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Within a week the pain below Del’s rib cage began to subside. Whether the growth hormone played a role or his body was finally ready to heal itself, he couldn’t say. He didn’t care either way. He just wanted to get back on the field. The Twins played it cautious, ordering him not to swing a bat for another four days after he claimed to be pain free. They then shipped him down to Fort Myers for a rehab stint in the Gulf Coast League, the lowest level on the long climb to the big leagues, populated by recent high school grads and Latin kids getting their first U.S. exposure. A willowy kid with wispy blond sideburns made him look silly his first at-bat, fanning him on a high fastball in his eyes. Del got his revenge in his next trip to the plate, launching the second pitch he saw into the lagoon beyond right field. Three days later he was back in Rochester.
He picked up where he had left off, collecting three hits in an extra-inning win over Pawtucket. The next afternoon his eighth-inning double plated two, sparking another victory. Every highlight, however, was matched by one on a grander stage up in Minnesota, where Frank Teetham ranked third in the American League in RBIs. Teammate after teammate was summoned to fill a hole on the big club, while Del anchored the Rochester lineup, a fixture in the cleanup hole, one spot ahead of Edsell, whose own numbers had plateaued after a hot April.
Del’s callup finally came on Labor Day weekend, when the Twins welcomed him and four of his Triple-A teammates for their September initiation. Edsell wasn’t among them.
“Hasta la vista,” Edsell said from the driver’s seat of his Jeep Cherokee when he dropped Del at the airport.
Del reached his right hand across the center console. “See you in Mexicali.”
“You still going, Mr. Big Leaguer?” Edsell’s wan smile flickered out even as he maintained his firm grip on Del’s hand. Neither seemed intent on breaking off the handshake.
“Of course I am. Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”
Del was assigned uniform number sixty-eight and a locker on the fringe end of the clubhouse, near the showers. Outside of outfielder Roland Henderson, who fancied himself as the unofficial team social director, none of the veterans spoke to him as he dressed for his first game. He and fellow Rochester refugee Regan Flint whispered to each other as they buttoned their jerseys, then stood in shallow right field as veterans lined batting practice balls above and around them. They sat at the far end of the dugout, watching everything and saying nothing, until Flint was summoned to the bullpen to warm up a reliever in the top of the seventh. Never had Del felt more isolated. Or more alive. Four years, two months, and twenty-two days since he signed, he had made it.
On his third night, in front of a packed Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, he was waved to the on-deck circle to pinch-hit for catcher Julio Morales with a runner on first and one out in the bottom of the seventh, down 4-3 to the first-place Tigers. His innards quivered as if he’d touched a live electrical wire when his name was announced to the crowd of 43,462. Del closed his eyes and envisioned the first pitch he would see from Detroit’s right-handed setup man. He saw himself striding into it and connecting, just as he’d done thousands of times on diamonds since he first suited up as a seven-year-old Little Leaguer. He knocked the handle of his bat against the artificial turf, dislodging the weighted donut, and started for the plate, soaking up the nervous energy of the crowd. Before he’d gone three steps, the Detroit manager popped out of the opposing dugout, his left arm raised high above his head. Del retreated to the on-deck circle, refusing to look back at his own bench, pleading under his breath to be allowed to face the southpaw. The announcement came over the PA system before the new Tigers reliever had even completed his warmups: “Now pinch-hitting for Tanner, number twenty-nine, Warren Hebner.”
With the Twins just three games back of Detroit, that was as close as Del came to seeing game action his first week in the big leagues. Six days after his callup, he was bound for his hometown, as the Twins kicked off a nine-game West Coast swing. His cell phone went nuclear, ringing so frequently he finally had to turn it off. When he checked his messages after the club’s charter flight landed in Seattle he tallied seventeen requests for tickets to Friday night’s tilt with the Mariners, including two from guys he hadn’t seen since the day he graduated high school. After checking into the team hotel and calling Milo, he collapsed fully dressed atop the covers of his bed. Two hours later he was awakened by a knock on his door.
