Authors: Douglas Esper
Two Innings Later
In the eighth inning, I sent my three, four, and five hitters to the plate, and just like that the inning was over.
I point to the other end of our hushed dugout. “Speedy, get Saule up and have him stand in the on-deck circle.”
Now in the ninth, we're down 4-3 and I require a few Tums to combat the war being waged in my stomach.
Looking at his clipboard, Speedy asks, “What about Landry?”
Landry is due up after Gardenhier, the batter at the plate right now, and he would be the logical choice to head to the on-deck circle. I would love the ability to send Saule up to hit, but he shattered his wrist sliding home during the second game of the series.
“Make sure Landry is ready to bat, but get Saule up now. I want to give Gardenhier a little protection at the plate. If they aren’t paying attention, over in the other dugout, they might think Saule can play and pitch to Gardenhier, rather than around him. Trust me, Woodie is doing all he can just to stay calm at this point. He isn’t worried about anything besides what pitch comes next.”
I hope.
“You sly dog.”
So far, I’ve stuck to my word to play as aggressive as possible. About the only trick we haven’t tried includes making a potato into a baseball, but we still have time if desperation sets in.
As Saule gets up and starts swinging in the on-deck circle, Gardenhier digs in at home plate. Across the field, Woodie sends his third base coach a signal. On second base, I have a good runner, but not the fastest guy on the team.
I say, “Signal out to second. If there’s an opportunity to run, tell him to take it. If we can tie the game, I’d bet on our bullpen every time.”
Speedy slides his index finger down his forearm to start the steal signal.
As the first pitch screams toward the batter, I wipe sweat from my forehead. Strike one.
Pitch two is also a fastball, but it sails high and Gardenhier takes the bait. He swings under the pitch, and clips the ball just enough to send it straight back toward the backstop. If the ball was one inch lower, we pull ahead. Instead, the batter goes down 0 balls and 2 strikes, and Gardenhier must play it a little more conservative.
I imagine Tony Drizzle up in the press box calling the game and adding to the suspense for those listening to the radio back home.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it all comes down to this. Two teams fighting for the ultimate prize in this game seven of the International League’s World Series. Each team has won three previous games, and I don’t see any way to predict just how this one might end. Erie has shown that they can play little ball with speed and great defense, but they also showed a lot of heart during an exciting suicide squeeze to finish off a four-run ninth inning rally in game six, Friday night. While Hollywood relied on their pitching all season, they have made a statement here in this series with some towering home runs and clutch two-out hitting. Both managers have had their work cut out for them. As we mentioned, they go way back to their high school days, when they played for back-to-back state championships. The pitcher comes set, and here’s the pitch…”
One moment, I’m swelling with pride, enjoying the monster jump the runner at second got in his steal attempt, but the next moment victory against Woodie comes into major doubt. Out of character, Woodie called a pitch out, just like I would’ve done, and he has my runner dead to rights.
Somehow guessing what’s happening, Gardenhier comes to my rescue. He extends his hands and leans far to his left to bunt the ball. His jerky, awkward swing provides just enough wood on the ball to give the runner a chance to advance to third.
The ball hops down the third base line, flirting with foul territory. Caught off guard, the Stars’ pitcher rushes off the mound, but the ball kicks right past him.
Gardenhier chugs down to first, but as a power hitting DH, his speed on the base path leaves a lot to be desired. The crowd explodes, while our dugout bench clears. My players jump to the top step, screaming on their teammates. Fielding the ball, their pitcher transfers the ball with insane speed, and turns to toss out Gardenhier.
Striving to play as aggressively as I asked him to, the runner at third has rounded the base, attempting to tie the game right here and now. With my heart in my throat, I encourage my guy as emphatically as I can.
I grip the rail hard enough to break knuckles, surrounded by the men who have battled for me all year. The Stars catcher isn’t in position yet to field the ball headed back to the plate because he had chased the bunt down the line. The crowd’s cheer is deafening, terrifying, and awesome.
The throw, the slide, the tag, are all obscured in a large cloud of sand kicked up by the runner and the catcher moving into position. All at once, the loud roar ends in anticipation for the ump’s call.
Game Over
“The Indians would be crazy not to pick you, man.”
Though I know Speedy means what he says, I can’t help but feel like I was out coached in that last at bat.
“Speedy, ahem, Steve, thanks for everything this season. Whatever they say or don’t say, I think it’s time for you to get a chance as a head man.”
We walk in a daze, unbelieving what just happened on the field. To say that we came within an inch of a championship doesn’t give us enough credit.
I unbutton my jersey. “Can you gather the guys when they’re done cleaning up? I’d like to thank them before the press conference.”
My dream of a head manager’s job seems to have been postponed for now, but how upset can I be, now that it appears I have a chance at reconciliation with my father?
Shaking hands with Steve, I enter the bathroom with my mind racing a thousand miles an hour. I’m so deep in thought that when I hear a female voice reverberating off the tiled surfaces, I jump halfway up the wall.
