Chapter Twelve

Supper was grilled hot dogs and hamburgers on the deck. Coley was throwing halfheartedly in the bull pen, testing the ankle. He never knew when there would be pain. Sometimes never, sometimes immediately. Sometimes only a minor, nagging twinge, but other times a pain so sharp it shocked him.

His father came to watch, cradling his third martini. He asked Coley if he was going to pitch against Jacksonville.

“I don’t know. Coach wants me to.”

“If he wants you to, why don’t you know?”

“I just don’t know, that’s all.” He grunted as he threw a good-velocity fastball that whistled under the elbow of Reggie Jackson’s closed stance.

“Do you feel okay?” his father asked him.

“Yeah, I’m all right.” It was the easiest answer, always the easiest.

“Then you need to pitch. You’re not going to impress any major-league scouts if you’re sitting on the bench and watching the game like some cheerleader.”

“It’s the ankle,” said Coley, realizing how lame it sounded even as the words came out.

“What about the ankle?”

“I don’t know. I can’t trust it yet.”

“You can’t trust it. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I never know when there will be pain. When I throw, I can’t just cut it loose. I can only throw tentative.”

“It won’t work if you throw tentative.”

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to say. I’m afraid I’ll hurt my arm. Dr. Nugent said there’s nothin’ worse than a sore arm for a pitcher.”

“Do we need Dr. Nugent to tell us this? It should be as plain as the nose on your face. Dr. Nugent also told you that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with your ankle at this point. Even the last X rays show no damage whatsoever.”

“X rays are one thing, but real life is another thing.”

“Real life,” his father repeated the words with contempt. He took a couple of swallows of the cocktail before he continued, “I’ll tell you about real life. The fact is there’s nothing wrong with your ankle. It’s all in your head. You can see that, can’t you?”

It had occurred to him more than once, which was the confusing part. “It might be,” he said honestly. “It happens sometimes with rehab. Sometimes the mental part is harder to get over than the physical part.”

“Don’t lecture me about sports injuries and rehab!” Ben Burke sputtered. “Remember who you’re talking to here—do you think there’s anything about baseball you’ve thought of that I haven’t?”

“Oh, hell no.”

“Why don’t we just put the cards on the table here, Coley? The thing standing in your way is your head, not your ankle.”

“Maybe that’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you. Sometimes the physical part of an injury heals faster than the mental part. I won’t be ready to pitch—not really pitch—until I have confidence in it.”

“In your case that means the lack of mental toughness. It’s always been your problem; you have all the talent in the world, but you lack the killer instinct.”

“I’ve heard it all before, okay?” He lobbed a puny change-up toward the plate.

“This time it’s the ankle. It’s turning into an excuse to fail. You don’t have an injury anymore, you had an injury.”

Coley felt the confusion contracting his insides. The worst part was he was afraid his old man was right; at least he couldn’t think of a way to dispute what he was saying. He vented his frustration by unleashing a pain-free, fearless 93 mph heater, which caught the statue right along the ribcage and sounded a fortissimo gong that reverberated through the neighborhood.

He tossed the glove to the ground and headed toward the house. “The next thing you’ll be reminding me about is how tough Patrick was.”

“You could do a lot worse. Patrick was a bulldog when it came to mental toughness. Why do you think he was on a major-league roster by age twenty?”

Coley continued toward the house, and his father followed a few paces behind. “I’m not Patrick,” said Coley.

His father ignored the remark and replied, “You can find any hiding place you want, but I’m asking you why you might not pitch on Monday and you haven’t got an answer.”

“You can get off my case any time. Maybe I want to win. What if I told you I want us to win the state?”

“Somebody has to win the state, it might as well be you. What’s the point?”

“The point is,” Coley replied as he eased back into one of the vinyl strap loungers on the deck, “if I’m one hundred percent, we have a better chance of winnin’ the play-offs. If I’m only fifty percent, we’re just like most of the other teams.”

But Ben Burke was shaking his head aggressively even as he found his way into a nearby deck chair. “No, no, no. This isn’t about winning high school play-off games. It’s about your future.”

