CHRIS WANTED TO GO to this game. He wanted to conquer the fear of facing the stadium again, of facing old fans he’d disappointed, of being on the outside looking in. He wanted to recapture the pleasure he’d once taken from the best sport in the world. For far too long now, he’d cut himself off from that joy.
More than anything, though, he wanted to see a good baseball game. He wanted to smell hot dogs and drink beer, to hear the crack of a bat and the roar of the crowd. He wanted to watch his old team play, to see how his old friends were holding up, how the new players were fitting in.
Jeff sat next to him as they drove to the stadium in San Diego, and they had spent the entire last hour talking about baseball—what games they’d seen when they were kids, what players they had worshipped. Jeff had been a serious fan. The only difference in their stories was that Chris had attended the professional games with Augie, and occasionally another friend or two. Jeff didn’t elaborate on who he’d gone with, and Chris knew better than to probe.
“Rick and I are planning an experiment,” Jeff said after a break in the conversation.
“Oh, yeah?”
“We’ll need two-way radios.”
“All right.” Chris made a mental note stop by the electronics shop in Escondido the following week.
“And is it possible to get a TV in the warehouse?”
Chris glanced at him. “You want to catch Carmen’s news reports, huh?”
Jeff rubbed his temple with the palm of his hand. “Don’t talk to me about your wife,” he said. “She dissects me for public consumption and then tries to make it up to me by leaving vague notes of apology on my windshield.”
“Ex-wife,” Chris said. “She left you a note?” He remembered what Carmen had said about Jeff on the news the night before. She’d spoken to one of his childhood friends who had described Jeff as an extremely bright boy—this wasn’t news—who took up for the underdog and occasionally played pranks on other kids in junior high school. She’d added that he’d been very affected by the death of his mother, which occurred when he was thirteen.
“Yes, she left me a note,” Jeff said, in a voice that was closing the subject.
Chris switched on the radio to the sports station for the pre-game chatter. He started humming Take Me Out to the Ball Game.
“You’re up for this,” Jeff said.
“Yeah.”
“I thought you said going to a game scared the shit out of you, or something to that effect?”
Chris pressed his palms against the steering wheel. “Yeah, it does.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
Chris sighed. “Oh, that someone will recognize me and make some crack about what an asshole I was when I left, and he’ll, you know, alert the thousands of other people in the stadium to the fact that I’m there, and I’ll become your basic object of scorn. Nothing serious.” He laughed. “But as long as I’m incognito and walk in there as Joe Fan and nothing more, I think it’ll be fine.”
They found a parking space in the outer reaches of the crowded stadium lot. Daylight was fading quickly, but Chris decided to leave his sunglasses on for the walk across the parking lot. He opened the trunk of his car and produced two old brown and orange padre caps.
“Camouflage,” he said, handing one of them to Jeff. “Everyone will have them on. We’ll blend in.”
Jeff laughed, setting the cap on his head, and there was a sudden, dramatic change in his appearance. For the first time, he didn’t seem so much the outsider. He looked like a born-and-bred San Diegan.
They walked across the parking lot toward the stadium, making their way through the maze of parked cars and the cleanup detail from tailgate parties. Chris breathed in the scent of fried chicken and beer and summer stadium air, caught off guard by a pang of nostalgia.
He could feel his heart pounding against his ribs by the time they reached the ticket window. They stood next to each other in line, quietly. Chris was too anxious to talk. It was going to be all right, though. He caught a glimpse of his reflection, with sunglasses and cap, in the glass of the ticket window and hardly recognized himself.
But the grizzled, middle-aged man behind the glass had no problem at all.
“Chris Garrett!” he exclaimed, exposing a set of perfect dentures in a wide grin.
Chris tensed, his smile freezing in place. Behind him, a ripple of recognition passed through the line, and conversations stopped, only to begin again with new enthusiasm.
“How are you doing?” he asked the man, as though they were old friends. He slid enough money for two tickets under the glass shield of the window.
“Great!” Still grinning, the man passed the tickets back to him. “Good to see ya, fella,” he said. “The game hasn’t been the same since you were out there.”
“Thanks,” Chris said, surprised by the compliment. He stepped out of the line without glancing at the people behind him, and only then realized that Jeff was no longer with him. He spotted him several yards away, standing alone, facing the parking lot.
