A Life of Inches (4 page)

I don’t know if it’s one of the guys punching me, a voice in my head, or God commanding it to be so, but someone says, “Lights out.”

I attempt to communicate with Molly so she knows I’m fine as everything fades away.

Chapter Six

May 19, 1996

Leaving the mound, after throwing the best pitches since my shoulder was stabbed in the fight, I can’t help but grin. Though, it wasn’t enough to secure a win for my team, tonight, I’m just happy to be pain-free.

After I was pounded unconscious at that college party, I awoke to find Molly waiting over my hospital bed. That’s not to say she was the only one, but it lifted my spirits to see the concern on her face blossom into a relieved smile. Unfortunately, that’s been the high point between her and me over the last couple of years. I’ve been on the road, grinding to find a secure place on a roster.

The fallout from the fight was ugly. Above and beyond my injuries, the school kicked me off the team and I was asked not to return to the campus. Even with the bad press and suspensions I faced after the fight, the Cardinal’s organization took a chance on me in the next year’s draft. They sent me directly to a developmental league and I was called up to the single-A Loganberries of Bozeman, Montana about a month ago.

Speedy, my team’s catcher, and I high-five with our mitts still on as we head to the visiting team’s locker room. “Hey, Rook, you had some decent stuff tonight.”

Holding my head up higher than just a moment ago, I say, “Thanks. I’m just taking things one pitch at a time—”

Speedy chuckles and raises his hand, open-palmed, “Save that talk for the press conference, pal. You’re still giving away too much on the mound with your movement and expressions.”

I stop at my locker. “Any tips?”

Speedy unbuttons his jersey. “Yeah, come with me and the guys down to the bar, buy the first round. The drunker I get, the better my advice becomes.”

I grin, though by his expression, Speedy appears dead serious. We pack our gear, including Speedy’s custom painted catcher’s mask, drop it on the team bus and collect our measly per diem. As we exit, we’re joined by a couple of the offensive guys. Thus far, the other pitchers haven’t warmed up to me.

Chubbs, our fast-talking, long-haired third baseman, says, “All right. The rook is coming out to party.” His voice sounds different, until I realize this is the first time I’ve heard him talk without a mouthful of sunflower seeds.

Our shortstop, Juan “J-rod” Rodriguez is the skinniest man alive, but the word on the field is that he can pound drinks like no other. “Can you hang with the big boys?”

The veterans intimidate me, but I don’t want to seem out of place, so I say, “Big boys? I didn’t realize the Cardinals were in town tonight. Will they be meeting us at the bar?”

Silence.

Juan looks at Speedy; Speedy looks at Chubbs, Chubbs glances at Danny, our over the hill second baseman, who’s fighting a losing battle against oncoming laughter while watching the shock dawn on J-rod’s face as if he got slapped. Another moment of silence permeates the air until the guys guffaw along with my cheap shot. Tension I didn’t even realize had built up fizzles.

Chubb’s laughter is a chunky, awkward series of noises like you’d expect to hear in an overcrowded barn lit on fire, so I am glad when he stops long enough to talk. “Awww man, rookie’s got some balls.”

I slap a few high fives as we head down the street toward another dive bar in another dive town. A few townsfolk who attended the game join us along the way. When we reach our destination it appears to be a plantation style home with a porch wrapped around its entirety. Inside the various rooms have all been modified to act as separate pub chambers with different décor depending on where you’re sitting. We, of course, just happened to have been seated in a room covered floor to ceiling with posters, hats, signed bats, and anything else that helped the bar proclaim its love for the team that has just mopped the field with us during a double-header today. Though the hunting trophy chamber appeared to be empty, the hostess had bypassed it, and at least for the night we accepted our only choice: to allow our most recent loss to be rubbed in our faces. Then again, given the rapid pace with which we’re racking up losses, this seems par for the course rather than a special occasion.

I drain my second beer, and a shot of whiskey, as Juan saunters off with not one, but two local girls into another part of the bar. For a guy playing at the lowest levels of semi-pro baseball, he seems to have some big league game with women.