Coley’s mother brought some tossed salad to the table and said, “Maybe we can shelve this argument now. It’s almost time to eat.” She returned to the kitchen to fetch plates and silverware.

“You probably think I don’t know you batted right-handed down in Florida,” said Ben.

Coley’s surprise lasted scarcely a millisecond. “I doubted if it would get past you,” he replied.

“I suppose that was for God and country too, huh? Stupid. It was stupid.”

“The guys want to win. They’re winnin’ without me, most of the time. They don’t need me to get past the regionals. But if I’m one hundred percent for the sectionals and the state, we could go all the way.”

“Tell me whose idea this is.”

“It’s mine. It’s Rico’s. It’s Coach Mason’s. The guys want to win. I want to win.”

There was a pitcher of premixed martinis on the table. Ben Burke freshened his drink before he said, “Major-league scouts don’t give a damn who wins or loses high school play-off games. Nobody does.”

“We do. We give a damn.”

“Don’t interrupt. Five years from now nobody will even remember who was in the play-offs or who won. But five years from now your future may be carved out. That has to be your priority, not who wins the regional tournament.”

His mother returned to set plates on the table. “I thought I told you it was time to put this argument to rest. I’d like to have a pleasant supper together, if that’s possible.” She began forking wieners into buns. Coley could see the muscles of her jaw working.

“I’m just trying to explain something to him about his future,” said his father.

“I know,” said Mom. “I’ve been listening, in spite of my best intentions.”

“Then maybe you could help out here.”

“I doubt it. I don’t think you’d want to hear what I think. Hot dog or hamburger?” she asked him.

“Jesus Christ! Do you think we could cut to the chase here?”

That’s when Coley knew the old man was getting drunk: When his mother sent out these kinds of warning signals, you’d better pay attention, unless you wanted the shit to hit the fan. His dad knew it as well as he did.

“Ketchup and mustard?”

“Tell him to think about his future first. That’s all I’m askin’ here—is that so hard?”

“Let me ask you something,” she said to Ben. Before she asked, she took a seat and began tonging tomato wedges onto her bed of chopped iceberg. “Isn’t playing on a team supposed to teach you to subordinate your own individual needs to the good of the group?”

“That’s a different subject.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. It seems to be Coley’s subject. He seems to be saying he feels bonded to his teammates. He’s concerned about their success as well as his own.”

“If this is all you’ve got to contribute, why don’t you just drop out of the discussion?”

“I warned you, didn’t I?” His mother’s eyes were flashing. “I told you to leave me out of this altogether, but you chose not to listen. Your son wants to share in the team experience, but you can’t see any value in it.”

As rapidly as he could, Coley prepared himself three hot dogs and squeezed on the ketchup and mustard. If this was going to be a knock-down-drag-out, he wasn’t sure he could stand to be in the vicinity.

“The hell with the team experience! If he can get his head together, this kid may be standing at the threshold of a major-league career! Is that so hard to grasp?”

Coley scrambled for a cold Pepsi.

“The difference between the two boys,” she said, “is right in front of your face. What you usually refer to as ‘lack of a killer instinct’ is actually a decent human being.”

“It’s chickenshit,” argued Ben. “It’s the excuse to fail.”

“It’s called character,” countered his mother. “If Patrick had had any of it, he’d probably still be alive today.”

Coley stood up. “Y’all can knock this off right now, or I’m leavin’.”

“You better leave,” said his father quietly through clenched teeth.

Coley went downstairs with his food. He could hear the shrill tenor of their raised voices through the open windows. He couldn’t make out all the words, but he knew them anyway.

You can’t live your dreams of glory through your sons, his mother would say. They weren’t put here to fulfill your fantasies.

They were put here to fulfill something! Dad would reply. Some level of greatness, some measure of achievement. If it was up to you, all they’d need to do is keep the yard mowed and go to S.A.D.D. meetings after school!

And his mother would answer by saying in a shrill voice, Maybe you’d better think of another example! If Patrick had ever shown any interest in S.A.D.D. meetings, he’d probably still be alive today!

How dare you say that to me? Patrick died in a boating accident! How dare you blame me for his death? Drunk, he would sputter out his indignation in a chain of incoherent protestations.