Chris walked over to hand him a ticket. Jeff touched the brim of Chris’s cap.
“Effective disguise,” he said.
“That was a fluke,” Chris said, unable to suppress his sense of delight in that early reception.
They walked under the broad concrete overhang of the stadium and through the gate. Chris took off his sunglasses. The smell of hot dogs was suddenly inescapable and seductive, and the clamor of fans already in their seats filled the air. Chris glanced at his ticket to be sure they were walking in the right direction.
“You know,” he said, eying the concessions, “I never eat hot dogs, but there’s something about a baseball game that makes me feel like I’m breaking the law if I don’t have one.”
Jeff grunted a response. He seemed preoccupied. His walk was stiff and wired. He was, Chris thought, ready to bolt.
“How about a dog and a beer before we find our seats?” Chris suggested, more directly this time.
“Hmm?” Jeff frowned. “Oh, sure. Right.”
They stood in one of the four lines leading to the concession stand, and Chris quickly became aware of the whispering on his left. People were staring, pointing. After five years away from this world, he hadn’t expected to be so easily recognizable. He lifted his chin, squared his shoulders. He wouldn’t allow himself to be thrown by anything anyone might say to him.
One of the men in the line to his left nudged him, lightly. “Haven’t been able to get my wife to come to a game since you left,” the man said, smiling.
Chris heard the compliment behind the words. He grinned. “That’s funny,” he said. “I never had any trouble getting her to come.” He cringed at his own brashness. It had been a hell of a long time since he’d let loose with that sort of innuendo, but the man let out a burst of laughter, and his friend—a man with a dark pony tail and a small hoop in one ear—joined in.
“You look good, Garrett,” said a third man, from further down the line. “Politics must agree with you. How’s the arm?”
Chris raised his right arm into the air. “It’s dynamite at pushing papers across my desk.” He glanced at Jeff, who stared straight ahead from under the visor of his cap, pretending for all intents and purposes not to know him.
The men—and a couple of women—were starting to form something of a circle around him. The lines were disintegrating. He was used to this, but it hadn’t happened in a long, long time. “They don’t appreciate you out in Valle Rosa,” said an older man, who was wearing a El Cajon Little League jacket. “Come back to the Padres where you belong.”
The man with the earring touched Chris’s arm. “I met you once when I lived in New York. It was at a Mets game. I was a big Mets fan back then, no offense. I was hoping you’d get hurt or something and not be able to play, ‘cause I knew we didn’t stand a chance if you were pitching.”
Chris laughed. “Thanks, I guess.”
A boy of about ten squeezed through the crowd. He plucked a baseball card from the stack in his hand and offered it to Chris, along with a pen. “Could I have your autograph, Mr. Garrett?” he asked.
Chris dusted the top of the boy’s head with his hand. Then he signed the card, leaning it against the back of the man from New York. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d autographed a baseball card.
He was about to hand the card back to the boy when a woman popped out of the circle of people, coming to a stop directly in front of him. She was blond. Young. Pert. “Hi, Chris,” she said.
He looked at her blankly. She was with a dark-haired friend who was trying vainly to tug her away from him.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” the woman asked.
He shook his head. “No, sorry.”
“Kim Rickert,” she said. “It’s been a long time. I was from your pre-Carmen Perez days—if you know what I mean.”
The man from New York let out a hoot, and Chris colored. He had no memory of her whatsoever, but he doubted she was lying. Most likely he had slept with her once, maybe more.
Her friend groaned, tugging at her arm. “Come on, Kim.”
Kim allowed herself to be dragged away. “We miss you, Chris!” she called over her shoulder.
The men snickered as Chris put his hands over the little boy’s ears. “You didn’t hear any of that, did you?” he asked, laughing himself.
“Uh uh.” The boy grinned as he took the card and disappeared back into the throng.
Chris and Jeff had reached the front of the misshapen line. Chris noticed that three policemen who’d been served several minutes earlier were still milling around at the edge of the concession stand, obviously waiting for him. They were grinning and laughing.
“Can you handle one more autograph?” one of them asked, handing him a napkin. “It’s for my kid,” he winked.
“Yeah,” said another. “A forty-five-year-old kid.”
“I’m only forty-two,” said the first officer indignantly. He watched over Chris’s shoulder as he wrote.
