A Life of Inches (5 page)

Chapter Seven

August 29, 1998

Pushing with all of my strength, I extend my arms another inch as I think of Molly, of Woodie, and about pitching a baseball. Another surge of effort, another inch, but the thoughts fueling my workout remain the same. I think of her. I think of him. I think about baseball.

Ho Ban, my team’s trainer, says, “A little faster, now.”

Separating myself from the stench of the padded floor, I push as I kiss Molly. Another push and I strike out Woodie.

I push.

I grunt, attempting to ignore the dull ache in my arm growing sharper with each rep, but I don’t allow any sign of self-doubt to show on my face. I’m not going to let anything stand between myself and the Triple-A Championship tonight.

“Keep your back straight. I don’t want to see you favoring your right side anymore.” Ho, a former baseball star from South Korea, constitutes one-third of the people in the organization aware of my shoulder issue from college.

“Embrace the pain, Ryan,” he says. “Embrace the pain and rise above it.”

I push.

I push.

I think about Molly, and I push faster.

The sweat feels good, the warmth of motion feels good, and, to be honest, even the pain feels good. Woodie, here I come.

Ho says, “Good. Good. That’s better.”

It’s still early in the day, yet I’ve been training for over an hour to prepare for tonight’s big game. Quickening my pace, my arms grow weak and a little shaky.

Ho says, “Okay, that’s enough.”

I ignore him and keep pushing.

“Ryan, enough.”

Ho claps his hands, the sound echoing around the empty gym. “Ryan, we get it. You’re capable of a massive amount of very fast push-ups, but you’re not going to win us the game at 7 in the morning.”

Making baseball a career requires a knack for swinging a stick of wood and hitting the ball screaming toward you at high speed, but keeping a routine can prove just as important a skill. The ability to grind it out day after day, night after night, small-town city after small-town city is what separates the successful players from the ones you’ve never heard about. That’s why there are so many baseball players following weird rituals. Getting two hits on the day you forgot to shave can lead to growing a massive beard for rest of the season. I’m not the most superstitious guy on the team, but I have been wearing the same pair of red and blue striped socks since I threw a three-hit complete game shutout against the New Castle Coinmonsters three weeks ago.

Tonight, I’ll be facing off against my oldest rival, Hank “Woodie” Wodyzewski.

I push.

I push.

I push, and I ache.

One last push, and I visualize the ball flying right past Woodie for a game-ending strike. I let out a satisfied yell as I stand, ready for the next exercise Ho has prepared for me.

Pointing toward the cooler, Ho says, “Go get yourself some water. I need to talk to a few of the other guys and get them started. You’re looking good, man. Relax and let the game come to you tonight. You are ready.”

After wiping my face free of sweat, I nod in appreciation. Tonight my team, the Toledo Torpedoes, face the heavily favored Buffalo Barbarians with the Triple-A World Series championship on the line.

Leaning on the water cooler, Speedy looks like he needs a few more days to recover from a collision at the plate the night before. In the history of baseball, ‘Speedy’ Steve might be the slowest player to ever occupy a spot on the diamond.

He flips me a baseball. “You ready to take down your arch nemesis?”

Over the years, he’s witnessed Woodie and I square off, and I’ve told him about dozens of previous competitions between me and my best friend, including the bike race that introduced us to Molly in the first place.

Speaking through a mouthful of granola, our first baseman, Dean, asks, “Who’s your arch-nemesis?”

Dean, Steve, and the others gathering around are ready to hear all about Woodie, but Ho Ban is just as ready to get the morning workouts started. Like an ump sauntering toward the mound to break up a meeting gone on too long, Ho heads our way, looking stern.

He twirls his fingers. “Let’s go, ladies.”

We spread around the outdated gym to begin game-day preparations in earnest. Before long, I’m stretching my legs with my sweaty back pressed against a wall covered with posters declaring sports clichés.

I push against gravity as I think about Molly. I think about Woodie. Only this time, instead of baseball, I picture wolfing down breakfast.

Kenny, our centerfielder, pumps twice as many push-ups as I had earlier without breaking a sweat, and says, “Ryan, so, last night before the game I talked shop with your father. The guy seems to know baseball and all, but, like, were you adopted or something?”

Not only am I not shocked he asked, I’m surprised it didn’t come up as soon as my parents got to the ballpark at the start of the championship series. “No,” I begin, shaking my head. “That’s my pale as a ghost dad all right. He was a pretty well-known boxer back in the day. Get this, he met my mother playing in a charity softball game while preparing for a fight in Mumbai. Luckily I get most of my looks from her.”

