7

MY GAME

The good feeling between Dad and me didn’t last much beyond the first inning. As soon as the game against Ritter’s Diner started it went in two directions at once. There was my game, and there was Dad’s game. My game was calm, his was not. First, like Dad said, the caveman with the rock rules. And I had the rock. I know I told Mom I liked baseball, but not all of it. I only liked the pitching part, which to me was still like throwing rocks at targets in the back yard, except with a baseball game there were a lot of other people standing around staring at me, which I didn’t like because all those eyes made me itchy and nervous.

I loved being on the mound. I thought of it as a giant patch under my feet. As long as I was standing on it I was fine. But when I stepped off, the whole world would spin around like a top.

That’s why I never covered first on a grounder to the first baseman because it meant leaving the mound. I didn’t want to do it, so I didn’t do it, even when Dad yelled out, “Don’t make me come onto the field and drag you over there next time!” I knew he wasn’t going to come out to the mound. He had been out twice before to yell at me for not listening to him and the ump told him if he came out a third time he’d have to change pitchers. So he just stood by the dugout and hollered at me, but I didn’t even look at him. Between batters I just strolled toe-to-heel around the edge of my mound like a tightrope walker. And if a batter happened to get a hit, then I just struck out the next batter. I also refused to back up the catcher on a throw to the plate even when Dad ordered me to do it. “You have to do it!” he commanded. “I’m your coach. I’m your father!” I just turned my back on him and stared off into the outfield while everyone ran around chasing the ball, or trying to stay away from it. I didn’t catch infield pop-ups even when Dad pointed up into the air at them from the coach’s box and called out that it was mine to catch. If I couldn’t reach it from the mound, I let it drop or someone else had to catch it. And I didn’t field bunts either. I just stood my ground and threw the rock. That’s all I did, which was enough. I left everything else for the other guys to do.

By about the fourth inning Dad had gone ballistic, which by then I understood was easy to make him do. The more he yelled the less I did, and the more he lost control.

“Joey,” he hollered with his hands cupped around his mouth after I let a pop-fly bunt drop about an inch outside the mound and a run scored from third. “Please, son. If you are mad at me just say so. Don’t blow the game. We can talk about why you’re mad at me later. But for the love of Pete please pick up the bunts before the whole darn team figures out they can bunt their way to victory.”

I wasn’t worried about their bunting. I just rolled my head around like my neck was tight and kept my mouth shut. The mound was a good place for me to think and I guess I was silent with Dad to pay him back for all the times I’d hoped he would come and talk to me but never did. So I was just giving him a taste of his own medicine. Then, as he flew into the middle of another yelling spree, I’d strike out the next batter and make him smile and holler things like, “You’re the man!”

But after three outs I had to leave the mound and go to the dugout, which I dreaded. I left the ball on the rubber for the next pitcher and then pulled my hat all the way down over my face like it was a Halloween mask, and peeked out the little air-vent holes. I wished the other team had all their twenty-seven outs in a row. Because when I got off I had to listen nonstop to Dad, but worse, I had to bat, and I hated to bat more than anything I ever did in my life. I didn’t like people throwing rocks at me because really, it reminded me of the times when I used to run like a crazy rabbit all the way home from school with kids chasing me and throwing real rocks at me which sometimes hit me and hurt. Every time I stood at the plate and watched the pitcher wind up, I could feel every muscle in my body getting stiff and contorted and so when I took a swing I closed my eyes and looked like I was hacking at a piñata. And it was the laughs and boos of the other players along with Dad’s constant jawing that bothered me most. I just wanted to hit the ball to shut everyone up, but I couldn’t get near it, and all the way back to the dugout with my chin down and the bat dragging a line in the clay I could hear those words hurled at me like stones.

“Whiff king!”

“Pansy bat!”

“Turnstile!”

I wanted us to score a lot of runs and win the game but I was always happy when our team got its third out and I could go back to the mound and do only what I was good at, which was throw hard at the catcher’s glove and let the rest of the team do everything else.

We beat Ritter’s Diner seven to three. It was easy. And I could tell that the people who saw the game knew what Dad knew, that I was an awesome caveman with a rock.

The moment I struck out the last batter Dad got all happy again and stopped being so intense, which made me happy too. “That’s my boy out there!” he yelled to everyone in the stands. “He’s the pride of the Pigzas!” Even Grandma stood and held Pablo up to her chest and he was yapping and paddling his arms and legs with happiness just as Dad was. I stood on the mound and wished that moment would never end. But it did. People stopped cheering and started walking toward their cars and I put the ball on the rubber and headed for the dugout.

Instead of going home Leezy invited us to the store. She and Grandma and Pablo went to pick up a pizza. On the way over Dad kept talking and talking about how I crushed them, stomped them, and atomized them. I looked over at his mouth, which never seemed to close—not even the lips touched together—and it made me dizzy to listen to him, and I cringed when he said he’d been “thinking again.”

“Your coming to visit has been the greatest gift to me,” he said. “You make me feel like a winner. That is the best thing that has ever happened to me except now I feel so darn guilty.” He hung his head. “I’ve been an awful dad and here you are a great kid and I sure would feel a lot better if I could give you something so great it would make up for everything.”

I was going to tell him that it wasn’t important to make up for everything. That what we were doing right now was fine with me, but before I could get my thoughts into words he suddenly swerved sharply and stopped in front of a little store. “Be right back,” he said, and left the engine running.

As soon as he was out of sight I slid over to the driver’s seat. I held the steering wheel. I reached forward and touched the gas pedal with my toe. The engine roared. I pressed the brake.

