s been a while, but I don’t remember any of them being serial killers. You’ve killed three people now, Dwayne. I’m not sure what the minimum requirement is to be considered a serial killer, but—”
“One, Stevie,” Dwayne interrupted. “I’ve technically only killed one. Dave killed the other two. But still, I get your point. And as far as the Jedi go … they were damn near wiped out by the conclusion of Episode VI, just one left standing. Imagine how far they could’ve gone if they’d adopted some of my core values. I’m telling you, they would’ve prospered.”
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