“Hey, Rook.” It was Roland Henderson, the veteran cleanup hitter. He was built like a mountain, rugged and strong, though a tick short for a big league outfielder at 5-foot-9. “We’re going down for lunch. You in?”
“Nah, I’m going to go meet my dad. I appreciate the invite, though.”
“That’s right, you’re from here, ain’t ya. Tell your pops I said hey.”
“Sure thing.”
“We’re hitting some clubs tonight after the game. You can come if you want. Your boy Flint’s in.”
“All right. I’ll let you know. Thanks.”
Del stopped in a deli across the street and ordered two chicken sandwiches and a cab, which arrived just as he emerged, his yet warm lunch tucked in a paper bag under his arm. The driver asked him three times in a thick Southeast Asian accent to clarify his destination.
“The Ballard Bridge. On the bridge.”
“Whey? Watchuwan?”
“The tender’s station. Middle of the bridge.”
“No, no, no. No stop they.”
In the end he was left at the north end of the span, as the cabbie sped away cursing in broken English. By the time he hiked down to the tender’s tower, Milo was leaning over the railing, waving him up.
“Hustle,” he called, as Del mounted the metal stairway. “I got two sailboats coming.”
The tower station stood well above the vehicles passing on the bridge below. With the clear skies they could see for miles both directions down the Lake Washington Ship Canal. The sailboats approached under motor power from the east, the lead vessel signaling up to the tower with a long blast followed by a short one. Milo tooted back, then pushed a series of buttons on his control board that dropped barriers to halt car traffic and started the twin bascule drawbridge leaves skyward.
On the desk behind his father, Del noted a paperback Philip Roth novel, spread facedown where Milo had left off, and a copy of the morning paper, folded open to a short story about the local boy who had just been recalled by the Twins. Several yellowed articles were taped up in the limited wall space above a dorm-sized refrigerator, a shrine to his accomplishments dating all the way back to the day he and former high-school teammate Doug Halling were drafted.
The opposing ramps had barely reached a forty-five-degree angle to the roadway when the boats slipped through and started on toward the Ballard Locks and points farther west. Milo reversed the process, lowering the roadway and lifting the barriers, and within minutes vehicle traffic resumed over the bridge.
“Sorry about that.” Milo unwrapped his sandwich on his lap. “Duty calls, you know.”
“Sure is peaceful up here.”
“Until one of those trucks rumbles past. I thought we were having another quake yesterday. Was just a tanker truck.”
“You were up here for the big one, right?”
“I’ve been up here for three of them now, including that little one last fall. Almost enough to make me start talking to God sometimes. Doubtful I’d get a response.”
“I been doing a little desperation prayer myself lately. I gotta do something.”
“You haven’t even batted, have you?”
“I gotta do something in BP. Show them I’m an option. I’ve hit for crap all week.”
“Your time will come. Just stay ready. Nothing more you can do.”
“I know. I just want a chance, though. Especially this weekend. It would be so sweet to get it here.”
His name wasn’t in the lineup when he reported to Safeco Field that afternoon. As he had done all week, he loosened up with Flint and took extra cuts off the tee to stay sharp, just in case. He watched the stadium fill from the top step of the dugout, scanning for familiar faces. He’d managed to accommodate a dozen of the ticket requests, adding nearly half his high-school team to the pass list in addition to his parents, aunt and uncle, and older cousin. They went home disappointed. Del wasn’t called upon in Minnesota’s one-run victory.
Roland Henderson’s hotel-room door was wedged open with a damp bath towel when Del arrived after the game. From inside, the rumbling whirr of the bathroom vent and the voices of SportsCenter talking heads drowned out the sound of his knuckles rapping on the door. He finally gave up on knocking and pushed his way in.
“Damn, you rookies are punctual.” Henderson emerged from the steamy bathroom without so much as a washcloth covering his loins, his cinnamon-brown skin glistening with moisturizing cream.
Flint nodded from the bed, where he leaned against the headboard with a pillow cushioning his back. Del grabbed a second pillow and propped himself up likewise, staring hard at the screen while the yet nude Henderson rummaged through his suitcase. A moment later, with no more modesty than David, the veteran stood in front of the mirror brushing his hair. He caught Del’s eye in the glass and let out a loud chuckle.