Dean, raises his eyebrows. “Boxer, eh. Yeah, that explains his missing tooth, I guess.”

Steve and I chuckle along with Kenny.

Ho Ban instructs us from the front of the room. “Switch and hold, ladies.”

As we flip our poses, Kenny focuses the conversation back on the game. “So, what can you tell us about Woodie’s strategy at the plate?”

“Everything.”

When even Speedy’s clicking knee falls silent, I know I have everyone’s attention.

“I’m dead serious. We could have three weeks to talk and I wouldn’t be able to finish telling you all the times that lucky son of a gun has bested me—”

An assistant coach, sticks his head into the gym and interrupts me. “Ryan, Skip wants to see you in his office, ASAP.”

The taunting, “uh-oh’s” and, “what did you do now?” follow me out.

I grab the doorknob to the manager’s office with a trembling hand and imagine myself announced as the starter at tomorrow’s Tribe game. Besides fulfilling a lifetime dream, it would put me closer to home—and closer to Molly.

Young hometown hero returns to save the day
. I can see it now...
I stand on the mound, waving my cap to the standing-room-only crowd. This elicits an ear-splitting roar in return. The catcher throws me the ball, and as it hits my hand inside the glove, he says...

“Are you coming in here, or do you expect me to meet you in the hall?”

“Coming, HF.”

The Skipper is as happy as the rest of us with our championship run. He just shows it in different ways, like yelling at us.

When I get nervous, I babble like a machine gun, and, right now, there’s a mouthful of bullets waiting for me to pull the trigger.

“Sit.”

He doesn’t yell, which makes me nervous. Outside of anger, the Skipper typically doesn’t express a wide range of emotions, so we players know when he drops his hard shell it usually means bad news.

“Well, I assume you know why you’re here, so I’ll cut to the chase.”

Skip throws a newspaper down onto his desk. I scan the front page of the sports section.

Before I can take in as much as the headline, Skip grunts an explanation. “Wicky, went down last night. Damn baseball broke his jaw in 4 places. Hammy needs someone to fill a hole in the bullpen.”

I stare in disbelief. “Are you sending Popson?”

“No, Jason isn’t going, nimrod. And before you say anything else, no, Hatrix won’t be headed north either—or Skinny, Killcoyne, or even Jeremy freaking Wilder.”

He dares me to speak, veins bursting from his forehead.

Silence.

“Listen, Ryan, I like you.”

Even though each word seems to cause him pain, I show my appreciation for the compliment with a face-wide grin and blushed cheeks.

He continues, “You play a hard-nosed style of baseball that hearkens back to my day, and that’ll always win points with those who know even the tiniest bit of what real baseball’s all about. Today, the game’s focused on home runs, record-breaking attendance, and blah, blah, blah. Yeah, those things are great, but Ryan, you have to remember to play the game the right way.

“As a catcher, you’ve got a man running full steam at you, as you’re awaiting a tiny ball to slide into your mitt. How you react in those split seconds can mean everything to everyone involved. The crowd doesn’t matter. The other players don’t matter. Hell, we know the players think the manager doesn’t matter, but what does matter are the few inches you have between tagging out the runner or having him cross the plate.”

The Coach’s tone gets more desperate as his hands animate each word. “Can you understand what I’m saying here?
Whoever fights the hardest for that last inch is remembered as a champion rather than a has-been. Not just on the field, either, I’m talking twenty-four seven, ‘cause this ain’t just a game of inches. If you want to succeed, you’ve got to live a life of inches
.”

Wide-eyed, I say, “HF, I want to smash through the walls in your office and go win the game right now.”

“Pack your stuff, son,” he says. “After we win this game, you’re headed to Cleveland. Don’t make me look like an idiot for recommending you.”

Chapter Eight

A Few Moments Later

If I sprint to the payphone, down the third baseline concourse, it’ll leave just enough time to call Molly before reporting in for the pitchers’ meeting. All aches and pains have been forgotten since Skip told me I was heading to the Majors.

With my schedule keeping me on the road most of the year, it’s hard to maintain regular contact with anyone, especially Molly. We’re not in a relationship with any official tag, but I know someday we’ll be together. That is, if Woodie doesn’t sweep her off her feet first.

Reaching the phone, I visualize my wind-up to calm my nerves. My coaches preach that mastering the mental aspect of the game helps more than the physical. I tend to agree, though in my experience it hasn’t hurt to have a cannon for a left arm.