I was adding up how many years it would be before I got my license when Dad jumped into the passenger side with a bag of ice. “Put it in gear, big man, and take me to the mall.”

“Are you joking?” I asked.

“Half,” he said. “But give it a try. If you mess up I’ll just reach over and grab the wheel.”

Maybe this is what happens when you become a winner, I thought. You get to do really good stuff. I put my foot on the brake and pushed the gearshift into reverse and when I lifted my foot we rolled out into the street.

“Put it in drive,” Dad said.

I did. Then I straightened out the wheel and pressed on the gas, but I was so short that when I slouched down to press the gas I couldn’t see over the dashboard. Then I felt Dad grab the steering wheel.

“You work the pedals,” he said, “I’ll work the wheel.” And we did that all the way into the parking lot.

“Can I get a car?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “I started driving when I was your age. My dad had a farm and I used to drive the tractor everywhere.”

That made me happy and all I could think about was me behind the wheel of a car, zipping all over the place with Pablo sitting up on the dashboard like some kind of yapping dog horn.

As soon as we got to the mall I wanted to run around and do all the kid stuff. “Can I have fifty cents?” I asked Dad. “I want to ride the bucking bronco.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a dime. “Go over to the wishing well,” he said, pointing to a little fountain. “See if there are some quarters in there.”

“I can’t do that,” I said. “It’s stealing.”

“No it’s not,” he replied. “The janitor just takes it anyway. Now go get some quarters.”

“I can’t,” I said.

“Then skip it,” he said. “Let’s get to the store so I can ice your arm down. We don’t want any swelling. You got to pitch in a few days, but don’t worry. A kid with your talent can pitch every three days, no problem.”

“Can I have a Coke?” I asked. “I’m thirsty.”

“Leezy and Grandma and Pablo will be here any minute,” he said. “She’s bringing pop.”

When we arrived at the store Dad waved to the man at the cash register. “Hello, Jake. We’re going to the back room to ice down this rocket.”

Jake looked at me and smiled. “Already heard about you, young fellow. Gonna make Steel City Sports a winner.”

“Hope so,” I replied, then followed Dad to Leezy’s office, where he found an old T-shirt that he stuffed with ice and taped around my arm.

I was really happy when Leezy, Pablo, and Grandma arrived because Dad was just talking a mile a minute while my arm froze and cold drops of water dripped from my fingertips onto the carpet.

“What an arm,” Leezy said. “You were fabulous.” Then she opened a small refrigerator and pulled out two beers. She twisted the top off one for Dad and one for herself. “To the hope of Steel City Sports,” she said, clinking bottles with Dad.

Dad put the bottle to his lips and tilted the bottom up for a moment and when he set it down it was empty. And in an instant he had his hand wrapped around another. “That first one was so lonely, it needs a friend to keep it company,” he said, smiling.

“Dad,” I started, but before I could say anything else he read my mind and started talking.

“It’s beer,” he replied, and held the bottle up for me to see. “Drinking beer is not like drinking whiskey or vodka. It’s beer. You know, soda pop for grownups.”

I didn’t know what to say so I smiled at him and said the goofiest thing that came into my mind. “Can I have a beer too?” I asked.

“No,” he blurted out with so much force a little beer foam leaked out the corner of his mouth and he wiped it off on his wrist. “Absolutely not. Where did you get that idea?”

Grandma was opening the pizza and sliding slices onto paper plates. “He didn’t get it from me,” she said. “Remember, Carter, I didn’t let you drink until you made the junior varsity baseball team.”

I looked down at Pablo. “Pablo might like a beer,” I suggested.

“Well, he’ll get one long before you. As soon as Pablo is three dog years old he’ll be twenty-one human years and he can drink an ocean of beer if he wants. But not until then.”

Still, even though we were joking around, I knew beer was bad and he shouldn’t be drinking it.

Dad stopped talking long enough to glance over at Leezy, who was staring at him like something was wrong.

“I’d better go check on how Jake’s doing,” she said, putting her unfinished beer on her desk. “I gotta close out the register and lock up.”

As soon as she left Dad reached for her beer and just as quickly finished it.

“Dad,” I said again, but couldn’t get the rest of the words out before he talked right over me.

“There’s no reason to get excited and tell you-know-who because you know how she can get. And we don’t want her getting all worked up and ruining our father-son fun just because of a little beer.”

I wasn’t thinking about how she can get. I was wondering how he could get. Mom had always told me that he went from a lamb to a lion in no time flat once he had a drink. And as I looked at him change in front of my eyes I started thinking about myself, because it was like my patch had disappeared and I was suddenly back to my old wired Joey again.

As soon as he went to the toilet Grandma said, “Remember what I told you. As soon as he gets a new girlfriend he thinks he can handle a drink. But mark my words, he can’t. If you think he’s bad to talk now, wait until he has a few under his belt and I promise you you’ll tape your ears shut. God only knows why I put up with it. I guess it’s always the same for a mom. Yours puts up with you because you are her son, and I put up with him for the same reason.”

When Dad came out of the bathroom he suddenly looked at his watch. “We better get going,” he said.

“I’m tired,” I replied. I unwrapped the tape from around the T-shirt and shook the ice out in the trash can. Then I lifted Pablo off the seat of his chair where he had been eating little round slices of pepperoni I had set aside for him. “I want to go to bed,” I announced. I said good night to Leezy on my way out to the car and fell asleep to the sound of Dad’s voice as he drove home.