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The move north cost Del a clear view of the sun and nearly forty degrees Fahrenheit. The thermometer in the right-field alley claimed thirty-four as he stood at the top of the dugout steps, dreading the approaching moment when he’d shed his lined jacket. He’d grown up wearing sweatshirts under his uniform as protection against the damp, Pacific Northwest spring, but the two months in Florida were what his body had fresh in its memory and the contrast bordered on system shocking.
Even those natives hardy enough to pay for the privilege of spending a couple of hours in the cold were muted. Most huddled under blankets, faces peeking out from hoods or knit caps. To his right, Edsell, already acclimated by a week’s headstart in Rochester, presented bare arms, one of the brash few thumbing their noses at the lingering winter temps. When the stadium announcer called his name, Del tore his coat open in a fusillade of bursting snaps and tossed it to the batboy. As he jogged to the first-base bag, lifting his knees high to stretch the backs of his legs, the catcall came from the third-base grandstand: “STAIR-OIDS! STAIR-OIDS!” in the cadence of the old “DARR-YL!” taunts that for years had followed Darryl Strawberry.
Having missed nearly the entire Grapefruit League exhibition schedule, he’d escaped any heckling in Florida. Here, in a city that had embraced him on the way up two years earlier, a lone voice pierced the bubble. Pawing the ball in his glove, Del snuck a sidelong glimpse, spying a round mound in a XXXL-sized Red Sox sweatshirt standing in the aisle with his hands cupped around his mouth. The wind carried his voice across the frosted field.
“Fuck that guy,” Edsell barked as he ran to his position. “Impotent pussy.”
Del dug his nails into the baseball and waited for his friend to turn, then fired a three hopper that Edsell neatly plucked and lobbed back. He fed another to Paco Sanchez at shortstop, stealing a quick peek into the third-base seating area. The obnoxious Boston fan reclined in the third row, his sneakers resting on the back of the seat ahead. What would happen if Del fired the next throw off his head? He skipped it instead across the grass toward Wes Darvin, who was manning third tonight.
When the choir was announced for the national anthem, Edsell trotted toward first base.
“Fuck that fat fucker, man,” the second sacker counseled as they stood holding their caps to their breasts. “Don’t let that shit get to you.”
“I won’t.”
“Seriously, man. Fatass piece of shit probably still lives in his mom’s basement. Highlight of his pathetic, do-nothing, jerk-off life is coming out here and yelling shit at guys whose jock he’s unqualified to even wash.”
Del managed a smile.
“You just gotta tune it all out.”
“I know. He’s nothing. It’ll be a lot worse when I go back.”
“Let’s just play ball and have some fun.” Edsell whacked Del on the ass with his cap, then tugged it on and sprinted back to his position, peeking over his shoulder to signal for a final warmup grounder. He stabbed it, planted his feet, and lasered the return, pumping his fist as the ball smacked into Del’s glove.
Del flipped the ball toward the dugout and kicked at the dirt as the catcher threw down to second. The ballpark, Frontier Field, hadn’t changed perceptibly since he’d last laced up there, yet he felt like a foreigner. Like he’d felt when he returned to his high school for Homecoming as a freshman in college. It wasn’t his anymore. His rehab was turning into one long road trip.
He blew on his open hand as he leaned forward, trying to prevent his fingers from going numb. As each pitch slapped the catcher’s mitt he popped out of his crouch and bounced on his toes to keep the blood flowing. When the side was retired he clattered down the dugout steps and donned his jacket, burying his hands deep in the pockets. Due up fourth, he leaned against the railing watching the Pawtucket pitcher get loose.
“What’s this guy throw?” he asked Darvin, slated to hit ahead of him.
“Fastball, curve, decent change. Great locator. Painted the corners on us a couple times last year. If Boston wasn’t so loaded he’d be up there now.”
The Sox hurler wasted little effort returning the first two Rochester hitters to the dugout. Darvin sized up an outside fastball, flicking it the other way for a two-out single. As Del was announced, the heckler started in again.
“Got your own fan club, eh?” the Pawtucket catcher kidded as Del dug in.
“Yeah,” he replied. “That’s my brother.”
“Nice of him to come out.”
“Give me something outside I can hit him with.”
The backstop glanced up at him and shook his head and laughed. “My boy’ll kill me.”
“Come on. Just one pitch. I’m only gonna foul it.”
