| |
Seated in front of the same locker he’d occupied for the past six weeks, Del scrolled through the news on his phone in search of updates from up north. The clubhouse around him had been completely transformed, the veteran players having been replaced by counterparts significantly younger, brasher, and louder. Only four others on the Fort Myers roster had suited up for even a game with the big league Twins that spring, and they had been relegated to minor league camp by the second week in March.
His temporary teammates granted him a wide berth, knowing he’d be gone by the end of the weekend. Even Hardass Harnessy, who’d been elevated to managing Fort Myers this spring, let him be. He felt the isolation most acutely here in the locker room, where he sat on his stool and dressed for the opener like a ghost, present but invisible. The banter ratcheted up as game time neared, with characters like Chacchi and Chink (who wasn’t Chinese) and Bus (abbreviated from Short Bus) rehashing the previous night’s trip to Moetown, a bar Del had visited on occasion four seasons earlier. When they addressed him at all, it was as “Mr. Tanner” or “Sir,” which made him feel even older.
He lugged the burden of their deference to the on-deck circle in the bottom of the first, the dugout quieting as he mounted the steps. Something exciting was supposed to happen, and he was meant to be the catalyst.
“Show these kids how it’s done, Tanner,” Hardass called as Del dislodged the weighted sleeve from his bat. “Start us off.”
It was a meaningless game on a rehab assignment a thousand miles from where he wanted to be. But they expected greatness. The reigning A.L. Rookie of the Year against a twenty-year-old kid who was pitching in junior college last spring? Del scanned the stadium, brimming with fans. Not once in the season he spent in Fort Myers had he seen a crowd this big. He spotted two boys in the third row wearing t-shirt replicas of his Twins jersey, with a large 26 on the back. They were standing, applauding as he slowly marched to the plate. Failure was not a palatable option.
The Tampa pitcher was a tall, broad country boy with an oversized sun-baked nose that poked over the tip of his glove like a russet potato when he peered in for the sign. As the hick spun into his windup, Del resolved to watch at least one pitch, to gauge velocity. Strike one shot over the inside corner, thigh high, and he looked it into the catcher’s glove. Stepping out of the box, he tapped his cleats with the barrel of his bat and forced out a long breath. More cheese, please, he thought as he dug back in.
Country Strong reared back once more, firing a hard, straight fastball at the belt. Del strode into it, whipping the bat head through the zone, catching just enough of the bottom of the ball to redirect it over the umpire’s head and into the screen. Comfortably ahead in the count now, the young pitcher grinned as he received the new ball from the ump. He nodded several times while rubbing the horsehide, skipping the ritual of leaning in for a sign. Once more he rocked and released. Del’s bat had already broken the plane of the plate by the time he recognized the break of the slider.
As he walked back to the dugout to trade his lumber for a seat on the bench, Del glanced out to the mound. The rube was smiling, possibly laughing. He’d struck out the big leaguer. If he never accomplished another thing on the diamond, he’d still have that to brag on for the rest of his life. His story got even better when he repeated the feat in the bottom of the third. Of course, his retelling probably wouldn’t include the missile Del launched just wide of the left-field line or the three balls he worked before succumbing on the seventh pitch of the at-bat.
It was no consolation that his teammates weren’t faring much better. If he couldn’t hit Country Strong, how could they be expected to? Due up first in the sixth, Del stared out at the mound as he loosened in the on-deck circle, windmilling his bat with his right arm. It was time to knock the grin off this farm boy’s face. He’d seen the slider three times now. It wasn’t all that phenomenal if you knew what to look for. Del was replaying the pitch sequence from his last at-bat in his head when something glanced off his left thigh. A rubber band? No, it was an elastic hair band resting on the ground next to his foot. Irritated, he glared into the stands. His scowl washed into a smile when he recognized Bear Lupin’s sister Ginny, her freckled breasts nearly falling out of her spaghetti-string tank top as she leaned over the railing waving her arms at him.
“I been calling your name forever.”
“Sorry.” He handed the hair band back to her. “I have to block people out.”
“How’ve you been? I’ve missed you.”
“Been better,” Del laughed. “I’d like to teach this kid some humility.”
“First pitch fastball. Almost every hitter so far.”
“Let’s go, batter,” the plate umpire called, stepping toward Del.
“Big hit, big hit, now,” Ginny shouted. “You got him, Del!”
He took three mechanical practice cuts as he walked to the plate. It’s my turn, he thought. I’ve allowed this kid too many highlights already. Come on, dickhead. Bring it.
Del clenched his teeth and stared hard as the big, thick right-hander wound up and fired. Sure enough, he opened with another fastball. Del lifted his front foot, strode, and rotated his body through the swing, achieving perfect extension. For the first time all day he wasn’t behind the ball. He felt the tiniest vibration as the pitch met his bat, then a glimmer of jubilation as it took off toward center. As he charged out of the box he tracked the Tampa center fielder, who backpedaled a few paces, then camped. Del had just caught the underside of the ball.