The voice says, “It’s all right, honey. I’ll be right here. Just go to the bathroom like Mommy showed you.”
I relax a little, thankful I haven’t walked into the wrong gender’s bathroom. It appears that one of my players brought along his wife and child, and made sure they used our private team bathroom to avoid the lines. Smart move, sure, but I’d love to be alone for a few minutes.
I can’t believe Woodie almost threw the game away with his tantrums. I hadn’t seen him that upset in years, but then again, he’s the guy drowning in champagne right now, while I’m talking to myself in the bathroom.
I’m already back into deep thought mode when the female, who must be standing just outside the door, speaks again to the little boy making his way to stand next to me. “Make sure to wash your hands.”
The little boy walks to the urinal next to mine, and there’s no mistaking our charging Erie Express locomotive logo on his cap. Good boy.
He’s much too short for the urinal he’s trying to use, so I point to the end of the row. “Hey buddy, you might want to use that one. It’s a little shorter.”
The boy shuffles down to the shorter urinal.
I ask, “So, how did you enjoy the game?”
The boy seems too nervous to talk, so I say, “If I could be objectionable, I’d say that was as fun a game to watch as I can remember, but, as a member of the losing team, I’m heartbroken.”
We both walk toward the sinks. His ball cap seems to cover his whole head and face. Brown curls of hair creep out from its brim. As we finish washing our hands, the boy looks too short to grab a paper towel, so I hold one out to him. He peers up at me to ascertain if I can be trusted. Confusion spreads across my face, as adrenaline shoots through my body at light speed. I drop the towel and startle the boy as the bathroom door opens behind us. Taking a step back, I try to mutter something, but no words come out. This little boy is the same kid that knocked into my father behind the dugout, and now that I see his face up close, I’m furious I hadn’t noticed his recognizable features before.
I stumble backward into a man entering the bathroom.
This boy has my eyes. This boy...
I turn to face the man apologizing for bumping into me only to see recognition beam in his eyes. It’s my father, Michael Kelly, coming to check on his grandson. Understanding dawns inside, as I turn back to look at the boy again.
I feel my father’s hand on my shoulder. “Ryan, I know it’s been a while, but I’m sure you remember Michael Omar, your son.”
“Wha, how, wait...” I feel my legs give out from under me.
I grasp for my father’s arms to steady myself.
From outside the bathroom, the concerned mother’s voice booms again. “Is he all right in there?”
I reply without taking my eyes off Moe. “Yes, everything is all right in here, Molly, in fact, everything is perfect.”
The bathroom door swings open, and Molly charges in, confused. “Ryan, I—”
I pull her toward me with a desperate kiss and an excited embrace.
She pulls back and I’m still unsure what to say.
My father breaks the silence. “Why don’t I take Mikey for a walk and let you two talk.”
“You mean Moe?”
Molly’s disapproving gaze shuts me up. Following my father and my son out of the bathroom, I lead Molly to my makeshift office, as my team soaks in the loss in their own ways.
Just before we enter the office, Steve and I exchange a simple nod.
My hands shake with excitement and anxiety. Of all the times over the last few years that I had daydreamed of taking my son to the ballpark with me, none had even come close to the true emotions of the moment. Closing the door to my office takes an enormous effort and the stiff wooden chair behind the desk beckons my weary body and mind. Molly’s eyes and her posture betray unease and I can’t blame her. She grabs a Kleenex from her purse as I search for words.
I settle on, “My God. He is handsome.”
Molly beams, helping me relax a little.
I rub my forehead, overwhelmed. “I can’t believe he’s here.”
“Michael wanted to see his father coach.” She pauses to nibble her lower lip. “And I did to.”
The words are spoken as a matter of fact, but I hear the slightest tremble as she admits her desire to be here. Any rational man would burst out of his office to find the boy and hug him, kiss him, and talk to him, but right now I am not rational. I’m using all my resources just to process what has transpired and to keep my sanity in check. I’m unsure how successful I’m being.
“Molly, I’ve made so many mistakes,” I start. She tries to stop me, but I put up my hands and continue. “I’ve wasted so much of my life playing games with you, with Woodie, heck, with myself. Whenever something got in my way, my immediate reaction was to put my head down, push as hard as I could, and keep pushing until my path was free and clear. The problem is I never bothered to take the time to see who I was pushing away and hurting in the process. Looking back, knowing what it cost all of us involved I feel so foolish. I just want, I...”
The words I want to say begin tripping over each other in an effort to come out first, so I fall silent rather than saying the wrong thing. I know a simple apology could never cover what I’ve put Molly, Moe, and myself through, but I need to make sure Molly knows that I still love her.
The desire to speak eases as the comfort of silence reigns for a few moments. Molly’s face remains warm, not defensive, which I take as a good sign. If only I knew what she wanted to hear, or what I could do to make things right. If I promise to always cherish her and our son, would she forgive me? If I convince her somehow that I have grown up and that I can be trusted, will she let down her guard enough so that I can be a part of his life?