The catcher shrugged. “What the hell?” He shifted a few inches toward the outside corner.
Del half expected him to slide back as soon as the pitch was released, but he held steady and the ball came in hard, low, and a couple of inches off the black. Striding toward the plate, Del drove the bat through the pitch and lined it into the stands, one section over and a dozen rows too high to find his target.
“Nice try.”
“I was hoping it might at least ricochet and nail him in the back of the head.”
“Damn shame,” the Sox catcher laughed.
“One more?”
“You’re on your own now.”
Del watched three more pitches before offering again, at a 2-2 curve that was barely halfway to the plate when he swung. He stuffed his batting gloves into his helmet and handed both to the batboy, then walked up the line to wait for Edsell, who couriered his mitt, cap, and a ball.
“That on purpose?” Edsell asked.
“What?”
“That first one. Were you aiming for him?”
Del grinned.
“Shit, you must really be out of practice. You didn’t come close. I’ll get him for you.”
“You can’t pull one over there.” Del tugged his hat on and wished it had ear flaps.
“Money. Fifty bucks I get him sometime tonight.”
“I’d pay for that.”
Up second in the home half of the inning, Edsell pointed his bat at the target fan as he dug into the box. Bundled in his jacket, Del leaned against the railing and watched. The Pawtucket pitcher started the battle with an outer-half fastball, which Edsell let go for strike one. His second offering was a big, loopy curve. Edsell jumped at it, opening his stance and meeting it in front of the plate, drilling it into the visitors’ dugout. The ball caromed off the back wall and sent Sox players scrambling like infantry dodging a grenade. The Wings second baseman stepped out of the box and chuckled. After waiting out a low changeup and a high fastball, Edsell pounced on another curve. The pitch screamed off his bat, glanced off the top of the railing just past the end of the Pawtucket dugout, and slammed into the fleshy mountain in the third row, abruptly halting a chant of “NO BATTER! NO BATTER! NO BA—”
Edsell tapped his chest hard twice with his fist and pointed at Del, who concealed his smile with his sleeve. After a momentary pause in the action as the players feigned concern and the emergency medical staff rushed to aid the winded fan, Edsell struck out on an outside fastball.
The snow began to fall early in the sixth inning, by which time the temperature had dropped to thirty-one. Cottony flakes as big as bottle caps settled on the field, sinking down to the roots until only the tips of the grass poked through the blanket of white. The dirt, however, was still clear when Del jogged off the field in the middle of the inning. Players rustled for position near the heaters in the dugout, reserves reluctantly giving way to the game’s algid participants. As the snow accumulated, they paid more attention to the skies than their teammates’ efforts at the plate. After a brief consultation between the umpires and the two managers, the game was mercifully called an inning later, the Red Wings claiming an abbreviated 3-2 victory.
“You’re coming up East End with us, ain’t you?” Edsell asked as they dressed after thawing in the showers.
“I’m kinda beat. I haven’t been sleeping real good lately.”
“You got all day tomorrow to sleep. There’s no way we’re playing. You see the forecast? Eight to ten inches, they said. Maybe a foot. Come grab a couple beers with us. You can sleep straight through ’til Wednesday.”
“Who’s going?”
“Just Newberg and Hawk. Maybe Cage’ll show later. Come on, don’t be a douche.”
Warren Newberg was Edsell’s new roommate, the fourth in the year-plus since Del had graduated from Rochester. Tim Hawkins, a relief pitcher whose chowder-thick accent made him difficult to decipher at times, came as part of the package. Del hadn’t played with either of them on his way up. Marty Cage, a backup catcher on the Rochester club two years earlier, had been a semi-regular in the gym with Del and Edsell.
“I’m not too crazy about crowds these days,” Del said.
“No offense, but no one’s gonna know who the hell you are, bro. If you’re that worried I got a knit cap at the apartment you can wear. Just pull it down low, you’ll look like another doofus college kid.”
They started in an Irish-themed pub with standard grease-laden bar food. Del picked half the toppings off his chicken-breast sandwich and watched in disgust as a tray of wings disappeared into his companions. Even Edsell, who had for years maintained a journal tracking his daily caloric intake, gnawed through the skin and grizzle right down to the bone. Del had little fear of being recognized, or bumped into for that matter, as there were only a dozen other patrons in the establishment. He stuffed the hat in the pocket of his borrowed overcoat and began to relax once his belly had been satisfied.