While his mother, more adept than he in the war-of-words format, and certainly far more composed, would ever so slightly turn the knife that she had skillfully inserted: Did I say that? Did you hear me blame you for Patrick’s death?

The words might change—some of them, at least—but the agenda itself wouldn’t change, and neither would the animosity. Coley turned up his TV loud to blot out the fevered pitch of their angry voices. He gobbled all three hot dogs in less than two minutes washing them down aggressively with Pepsi-Cola.

He heard the front door slam hard enough to shake it from its hinges. His father, drunk and pitiful, would swim his way to the Buick in the driveway.

He heard the car door slam. He heard the tires squeal on the asphalt. He knew his father was headed straight for the country club, where he would find his way to the bar and spend the rest of the evening in the company of some good-old-boy drinking buddies.

The day she told him she was pregnant they were swimming in the pool. His ankle felt great, even when he swam at full speed in pursuit of her.

Giggling breathlessly while hanging on to the side, she said to him, “I’ve got big news. You’re going to be a daddy.”

The demeanor didn’t fit the message. She might have been telling him she’d just scored some floor tickets for a concert. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. I’m pregnant.”

“You can’t be pregnant. How do you know?”

“Why can’t I be? I took a home pregnancy test.” But she wasn’t giggling anymore.

“Bullshit, you can’t be sure.”

“I’m completely sure. I just told you, I took a home pregnancy test.”

“But we used a rubber most of the time.”

“Most of the time, we did,” she replied. Bree lifted herself so she was seated on the edge of the pool.

“That’s what I said. We use a rubber almost all the time.”

“Almost, Coley, but not all the time. It only takes once.”

“Don’t tell me what it takes! Let’s say you’re right; you don’t even seem bothered about it.”

“Well I am bothered about it, but it’s not the end of the world.”

“‘It’s not the end of the world?’ That’s all you’ve got to say about it? ‘It’s not the end of the world?’”

“What else should I say?” Bree asked. “You want me to go out and hang myself or something?” She stood up and walked away without waiting for an answer.

Jesus Christ, Coley thought. He could feel a knot of apprehension contracting his stomach. He swung himself out of the pool in order to follow her.

Bree was on the first row of bleachers, toweling her face and hair. “I thought you might be a little bit pleased,” she said between the folds.

“Pleased? You’re knocked up and I should be happy about it? Are you crazy?”

“Don’t say ‘knocked up.’ I’m going to have a baby; your baby. I was hoping that at least a part of you would be happy about it.”

“What part would that be, Bree? The part that wants to spend my life driving a cab or working at the 7-Eleven?”

“I should have known you’d be totally negative about this.”

Coley sighed deeply three or four times before using his own towel to dry his face. It was bad enough to get a girl pregnant, but if she didn’t even seem to have much regret about it … where would you go with a thing like that?

“You say you’re sure?”

“That’s what I said.”

“When was your last period?” he wanted to know.

“I’m two weeks late,” she replied.

“Two weeks? That doesn’t prove anything,” he said.

“I already told you about the home pregnancy test. Didn’t I tell you about the Clear Blue Easy?”

That must be the name of the product, he thought. “So how does it work, anyway?”

“It takes a sample of your urine, and if two blue lines appear, it means you’re pregnant. It has ninety-nine percent accuracy, right on the package.”

“So where does it get this urine sample? Do you have to pee in a bottle or something?”

“Why are you being like this?”

“Being like what? I’m asking you how the test works. I’m just tryin’ to get some facts here.”

Near the shallow end of the pool four girls approached the apron, giggling and pushing one another. Bree was watching them.

“Hey. Did you hear me?”

“I heard you, I heard you. You don’t go in a cup or anything, you just let your pee dribble on this applicator while you’re going to the toilet. Are you satisfied now, Coley? This is, like, real embarrassing.”

“What’s embarrassing is what the hell we’re going to do about it if you’re pregnant.”

“I don’t know what you mean—‘do about it’? If I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant.”

This remark would have signaled extra trouble if he had allowed himself to pursue it. Instead he asked her, “What’s an applicator?”