“What’s the matter, Rook? Never seen one this big before?”
“Yeah,” Del answered. “That’s the problem.”
“Just relax, man. Won’t hurt a bit.”
“If that’s the initiation,” Flint said, “I’m going back to Rochester.”
Henderson laughed. “Gotta take care of my skin, baby. Gotta let it breathe. The ladies like me silky smooth.” He launched into the chorus of Santana’s “Smooth,” singing not just the words but also the guitar licks as he scoured his tiny curls with the brush. “I’ll be dressed in a couple minutes. Then we can go. Hey, Rook, maybe you know somebody there.”
“Where are we going?” Del asked.
Henderson shrugged his muscled shoulders. “Where ain’t we going? Starting off at the Lux. Place is pumping. It’s down toward that market where they throw them fish around. Wall to wall hotties when we were here in June. Damn.”
There were six of them squeezed into the taxi van the hotel concierge had summoned for their five-minute ride to Second Avenue, just up from the waterfront. Del got stuck up front, left out of the conversation. “You got this one, Rook?” Henderson called as he exited the van. “Don’t forget to tip the man.” Del peeled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to their driver. By the time he stepped down onto the sidewalk his teammates were almost to the door. Only Flint paused as he jogged to catch up.
“That kind of sucked,” Flint said. The young catcher had also been used sparingly since their callup, though he’d at least gotten into a game as a defensive replacement.
“It’s all right,” Del replied. “At least we’re here to get stuck with the tab.”
“I’ll get the ride back.”
“Those guys aren’t coming back with us, I bet.”
“No,” Flint agreed. “You’re probably right.”
They followed their teammates to the door, ignoring the odd comment from the twenty or thirty people standing in line. With a word from Henderson, the bouncer waved them in, marking the backs of their right hands with a fluorescent stamp. Henderson wove through the crowded front room, to a long marble bar tended by four women in tight-fitting black tank tops.
“Oh, no,” one of the bartenders called. “Here comes trouble.”
“Evening, ladies,” Henderson said. “We’re here to inspect the premises.”
A second tap keeper, whose name tag read “Don’t Even Ask,” leaned forward against the counter. “You boys look a little familiar.”
“We should,” Henderson said. “We’re the Beatles.”
“Ahh, no wonder,” she said. “Which one is Ringo again?”
“I’m Ringo,” said Don Lemon, a reliever who had pitched a scoreless seventh inning a couple hours earlier.
“And this is George.” Henderson tapped utility infielder Al Tenney on the shoulder. “Over there is John.” He waved toward pitcher Hank Poteat, who nodded coolly as he fingered the World Series ring he’d earned two years earlier with the White Sox. “And I’m Paul.” He winked at the woman, who smiled back.
“And who are these two?” asked the first woman, whose name tag said “Tip Big, You Never Know.”
“Those are our roadies,” Henderson laughed. “They don’t have names.”
“What are we going to call them, then?” Tip Big asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Henderson said. “They don’t talk. They’re just rookies.”
“That’s a shame,” Don’t Even Ask said. “Do they drink?”
“They do tonight.” Henderson laid a crisp hundred dollar bill on the counter. “Bottle of Chivas.”
Tip Big lined six square glasses on the counter and rattled three ice cubes into each. She broke the seal on a new bottle of Chivas and ran it up the line of glasses and back until the whiskey was level in all six. Del eyed his dubiously as the veterans hoisted theirs, tapping them firmly together before tipping them back. Flint raised his high and took its contents down in one long gulp, leaving Del the only one with a full serving. Closing his eyes, he lifted the glass to his lips and tilted his head back. He drew the alcohol in in waves, each surging into his mouth like the surf filling a tidal pool before clearing his throat and burning a path to his stomach. When he opened his eyes the four veterans had disappeared.
“Guess we’re on our own now,” Flint said.