My fingers shake with excitement causing me to misdial Molly’s number twice before getting it right. We haven’t seen each other in months, but that all changes this week when I return to Cleveland as a champion and, even more importantly, as an Indian.

She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

Though we’re several hundred miles apart, the breeze carries her mango shampoo with it.

“Hey, it’s Ryan. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all. In fact, I just got back from running with Wilder.” Molly named her black lab after her favorite baseball player of all time, Jeremy Wilder.

“A jog isn’t a bad idea. I mean, without me and Woodie around to keep you in shape, you need to create the illusion of an active lifestyle, eh?”

On the other end of the phone, the woman I love erupts with good-humored surprise. “Why, you son of a—”

“Hey, relax. I just meant that, when I hit Cleveland, this week, I’ll be itching to play a little basketball, and I hope you’ll be up to the challenge.”

“You’re coming home?”

I chew on my lip, still disbelieving I’m able to let the cat out of the bag. “Well, I can’t report to the Tribe anywhere else, can I?”

“What? Are you kidding me?”

Each word she speaks hits a higher note than the previous. If her sentence had been longer, she might’ve shattered glass.

“I’m still in shock, but HF told me I should get the call as early as tomorrow.”

Molly belts an excited shriek and I can hear her relay the news to someone. In the background I hear Molly’s father congratulate me.

I say, “Thanks, Omar. Hope to see you at the ballpark this fall.”

Molly says, “I’m proud of you guys. I hate that I’m not there to support you two during this series. I promise to be there next time. No matter what.”

“Molly, I totally get it. You have the elections to worry about, and—”

From behind me, someone makes it clear this isn’t my personal phone. “Hey buddy, I don’t have all day.”

Standing just a few feet away, Woodie, the man I’ve struck out twice so far in this series sports a well-worn Helmet hoodie and Camo shorts. His straight brown hair drops far enough to hide his name on the back of his jersey.

I beam, happy that I’m talking to Molly, and Woodie isn’t. “Hey, I gotta get going. Someone’s waiting for my autograph over here.”

She giggles. “Sure, sure. Hey, when you face Woodie, take it easy on him, will you?”

I admire her for at least trying, but she must know there’s no way I’ll oblige her request. I turn and shake hands with my friend.

Two teammates flank Woodie. His face is obscured by the shadow cast by his ball cap. “I saw you standing over here without a baseball in your hands, so I figured I’d take advantage of the situation. I’ve gotten far too accustomed to watching your fastball slide past me into the catcher’s mitt.”

“A fastball that got past you? Not likely. I haven’t been dumb enough to throw you a fastball in a hitter’s count since high school.”

Speedy approaches me carrying his mitt and his mask. “Ryan, you ready?”

The catcher’s eyes are slits in the bright sun, the squinting expression exaggerating his pug nose. He inches between Woodie and me. Yes, my catcher feels compelled to protect me from the big, bad batter.

Uncomfortable with my childhood friend and my teammate getting chippy with each other, I tread lightly, attempting to joke around. “Thanks, Speedy. I don’t know if I could’ve found the pitcher’s mound by myself.” I turn back to Woodie. “You wanna walk and talk me to practice? I have some kick-ass news.”

“No,” he responds, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, “I wanna race you there.”

“Hah, you in that much of a rush to lose again?” Though I stand half a foot taller than my friend, he outweighs me by twenty pounds of muscle, so my lengthier stride may be nullified by his brute strength.

Woodie removes his hoodie, revealing a Buffalo Barbarians T-shirt underneath, and stretches. “All I need is a finish line.”

“You’ll need more than that,” I say, tossing our pendant into the air. “Catch.”

He snatches the golden glove without any difficulty. I had been wearing it on a necklace, but the chain broke during game three.

I point to our good luck charm. “You might be known to the media as the luckiest player alive, but not even that thing can stop us tonight.”

Woodie smirks and chuckles. The time for small talk over, we dance our dance and let the world know that the game is on. One of Woodie’s teammates ushers us to a crack in the pavement. He raises his right hand, winks, and then without warning starts the race by dropping a batting glove and yelling, “Go.”

For a long time, I’ve dreamed of being the closing pitcher for the deciding game seven of a championship series. Tonight, I’m sending the fans sporting that Conan look-a-like riding a charging Buffalo logo home disappointed. I’m going to split the baseball right between the Buffalo’s angry eyes, stopping the stampede right in its tracks.