“Dammit.” He tomahawked his bat into the turf as he jogged to first. When the center fielder recorded the fly out Del peeled off and returned to the dugout.
“Tanner,” Hardass barked as Del clattered down the steps.
“What?”
“Relax, kid. You wouldn’t be here if your swing was right, would ya?”
Del nodded. He pulled off his batting gloves slowly, watching Harnessy study the next batter.
“You’re overanxious,” the manager said. “It’s gonna take a few days. Don’t let it eat you up.”
Del finished his oh-fer with a grounder to first in the eighth, opening up too soon on a breaking pitch from the third Tampa reliever of the night. He showered quickly and filed out of the clubhouse ahead of most of his teammates. Halfway to the parking lot he heard Ginny calling his name. When she caught up she spread her arms and wrapped them around his neck.
“Tough night,” she said.
“Yeah. I can’t even hit A-ball pitching anymore.”
“You’ll get ’em tomorrow.”
“I hope so.”
“Where you off to?”
“Nowhere. Just back to the hotel. Watch some TV. Call Dana in a bit.”
“Want some company?”
They walked in silence for several seconds while Del deliberated. What was the protocol on a best friend’s ex? Was he supposed to shun her out of solidarity? No. He gave her his hotel room number and watched her jog off toward her car, her terry-cloth shorts screaming “PINK” in bold, block letters that hugged her toned posterior.
Del straightened the room, chucking the lunch trash from the table and folding the clothes that had been tossed on the bed earlier that afternoon. Then he sat down and dialed Dana’s number. After one ring it went to voice mail. She had bounced him. Probably still at work, though it was past seven in Seattle.
“Hey. Had a shitty night at the plate. Struck out twice. Could use a little cheering up. Call me back. Love you.”
Two minutes later his phone buzzed with a text message. “Sorry. With a client. Try u later. Love u 2.”
Just as he set it down, it went off again, with another text. This one came from Edsell. “Howd it go? 2 hits 4 me. Hitting 500.”
Del pecked a reply on the virtual keyboard: “0-4. 2 K. Sucked ass.”
Another buzz. “Hang in there. Get em back tomorrow.”
Then another, an incoming call from a number Del didn’t recognize with a local 239 area code. He let it go to voice mail. A minute later the phone buzzed again, indicating a message.
“Buenas noches, señor,” said the deep voice of Angel Cardona. “Jesus is home tonight. He is most grateful for your assistance. He will do what he can, but asks me to remind you to think of him and his two little boys sometimes in his time of need. We will be in touch.”
Del stared hard at the phone vibrating in his sweaty palm. How the hell did Angel get his number? Since changing phones he’d given the new one out very sparingly. Close friends, family, Wicker, the Twins—no one who would have passed it along.
The message sounded worse when he replayed it. Was Jesus shaking him for more? That’s what it sounded like. Del listened once again. Before it finished there was a knock at the door. He switched the phone off and tossed it on the bed, then squinted through the security peephole. Ginny stood outside in a shimmery black hoodie holding a white paper bag in one hand and a bottle of peach schnapps in the other.
From the sack she pulled three chicken sandwiches, two orders of waffle-cut fries, and a wad of napkins, which she spread atop the table in the breakfast nook corner of the room.
“These are great,” Del said. “We don’t have anything like this back home. Too bad they violate every rule of my diet.”
“We grew up on these. When my brother had to gain weight for football he’d pound down four of them for lunch.”
“Good God. How big did he get?”
“Maybe two-eighty-five. He lost most of it when he quit.”
“That’s probably what messed up his knees.”
“Yeah,” Ginny said. “It’s just as well. He wasn’t quick enough for the pros. He’s better off now.”
“It’s awesome that he made it this year. He shot right through the system. I mean, for a trainer. Most of them get stuck in A-ball forever.”
“I was just glad he beat Ryan.”
Thus began the Edsell bashing. Del wouldn’t be baited into joining. He was, however, curious enough about what had happened that he didn’t cut her off. Edsell hadn’t provided much beyond the bare facts: They’d broken up sometime before Christmas. Even that much he hadn’t shared until three weeks later. So Del let Ginny unload, assuring her twice that nothing she said would leave the room. Her presentation, which had evidently been practiced on her girlfriends, opened with a Facebook page bookmarked on her phone. It was a photo of a dozen or so people on a patio outside a house Del recognized from his time playing in Mexico. In the foreground stood Jamie Leese, a former Twins farmhand now playing in the Brewers organization, and his wife. When expanded, Edsell was visible in the background, sitting on a chaise lounge with a girl on his lap, her hand snaked under the waistband of his shorts.
Ginny cited two other times she had caught him stepping out over their four years together. Del knew of at least three additional instances between New Britain and Rochester when Edsell had hooked up on road trips. He wouldn’t betray those secrets tonight. He was only here to listen.
He let her fill his glass halfway and took only the occasional sip of schnapps, to be polite. She drained hers like it was milk. The next time she spun the cap open he shook his head and stretched his fingers over the rim of his cup.
“We broke up a couple years ago,” she said, tipping her glass back. “Did you know that?