While the lack of a crowd was a positive to him, it was viewed as a detriment by the others. Cage finally arrived shortly before eleven and they moved down the street to another bar that was more active, but still only half full. Even as they settled in a booth near the back, Newberg looked ready to go.
“What’s the matter?” Edsell asked his roommate.
“There’s about a twelve-to-one ratio for those three girls up front. Looks like a gay bar in here.”
“Yeah, whea’s all the women?” Hawk asked.
“It’s Monday night, bro,” Edsell replied. “In a fuckin’ blizzard. Wha’d’you expect?”
“More than this.”
“Give it another pitcher’s worth and we can leave if it don’t pick up,” Edsell said. “But it’s gonna be the same wherever we go.”
“I got this one,” Cage offered. As he started toward the bar the doors opened and a gaggle of young women entered, shrieking and shaking the snow out of their hair.
“I’ll go see if he needs a hand,” Newberg laughed. He and Hawk slid out, leaving Del and Edsell seated next to each other alone in the booth.
“Still can’t believe you nailed that guy.” Del rose slightly to dig out his wallet. “That was kind of awesome.”
“First at-bat,” Edsell grinned. “Figured it might take me until later in the game.”
Del tabbed through the bills and pulled out three twenties. “I don’t have a ten. Keep the extra.”
“Forget it.” Edsell waved the money away. “That was fun.”
“Take it. That’s not even a per diem.”
The slightest hint of resentment crept across Edsell’s face as he pocketed his reward, just enough to remind Del he was only a visitor here. He had graduated from the minor league life and the poverty it entailed. Even the Triple-A salary Edsell was pulling down didn’t go all that much further than what they had made in A-ball when you factored in his car payment and the cost of living as the cities got bigger. Those days when they’d had to pool their change to splurge on a pizza or call home for a wire to pay the phone bill were only hazy memories now, something Del could afford to be nostalgic about, like missing the sound of highway traffic once you’d moved to a house that didn’t back up to the interstate. But Edsell was still living it, still filling his gas tank twenty bucks at a time.
Del drained the last of his beer and glanced up at the bar. Cage leaned forward, his elbows resting on the wooden countertop as he chatted up the bartender. Newberg and Hawk had latched onto the girls firmly enough there was little hope they’d return with a refill. Would it sound patronizing if he offered to buy another pitcher after he’d already paid for the first round? He motioned toward the bar and slid out. Edsell followed. They bellied up next to Cage and Del extended two fingers toward the bartender. “Same?” she asked. He nodded. Without looking at Edsell he slid a twenty across the bar.
“Hot damn,” Edsell said. “I got me a sugar daddy. Now don’t you go expecting too much. I don’t go all the way on the first date.”
“Since when?”
“Turning over a new leaf.”
“I bet.”
Del’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He thumbed it on just long enough to catch Ginny’s name at the top of his text log. “Just Dana,” he said and stuffed the phone back in his pants. “I’ll call her later.”
He washed down his lie with a sip from his new pint and watched the snow through the plate glass windows. Fluffy flakes blanketed the cars parked at the curb like rolls of fiberglass insulation, burying them so deep Del could only guess the makes and models.
“You ever get any more of those Jesus calls?” Edsell asked.
Del glanced at Cage, then at Newberg and Hawk. They were too immersed in their own conversations to overhear his. “No.”
“What are you going to do if he asks for more?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d tell him ‘fuck off’ if it were me. You know he’s gonna roll over eventually anyway.”
“Maybe.”
“What’d’ya mean, maybe? Jesus is gonna try to save his own hide. You’re the biggest bone he’s got to throw them. When the—”
“How do you know?”
“Dude, look at the guy. You think he was feeding anyone else that made it? Who’s he gonna give up, Mendenhall? Me? No one cares about us. When he needs to sing to keep his ass out of the state pen, he’ll cough you right up.”
“This is why I don’t sleep anymore.”
That and the oh-fers. And the loss of his hitting stroke. And the lies that came so fast and furious lately they passed through his lips like carbon dioxide. He was lying to Edsell now, for god sakes. Edsell, co-owner of the granddaddy of all his fabrications. Never mind how many he’d told Dana. Too many to count. If each one were a brick, the walls would be so high he’d have to tilt his head back to see the sky.