“Molly, I love you.”
Her slap stings my cheek before I register her movement. The shockwaves ripple out and I realize I’ve overstepped my bounds.
Focusing on Molly, however, it appears she’s as stunned as I am. “You don’t get to stand here on your turf and tell me how you feel. It’s my turn. I’m the one you told off. You’re the one that drove away from a pregnant woman you professed to love.”
A thick strand of hair covers her left cheek, but I can still see her pleading eye underneath.
The office we occupy feels like a nightmare setting for the most important conversation we’ve ever had in our lives. It’s decorated with sports memorabilia for the California team that calls this stadium home and reeks of stale sweat and antacids. Every surface in the office is covered in a film of broken dreams and pine tar. The air feels hot, stifling. My cheek burns with regret.
“Ryan, we’ve pushed and pulled each other along for years now. I chase you. You chase me. That’s how we seem to operate. When you came to Woodie’s that day, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure the baby was yours.”
I nod.
“I made one dumb decision. I thought Mitch would provide security and stability for me, but when it turned out that he could, I realized I’d been fooling myself that those were things I even desired anymore.”
She wipes away a tear. “In the same day that I ended things with Mitch, I got offered the west coast gig, you asked me to marry you, and I discovered I was pregnant. It was too much all at once, so I sought out Woodie, but not for the reasons you thought. I just needed a friend.”
I rub my scalp. “And I showed up, like a madman and ruined our relationship.”
“At first, yeah, that’s what I thought, but when I settled out west and had time to think it over, I realized I was just as guilty of pulling away as you. I mean, we were so close and it felt so right, so why was my first reaction to stray?”
I spread my arms. “Well, we’re here now.”
Molly’s expression stays neutral as she considers her next words. “Ryan, I can’t be forgiven for forcing you to miss the first years of your son’s life. As much as I would like to, I can’t take that back. I’m not here to ask you to forgive me at all. I just want you to be a part of his life from here on out.”
Her eyes search the ceiling as I choke on the words in my throat. She’s already told me she wants me to be a part of Moe’s life. That is more than I could ever have hoped for from this conversation, but it’s by no means enough.
As always, when I feel an obstacle in my way, I push. Inch by inch, I push until I get what I want. After years of pushing and chasing, I can see a finish line and the ultimate goal. She stands right in front of me.
“From now on, I’m going to be a part of Moe’s life. I’m his father and even though he and I are strangers, I love him.”
Molly’s face is full of tension lines and flushed cheeks.
“But, I also want to be a part of your life. I want the three of us to be a family. I don’t want to chase you or push you away. I just want to have you two with me from here on out.”
The tension melts from her face, making room for hope. “Would you take me back after all that I’ve done? After I stole your child and kept him from you?”
Well, there it is. Am I ready to go all in with the resolve to make things work?
I push. “Molly, I can’t promise you roses every morning. I can’t promise you the toilet seat will always be down, the bed will be made, or that I can refrain from drinking straight from the orange juice container, but I can promise that I love you and our son. Somehow, day after day, I can take the field, fight in the gym, and face all sorts of competition, but when it comes to us, I’m tentative and afraid. That ends now. I’m ready to fight for the woman I love and damn anything that gets in our way.”
We embrace. Having her in my arms feels so natural, and as we kiss she whispers, “I love you.”
Both of us try and pull away after a time, but then we meld back together and let the moment last just a little longer. This is the woman I love. This is where I belong.
Molly cups her hands on my cheeks. “Let’s go hug our son.”
Wiping tears and straightening shirts, we exit my office, and face thirty grown men pretending to be too preoccupied to have heard what just happened. I shake my head and my cheeks flush as they erupt in cheers. Molly’s cheeks redden deeper than the Erie Express jerseys worn by just about everyone in the room.
The only two people not wearing the jerseys are my father and my son, and they are clapping louder than everyone else. We make our way to them as my players pat me on the back and continue to cheer.
My father looks down at Moe, and tussles his hair, before returning his gaze to me. “Son, you have one heck of a reason to be a better man than you’ve ever been before.”
I nod.
From the back of the locker room, someone asks me a sobering question. “So Coach, are you going to tell the Indians off for picking Woodie?”
With all the excitement, I haven’t even thought about losing my dream job to the man who always seems to stand between victory and me, and yet compared with having even a chance to love Molly and my son, the job means nothing.
“Let Woodie head to Cleveland. I have everything I need right here.”
We erupt together and, for the moment, no one even remembers we lost today. The locker room door opens and in walks Tony Drizzle. The longtime sportscaster takes in the rowdy room, wondering why cheers of joy permeate the losing team’s post-game meeting. “The press is ready for you.”
“I’ve never been more ready. Let’s go.”
I walk toward the door and turn back, unenthusiastic to leave Molly, Moe, and my father.
My father stands, stoic and imposing, like the Cliffs of Moher in his homeland of Ireland. “Go get ‘em, son.”
I maintain my composure until my son adds, “Go get ‘em, Dad.”