When Chris looked up again, he saw that one of the other officers was staring at Jeff with narrowed eyes.
“Aren’t you that rainmaker guy?” he asked.
Chris hadn’t seen fear in Jeff’s face before, but he had no problem recognizing it now. For the first time since he’d met him, Jeff seemed at a loss for words. It was painful to see that uncertainty in him. Painful to see him afraid.
“Shit!” Chris said suddenly, and the policemen turned to look at him. “I left the binoculars in the car.”
He locked eyes with Jeff, who suffered only one brief moment of bewilderment before a look of understanding crossed his face.
“We can get by without them,” Jeff said.
“No way!” Chris said. “I’d rather get by without the beer.” He stepped out of line and turned to the police with a wave. “We’ll be back. Nice seeing you guys.”
Jeff fell into step beside him as they walked toward the exit.
Outside the stadium, the air suddenly lost its compressed, superheated quality, and Jeff drew in a long, long breath.
“Joe Fan,” he said dryly.
“Sorry. I really had no idea.”
It had grown dark outside in the short time they’d been in the stadium, and the parking lot was a mixture of light and shadow.
“I assume there are no binoculars in the car?” Jeff’s voice was flat. Tired.
“Right.”
“So what exactly is the plan here?”
Chris put his arm across Jeff’s shoulders, a little self-consciously. “We’re going to get in the car and drive back to Valle Rosa and reinstate you firmly in your hideaway at Sugarbush.”
Jeff was quiet for a moment, but Chris felt his relief.
“I could go to a movie or something and come back to pick you up,” Jeff offered. “You were really psyched for the game.”
Chris lowered his arm back to his side. “There’ll be other games,” he said, and he knew there would be. He would never be afraid of going to a game again.
They continued walking in silence, the sound of their footsteps growing louder as the roar of the crowd fell behind them.
Chris got into the car and reached over to open the door for Jeff, who was still looking uncertainly at the stadium.
“Are you sure?…” Jeff asked.
Chris nodded toward the passenger seat. “Get in,” he said to his friend. “We’re out of here.”
Neither of them spoke until they’d driven out of Mission Valley and had turned onto the freeway. Then Jeff shook his head. “Your basic object of scorn,” he teased.
Chris smiled to himself. No one had uttered a negative word about him, at least not to his face. They seemed to remember only his achievements, as if they’d developed a collective amnesia regarding his humiliating last season with the Padres.
“Would you mind pulling off?” Jeff asked suddenly, pointing to the first exit.
“Here?” Chris glanced at him in confusion.
“Uh huh.”
Chris shrugged and turned off the freeway. The ramp took them onto a road above Mission Valley.
“Stop here.” Jeff pointed to a 7-Eleven, and Chris obediently pulled into the parking lot.
“Anything you want?” Jeff asked as he got out of the car.
Shaking his head, Chris settled down to wait for him.
In a few minutes, Jeff returned with a fairly large brown bag. “Thanks,” he said, fastening his seat belt. “Now how about driving around this area for a while?”
Chris looked at him skeptically. “Is there a point to this?”
Jeff half-smiled. “Trust me.”
Chris drove for nearly a mile on the winding residential streets above the Valley. Finally, Jeff pointed to a small apartment complex. “Pull in that parking lot,” he said.
Chris did as he was told.
“All the way to the rear. That’s right.” Jeff was smiling now, and as Chris neared the far edge of the parking lot, he began to understand. They were high above Mission Valley. The stadium was below them in a circle of starry lights.
He looked at Jeff, who reached over and turned off the ignition.
“Push your seat back till you’re comfortable,” Jeff said, adjusting his own seat. Then he opened his bag. The aroma of hot dogs quickly filled the car, and Chris laughed.
Jeff pulled the hot dogs from the bag, along with two beers, a bag of unshelled peanuts and a box of cracker jacks. He leaned over to turn the key in the ignition. The radio came on, and he raised the volume until the roar of the crowd surrounded them.
He handed a beer to Chris.
“Cabrio, you are too fucking much,” Chris said, still laughing.
Jeff twisted the cap from his own beer and tapped his bottle to Chris’s. “To the Padres,” he said.
“To the rainmaker,” Chris responded, and settled back in his seat to listen for the crack of the bat.