Del shrugged. It was just as well. He wouldn’t have lasted much longer drinking twelve-year-old Scotch. He ordered a light beer and Flint followed suit. The crowd around them was made up of predominantly late-twenties professionals in expensive casual clothing. Duds they could have purchased at Goodwill but instead had dropped two bills on at Nordstrom. Button-down shirts and worn dungarees for the men, while the women’s outfits varied from slinky black dresses to hoodies.
They made their way to a smaller back room, where people danced on an elevated stage to music spun by a D.J. with a red mohawk and a knotted beard. Del sipped his beer and watched the people shimmying under the pulsing light, spotting Henderson and Poteat rubbing up against a pair of women who didn’t seem to mind. And just beyond them, separated by a small, round table that had become a dumping spot for empty glasses, stood Dana.
She wore a strapless red dress that barely reached the middle of her thighs. She hadn’t been this slender since high school. Only now she had breasts and hips. And the guts to show them off. Even her neck and arms were toned enough Del could denote the difference all the way across the room. Standing next to her, were two other women, similarly dressed, laughing so hard their heads rested on each other’s shoulders. Or crying. From this distance he couldn’t swear to either. But Dana was definitely smiling.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“What?” Flint asked.
“My ex is here. I don’t want to run into her. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
Del pointed her out, then lifted his hand to his face and watched her through the spaces between his fingers.
“Very nice, Tanner. But why run? Let’s flag down a couple of girls. Those ones over there would do.” He indicated two very well put together young women, leaning against a tall bar table, sipping neon blue concoctions. “Best way to deal with an ex is make her jealous.”
“I don’t want to make her jealous. I want her back.”
“So why do you want to leave? Go talk to her.”
What would he say? Hi? Then what? He’d envisioned a hundred conversations with her over the last two years. Most of his fantasy dialogues began with them hugging or holding hands. In intimate space. Not once had he imagined they’d meet like this. As strangers in a dance club packed beyond the maximum capacity dictated by the city fire marshal.
“I can’t think of anything to say.”
“Have another drink. Something will come to you.”
Del drained the remains of his first beer as they waited on line for a second. He kept his eyes trained on the entrance to the smaller interior room. Perhaps if he stationed himself right in the traffic flow, she would see him first when she came out. Maybe she would initiate the conversation. What might she say? Finally at the front of the line, he caught Don’t Even Ask’s eye and lifted his empty bottle. She held his crisp twenty to the light to check whatever it was they checked to ensure it wasn’t counterfeit, then ferried it to the register at the far end of the bar.
“Tanner.” Flint planted an elbow in his ribs. “Ain’t that her?”
Dancing as much as walking, Dana cut through the crowd, trailed by her two friends. She paused momentarily and exchanged words with someone, then resumed her march.
“They’re leaving, dude. Get moving.”
“I need my change.”
“Fuck that. Go after her.”
Del turned sideways and knifed into the knot of people immediately behind them. Every third step he hit a roadblock—an oblivious couple making out, a party of five uninterested in moving, a wide-bodied fellow fighting equally as hard to work his way toward the bar Del had just left. Dana’s progress was slow, but more fluid. She was nearly to the door, would be already had she not halted several times to allow her friends to catch up. Del gave up on picking his way through the multitudes in favor of a more forceful approach. “Excuse me,” he called, lowering his shoulder into a girl’s back. “Sorry. Sorry. Excuse me. Coming through.” He shrugged off the dirty looks and advanced, redoubling his efforts when he saw her disappear out the front entrance.
“Move,” he yelled. “Please.” And people did. Fifteen feet from the door he finally found enough space to run.
“Whoa, hold on,” the bouncer yelled as he burst through the exit. “You can’t take that outside.”
Del thrust his still-full beer into the security man’s hand and continued on to the sidewalk. It was nearly deserted. To his left, three girls smoked cigarettes. The wrong three girls. To his right, nothing. He stopped to listen for voices, laughter, footsteps. Anything.
“Where is she?” Flint appeared on the sidewalk behind him, having somehow managed to smuggle his own beer out.
“Gone.”