“We were apart for almost three months.” She continued without pausing for his reply. “Then he came down for training camp and showed up with a bunch of roses, and I took him back. I must be stupid.”
“No, you’re not. He’s a good guy. Really. And he loved you.”
“So why’d he cheat?”
Del shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s a horn dog. But he was so much worse before you. I lost track of how many girls he brought to our place in Davenport. Any night we’d go out, it was about eighty percent chance he’d bring someone home.”
“Dana’s so lucky to have someone like you.”
Del lifted his glass and examined the contents. With some effort he drew a mouthful in through his locked teeth. “Not sure she always thinks so lately.”
“Why?”
“Kind of a long story. She wants a baby. Bad. And it hasn’t really worked out so far. Ahhh, whatever.”
“You talk to her tonight?”
“Left her a message. She only texted me back. She was at some business dinner or something. Too busy to talk. You know, she works like eighty hours a week sometimes. Weekends, too.”
“She must really like it.”
“I guess. I don’t get who would work when they didn’t have to, you know. We could easily get by on what I make. But she won’t even think of quitting. It kills me. We broke up because we were apart too much, and now she won’t come join me. It feels sometimes like her career is more important than our relationship.”
“What about yours?”
“What do you mean?”
Ginny poured herself another glass of schnapps, leaving the bottle less than half full. “Well, to me it sounds like she must make enough to pay for both of you, right? I mean with all those hours, et cetera.”
“Maybe.”
“So why don’t you quit and stay home with her?”
“Why would I quit? This is all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Yet you want her to quit her job, which to her is probably like playing baseball is to you.”
“Maybe.”
“Ryan thought the same. Of course, he wasn’t making shit. Still wanted me to just hang out with him all summer, like I was following Phish around on tour or something. My job sucks, but I still need to make some kind of living. I can’t, like, sell brownies out of a van in the corner of the stadium parking lot.”
Del laughed.
“But I’m serious. We almost broke up over it last spring. Once I graduated I guess he thought I should become a player wife. God, there’s nothing more pathetic than the girls who travel around with the team. In the minors, I mean. It’d be different with the Twins.”
“When he gets called up tell him you changed your mind.”
“Too late.”
“I still think you guys will get back together.”
“We won’t.” She sucked in a broken breath, shaking as her lungs filled. “He hurt me too much this winter.” Ginny lifted the back of her hand to her mouth and shut her eyes tight. Before opening them again she smudged tears out of both sides with her thumb. “Why did Ryan cheat on me? We were so good together.”
Del slid his chair around the side of the table until it touched hers. She wrapped an arm around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s hard to be alone sometimes.”
“What about for you?”
“I hate it. It was actually easier before I got promoted. I roomed with Edsell since we were in Elizabethton. I always had him around. It’s not the same anymore. And it’s worse for me in Minnesota, if you can believe it. I have a one bedroom apartment and I just sit around at night watching TV. At least on road trips there are other guys to hang out with. I hate being alone.”
“Me too.”
Del rubbed her back with his left hand, kneading into her satiny sweatshirt with his thumb. The pace of her sobbing slowed and transitioned into slightly less awkward sniffling.
“You’ll find someone nice again, Ginny. You just got to give it a little time to get him out of your system, then ...”
“It’s going to take a while before I can trust someone again, you know? But some nights I just wish I had someone to hold me. I’m tired of being alone.”
Del stood and pulled her up. When they embraced, his chin sat atop the part that sent twin waves of ginger hair cascading away from the center of her scalp. Her fingers gripped into his back and he could feel the warm wetness of her tears on his shoulder.
“You can stay here tonight if you want,” he said. “Bed’s plenty big enough. You can have the side by the bathroom.”
Her head nodded against his chest.
“You shouldn’t be driving anyway.”
As he brushed his teeth and undressed, his reflection admonished him for not having driven her home. Returning to the bedroom, he found Ginny’s hoodie and shorts on the floor at the foot of the bed. She was curled up under the comforter, facing the wall. He latched the chain lock on the door, cut off the light on the nightstand, and slid under the covers, leaving three feet of space between them. Was she asleep already? No. He felt her weight shift on the mattress.
“Del?” Her hand touched his arm.
“Yeah?”
“Can you hold me again?”
“Yeah.”
She wriggled across the sheet until her body was so close he could feel her breasts through his t-shirt. He worked his hand under the bottom of her tank top and held it against the small of her back. Within seconds he sprouted an erection that stole through the flimsy fly of his boxers. Where was that when he needed it last week? He drew his hips back to keep it from making contact. Part of him wanted her to reach down and touch it. He imagined how her fingers would feel on his skin, sliding from the tip down the shaft and back up again. If he initiated something would she reciprocate? Could he play it off as a joke if she didn’t? Did it make him a horrible person to even think about it?
Ginny’s breathing slowed as his quickened. Her mouth fell open just enough that he could feel the warm clouds of schnapps-infused air moisten the skin on his neck when she exhaled. She was asleep. Crisis averted.