“It sticks out from the main part of the test—it’s about the size of a Popsicle stick.”

“You piss on a Popsicle stick and that can tell you if you’re pregnant? You can’t go by something like that, Bree, you have to go to a clinic like Planned Parenthood or something.”

“Don’t tell me what I have to do!” She turned her flashing eyes to glare at him.

“I’m just sayin’ you can’t be sure that way.”

“There are two tests in the package. I can do the test over again in a couple of days. Does that satisfy you?” She was on her feet now, wrapping the towel around her waist.

“No way am I satisfied, not with Clear Blue Easy or any other test you do at home. There’s no way to be sure unless you go to a clinic or a doctor’s office.”

“So why is that so important? Why is it so important to be sure? Time will take care of it, and then there won’t be any doubt at all.”

Coley couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. “Why is it so important to be sure?”

“Yes. Why is it?”

“Because if you’re pregnant, we have to get an abortion.”

“We have to get an abortion?”

“Okay, you. We have to start makin’ plans, because you can’t get one unless you go to Chicago or St. Louis.”

“I would never get an abortion.” It wasn’t a defiant statement, but a simple declaration, the way he’d heard her once decline the purchase of a fish sandwich at McDonald’s.

“You would never get an abortion.” Coley could only repeat her own words back to her while he felt his contracted stomach sinking like a stone.

“I could never get one.” Her back was to him now; she was heading toward the girls’ locker room. He heard her say, “That’s the same thing as killing a baby.”

“Killing babies? Do you have any idea what you’re sayin’ here?” He was too stunned to chase after her. Besides, she was already rounding the cinder-block partition that hid the entrance to the girls’ lockers. Their voices must have been louder than he’d realized—the four girls in the shallow end had stopped talking to look and listen.

Coley didn’t get much sleep the next two nights, but he pitched against MacArthur on Saturday. For three innings he had his best stuff. He felt loose and strong and fearless, with respect to the ankle. It was a very warm day, which gave him a comfort zone of sweat. He struck out three hitters on called strikes and three others swinging.

In the fourth inning he saw his mother’s Century 21 car pull up behind the left-field bleachers. Bree was with her. Just after he retired the first MacArthur hitter on a pop-up, he could see that Bree and his mother had taken seats in the bleachers next to his father. Bree said something that made his mother laugh.

On the next pitch Coley had pain. First in the ankle, then a few pitches later in the lower back again, the sharp, slicing kind that told him he was pitching with his upper body. How could he truly dwell on pitching mechanics though? After he walked a batter, the next two made outs; but the outs were both solid line drives to the left fielder. Line-drive outs were worse than cheap hits.

As soon as Coley got to the bench, he slumped his head and draped a towel over it. “Take me out,” he said to the coach. “That’s enough.”

“That’s all you want?” asked the surprised Mason.

“That’s enough. I went four innings.”

“You looked strong, Coley. You feel okay?”

“I’m good,” he lied. “I just need to pace myself.”

“Okay, you’re the boss.”

Coley bent over to wrap a towel around the ankle, but it was a hollow gesture. There was nothing the matter with his ankle or any other part of his anatomy. It was abundantly clear to him now that any problems he might have that affected his pitching were strictly mental. It’s all in my head. All of it.

He spent the rest of the game with his head bowed down and his elbows on his knees. He wore the towel over his head like a cowl. Rico and Jamie persisted in trying to comfort him.

“We’re still gonna win, man,” said Quintero.

“I know,” Coley murmured. He didn’t lift the towel, though.

“We’re still good,” Rico reminded him. “Don’t forget the whole scenario. We’re not even into the regionals yet.”

“I know.” During the last two innings he glanced at the crowd once or twice from beneath the hem of the towel. His father was gone, but his mother was still there and so was Bree. She’s pregnant, he thought to himself. She’s knocked up and she doesn’t want to do anything about it. Her stepfather beats her up. Jesus Christ.

A seldom-used sub named Robert Greene was walking batters, thus prolonging the game. At this moment Coley couldn’t imagine how he might have cared any less. A hard knot was constricted in his stomach; the world was closing in somehow. Oh shit, was all he could think.