Authors: Douglas Esper
“
Let her go
.” I might as well tell a drop in the brook to stand still.
My yell echoes around the park, freezing all the picnickers, footballers, and causing massive confusion to the game of freeze-tag happening over at the playground.
Tony Drizzle announces, “With that 35 yard touchdown throw by Enrique Roman, it’s the Patriots 10, and the Browns—”
Just as I flip off the radio, Woodie’s ringing phone catches my attention.
I find it and answer. “Hello?”
A gruff, unfamiliar voice greets me. “Mr. Wodyzewski, hello.”
Before I can explain that I’m not Woodie, the man continues. “Son, I’m happy to be making this call. The Oakland Athletics request you join our winterball program ASAP. Welcome to the big leagues.”
“Thank you, sir,” I stumble, unable to help myself. “This is a dream come true.”
From the parking lot the noise of further argument between my friends greets me.
Molly says, “You know this isn’t easy for me and you know what you promised.”
“And what promises have you made to Mitch?”
As I exit the park, Woodie and Molly fall silent and track my advance. I head straight for my car.
Molly manages to show some concern for me, and it’s a pleasant surprise that it sounds genuine. “Wait, Ryan, please don’t go.”
Just before I enter my car, I flip Woodie his phone. He catches it and stares as if he hasn’t the slightest idea what it is.
I say, “Congrats.”
“For what?”
“Tonight, you’ll be joining your team, and soon Molly will be decorating the wonderful new home the two of you will be sharing. So, congrats to both of you. Thanks for showing me how much you care by going behind my back.”
Leaving the park, my shock from the phone call dissipates as depression and jealousy take its place, so I do what any sane man in my position would do. I grab a twelve-pack and head to my parents’ place.
I enter the house and head toward the flustered sounds of my dad yelling at whatever mistake the Browns just committed.
“Hey Pops, how’re we doing?”
He responds by rolling his eyes and changing the subject. “I thought you were with Woodie awaiting his big call. What’s going on?”
I sit down on the blue-and-white striped couch across from his puke-green lounge chair. According to my father, it’s the most comfortable chair in the world, but my mother has been trying to get rid of the thing for years.
I pass my father a beer. “It’s official, Woodie plays for Oakland.”
“Oh, so he’s an A’s-hole now?”
We chuckle.
Cracking open my drink, I take a long slug of the cool liquid and let out a satisfied belch. Before I can bask in the glow of my thunderous accomplishment, my father lets loose a burp of his own.
My mother’s voice booms from upstairs. “Gross. What do you two say?”
My father and I exchange a smirk, but neither of us responds.
“Hey, don’t pretend like you can’t hear me. What do you say?” How she heard us from across the whole house no one knows, but it’s not the first time I’ve been busted belching under her roof.
“Pardon me,” we sing-song in unison.
My father raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been here five minutes and already gotten me in trouble with your mother.”
“What can I say? I’m good.”
We watch the game and finish our beers in silence. When a cornerback has an interception glance off his fingertips, my dad says, “That was a close one.” But other than that, our second bottle also disappears without conversation.
When I hand my father a third beer, however, he decides to speak. “So, do you want to tell me what’s going on? Or do you feel the need to bottle it all up like usual?”
He must know at least some of the details from his interactions with Woodie and Molly’s parents. I inhale, catching the scent of my cologne, which earlier smelled of confidence and sexiness. Now it reeks of cluelessness and doubt. I can’t wait to scrub away all traces of my latest failed attempt to win over Molly.
As the Browns commit another false start, my dad says, “Have it your way, son. I was enjoying the game by myself before you got here, so if you want to just drink beer, stay quiet, and watch, I’m fine with that. Just know I’m here if needed.”
“Dad…”
I sip my beer as I search for the right words.
I want to explain everything that’s going on and how much I appreciate him sticking by my side, even during my dark days after being expelled. I want him to know that I love him.
“Dad, what on earth are we going to do with these Browns?”
November 2, 2002
Picking gum off my shoe as I await my bus home, I talk to my ex-catcher. “To be honest, Speedy, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than to win the championship for my team. I’d give my right arm to have that last pitch back.”
Speedy chuckles. “Hey man, we all have those thoughts from time to time.”
“No doubt, but after fighting through all these years of rehab, just to retake the mound and get shelled every night against single-A talent, well, feels like a kick in the teeth. I’m having a hard time seeing light at the end of this tunnel.”
Speedy says, “Hey, you know all the guys miss you and they all expect you back before long.”
“They?”
The line goes quiet. Even the shuffling of Speedy’s pacing silences.
I ask, “What’s up?”
“Look, Ryan, I told HF that I’m not coming back.”
“Wait, why?”
“You know why. I’m an average catcher, well past my prime, and I just don’t have the drive anymore.”
I focus on the multi-colored diamond patterned carpet as the floor spins. “Speedy, I—”
From over the loudspeaker an announcement confirms bus delays due to crappy weather.
“Look, don’t make any rash decisions. You and I will talk after my high school reunion this weekend, got it?”
I blow my per diem on a cup of all-too-fancy coffee. This trip marks my first visit back to my hometown since I separated from Woodie and Molly under less than ideal circumstances. Molly and I share too strong a bond to be broken beyond repair, but my conflicted emotions leave me wondering how I’ll react to seeing her for the first time in three years. My gut says we may share some unpleasant words before we clear the air, but my heart warns me that I might melt when Molly comes close.
By tonight, I’ll be back in Ohio, preparing to small talk with people I haven’t seen in years.
I can picture it.