A townie sporting a white beard and a sweat-stained undershirt grabs his mug and eyes me from across the table. “Son, you have some nasty stuff on the mound, but if you don’t mind my asking, uh…”

Always happy to talk shop, I ask, “What’s on your mind?”

“Well, I guess my question is, what the hell was it you were doing at the plate? Your swing is all over the place. I mean no disrespect, I swear. I just haven’t seen a swing like that before.”

The man obviously sees the embarrassment ripple across my face, and mercifully stops talking. Though even if he were to continue, I wouldn’t be able to hear him over the knuckleheads at my table bursting into laughter so loud the whole bar turns to see what the fuss is about.

“Sir, you’re correct,” Chubbs says through bouts of high-pitched giggles. “We’ve never seen a swing like his, either.”

Before I can defend my undefendable offense, a waitress delivers me another beer and a shot. She winks at me before addressing the rest of the table. “Y’all got to lay off this cute one here, okay?”

She makes eye contact with each person as if expecting a confirmation on her order.

Danny stands and walks off with his drink. “S’funny, I think I know that guy over there.”

I use the moment of distraction to read her name tag, Ruby, as she rests a hand on my shoulder. “Listen hon, if you take a look around this bar you’ll see that half the bums in here have played for either Lincoln or Omaha, and they’re just jealous you’re still out there playing and they aren’t. Keep your head up.”

Her voice rises so everyone in the place hears, and I realize everyone is listening. Of course they would be paying attention, she’s the best-looking gal here, and by ‘here’ I mean the whole city. Maybe tonight’s the right time to make a move beyond Molly.

“Thanks, uh, darling,” I spurt out, instantly feeling stupid and self-conscious. “It’s good to know my guardian angel is still looking over my shoulder, helping me out.”

My words escape as smooth as the roads in downtown Cleveland after a long winter.

“Aw, thanks, honey, that’s sweet.” As she speaks, Ruby leans close to me, alerting the other patrons that the show is over. Even still, with the rest of the drinkers quiet, you can hear a pin drop across the room.

“So what’s my guardian angel doing working tables in this dive? Can I return the favor of rescue by taking you out after your shift?”

Just as her smile builds my confidence, her attention shifts to one of the townies at our table as he screeches his chair on the floor and stands up. His previously friendly expression is growing dark under his basket-woven straw hat.

Ruby shakes her head. “Daddy, no, just sit down.”

As if we practiced it, my teammates and I ask, “Daddy?” at the same time as we look between the two.

Chubbs slurs, “You just hit on the waitress in front of her dad. You have the worst luck, bro.” His long hair whips around wildly, dropping into various drinks at the table as his guffaws echo around the bar.

Next to me, Speedy is falling out of his seat, bellowing like a hyena. “I…can’t…I can’t believe it.”

I wish I could slide right under the table to avoid the cold stare I’m receiving from Ruby’s father. Though he’s much older than me, age has not diminished his large frame.

I remove my ball cap and stand, hoping to reason with the man and avoid insulting him further. “I, uh, sir, I apologize. I, you see, what I meant was just that, um, she is, well, your daughter, she’s very, um…”

I notice his cheeks get redder by the millisecond.

All I can do is keep talking. “She’s a pretty gal, uh, lady. Yes, a pretty and respectable lady, and I meant nothing, um, I think I better be going.”

He’s having none of it. “Sit down.”

His voice sounds half calm, at least. The other half, however, might be all he needs to make his point clear. His right hand rests on a thick, dark brown belt, and having seen far too many Westerns, I pray there isn’t a gun holstered behind it where I can’t see.

Ruby giggles, hiding half her face behind her tray. As I sit back down, she mouths, “Sorry” and heads back toward the bar. I scold myself for still allowing my eyes to dance down her curvy frame even with her father gearing up to tear my head off.

Chubbs cuts into the tense silence. “Man, I need to hit the bathroom before I lose control of my bladder.”

“Uh,” Speedy says, “be right back, Ryan. I wanna pop a few quarters in the jukebox.”

As their laughter fades, it leaves my newest friend and me alone at the table.

“Listen boy.” His oversized, bleached white teeth, shine from under a bushy, black mustache. “Now, I can tolerate a lot of things, such as conversing with players from the opposing team and having people say sweet things to the hired help, but no one, and I mean no one, comes in here and calls it a dive.”

The last sentence comes out slow and loud.

“No, sir, what I meant was, you know, uh…” I trail off, wordless but desperate to calm this guy down. At this point, I’ll say or do anything to defuse this situation.

He points a finger into my chest. “You’re wrong, I don’t know. I don’t know how you can come in, call this place a dive, hit on my daughter, and still have the nerve to try and explain why I am in the wrong.”

From behind the angry father, the white-bearded townie says, “Son, right now I think you’ve got bigger problems than that swing of yours.”

I grab a shot glass full of brown liquor and down its contents. “Ayup.”

The combed-over townie next to me grabs the glass as I set it down. “Hey, that was my drink.”

One clear thought develops and then reverberates through my head. It seems like the most brilliant plan ever conceived: get out of here, really fast.

I hold my hands out in a surrendering gesture. “Well, I think my friends and I are going to shove off, so I’m headed to the bar to pay for my drinks here and leave, okay? No harm done, and I do apologize for disrespecting your daughter, you, and the bar.”

Everyone watches for my next idiotic blunder as I backpedal toward the door. I don’t turn around until I feel the solid oak bar at my back. The bartender, an enormous figure, looms over me wearing a lumberjack flannel and a shit-eating grin. If this turns ugly and this guy gets involved, it’ll be more than just my shoulder that I’ll need to ice on the team bus.

I slap a twenty on the bar. “Hey there, I have a tab for Ryan that I’d like to close out.”

The bartender’s nametag unsurprisingly reads, “Brutus.” I curse my luck and hold out hope that the offended father is calming down behind me. I’ve lost track of the beauty who started this whole scuffle, and realize I won’t have time to send her off with a flirty goodbye before I run out of this place with my tail firmly tucked between my legs.

Brutus grabs a slip of paper, and when I push the twenty across the bar, he looks at me like I just announced my candidacy for president. He drops the bill in front of me and crosses his arms. “I don’t think that’s going to cover it.”

I read the tab. “Eighty-eight dollars. What’s this all about? I just had a couple drinks.” My tone of voice betrays my state: frightened, tired, and more than anxious.

“It’s about paying your tab,” Brutus says, jabbing a meaty finger into my chest. “I was told you were paying for that table. Here you are, and here’s your bill.”

“Who told you…?”

Realization dawns as I look around the bar.

No sign of Chubbs coming out of the bathroom, Speedy isn’t picking songs at the jukebox, Danny disappeared, and now I can see that Juan didn’t retreat to a corner of the bar at all. He and the ladies just walked out the back door.

Under my breath, I mutter, “The sons of bitches are going to pull a rookie prank like this? Of all the lowdown dirty things to do...I’ll be washing dishes all week to pay this off.”

I size up the bartender and weigh the options of fight or flight, realizing quickly I don’t stand a chance either way.

“Look, Brutus, I might be a tad bit shy on the money. Is there any way I might appeal to your good-humored nature to allow me to find an alternate way to pay off this tab tonight?”

With stern eyes glowering me back a step, the large bartender wipes a beer mug with an old rag and answers in a slow, measured tone. “I’m sure something can be arranged, but I’m not the guy to talk to. You want Mister Coughlin, the owner.”

I knock my knuckles on the bar, excited at my first ray of hope. “Thanks, my good man. Can you point me in the direction of his office?”

Brutus points behind me. “No need. He’s sitting right ova dare.”

I turn around to confirm my worst fear. Ruby’s father raises a glass and winks. Seriously, how much worse can this night get? Woodie, I need you and your luck here like I never thought possible.