“Hello, my name is Ryan. I’m an out of commission semi-professional baseball player. Before you ask, no, you haven’t seen me on TV. You haven’t heard of the team I play for. I’m a bullpen pitcher that has battled injuries since I was kicked out of college for fighting. All my worldly possessions I keep in one suitcase, with a book bag to hold my mitt and batting gloves. Sure, I started a family—there are thirty of us on the team. We live on a bus, heading from one ballpark to the next. How are you?”
I observe their right hand head toward their pocket. My heart will skip a beat as the excitement of signing an autograph rushes through my blood. As I prepare to sign, the realization slaps me right between the eyes. They’re not pulling out a pen and a napkin, or a baseball card, or anything of the sort. It’s their wallet. Wallets can only mean one thing. Baby pictures.
Yes, here is my baby waving with his right hand, there he is waving with his left hand, and in this one my son has both hands waving. “Isn’t he adorable?”
Babies, minivans, sales jobs, landscaped yards, and the latest in suburban fashions—I can’t relate to any of these topics. The realization crashes, like an imploding ex-casino in Las Vegas, that I live in a small bubble suited more for a nineteen-year-old than a grown man.
I’m in my late twenties. I play in the minor leagues and have no real life goals beyond baseball. I was one pitch away from attaining everything I’ve worked for my entire life, but now my injuries shadow my future in doubt.
My daymare shatters when a stern voice, just inches behind me, says, “Excuse me, sir.”
Doesn’t this security guard have anything better to do? I don’t turn around just yet, hoping he’ll say his piece and leave me alone.
He continues, “I couldn’t help but notice you’re nervous about something.”
My annoyance tenses into alarm, as I wonder what on earth I did to arouse his suspicion. Sure, I had a few drinks earlier, to self-medicate my aches and pains, but no one would mistake me for sloppy drunk.
He continues, “You cheapskate. You didn’t tip the cute girl working at the coffee stand.”
“What?”
I spin to face Woodie, and watch him gasp for breath as his laughter bubbles up from deep within his chest.
I toss a balled up napkin at him. “Boy, it’s good to see you, too.”
We shake hands, as I ask, “What are you doing here, anyways? Don’t you Major leaguers have private planes to travel?”
“I was in town for a sports memorabilia show. They flew me in, but the weather forced my flight to get canceled. No way I’m missing our ten year high school reunion.”
“How wonderful. I get to spend the few hours I thought could relax crammed on a bus with my arch nemesis.”
Woodie straightens, all humor vanished. “Arch nemesis? Since when?”
Though we’ve been opposing each other all of our lives, the hurt in his voice sounds genuine.
“Since you took me yard in Buffalo, that’s when,” I shoot back, and shadowbox a few punches. “If we run into Coach Marv this weekend he’ll rip me a new one for the way I pitched.”
“Oh, that.” He dismisses me with a shrug, while throwing a few mock punches of his own. “I know your curve, and that pitch was as flat as your singing voice. I knew you were hurt even before I swung. By the way, how’s the rehab coming? I heard you were tearing it up, but I haven’t had any updates lately.”
“I’m fine,” I bite, harsh enough to let Woodie know he hit a nerve.
Woodie flashes an uncomfortable smile before gazing around the room. “So it looks like we’re not rolling out of here anytime soon. You wanna talk about Molly?”
Over the years, Woodie and I have had several such conversations. Not that the dialogue helps solve our problem, but it’s always good to compare misery.
Woodie starts us off. “I don’t want this reunion to turn into another prom incident.”
“Of course you don’t, I got the last dance.”
“And who got the last kiss?”
I sip my mocha coffee and chew on the bitter truth. “Point.”
“If Molly’s willing to commit to one of us, I don’t want the other making things difficult.”
Certainly not the subtlest way Woodie could tell me he plans on making a move this weekend.
Woodie cocks his head to the side and squints. “Was that a dumb thing to say?”
“No. I appreciate you admitting that you won’t get in the way of us.”
He grins.
I circle Woodie mimicking a boxer sizing up his opponent. “But I expect that her stance on dating traveling baseball players is intact. Especially after you—”
Woodie raises his fists and rotates to keep me face to face. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I have a bit of a temper. The last time I wasn’t ready, so it’s good that things fizzled before we moved in together.”
“That’s what you’re going with, huh?”
I advance and again throw a few practice jabs. Woodie blocks the first one, but I land a hit on his shoulder. We shove each other a few times, until we fall under the scrutinizing gaze of a real security guard taking notice of our squirreling. I give Woodie one last playful push before we settle into chairs as uncomfortable as you would expect to find in a worn down bus station outside of Lincoln, Nebraska.
Woodie straightens his hair. “Well, I don’t remember you complaining about crashing at my pad that winter. Who needs a beautiful woman to share a beachfront shack with when you have your best bud?”
I chuckle. “As much as I appreciate your hospitality, this weekend is no holds barred.”
Woodie nods. “Well, then you realize this will never work, right?”
I pause to consider his words, and then reply, “If we’re on the same bus, how can we race home?”
Some old habits die hard, real hard.
Woodie flashes a devilish grin. “Well then, you’ve got one huge advantage over the luckiest guy you know. I ditched my ticket in the trash, so all you have to do is get on the bus and you’ll beat me to the reunion by hours.”
“No, Woodster, you still have the upper hand.”
For the first time since our chance meeting, I catch him off-guard.
Our eyes lower toward my rising hands, each holding half of my ripped ticket.
Woodie’s smirk widens. “Loser buys the first round?”
“Do all Chicago rules still apply?” I ask, recalling one of our most successful races across state lines.
We fist bump. A bell rings in both of our heads, and our feet leave the starting blocks.