A Life of Inches (6 page)

Chapter Nine

Top of the 9
th

“HF just called, Ryan, he wants to make sure you’re loose,” announces Dave “Trio” Trepanning, one of the other relief pitchers. We’re up by two runs, with the bases loaded and two outs.

I’m convinced filming us players holed up in the bullpen could produce a hit reality television show. Each inning that passes the pressure builds, so sometimes we have to cut the tension by having a little fun. Couple multiple games of cards, bizarre trivia, exaggerated storytelling, endless bags of sunflower seeds, and some juvenile pranks and you’d have a brief glimpse into the day-to-day dealings of us relief pitchers.

Today, however, the normally rambunctious bullpen has fallen into total silence. We’re all on the edge of our seats. Most of us have a wad of gum, a towel, or, like Trio, a harmonica, to jaw on while the stress eats away at our insides.

Cameras flash at every pitch, lighting up the night sky. The crowd tops 18,000 at Pilot Field here in Buffalo. I’ve been to Tribe games with less people.

Throwing on my mitt, I see our cleanup hitter marching to the plate. I lob three pitches to Speedy to get loose, keeping one eye fixed on the field to watch the action.

“Come on. Throw me something stupid-fast. Let’s see if that shoulder can take it before you head out in front of everyone.” Speedy is only half-kidding.

I told Speedy and Ho earlier that my shoulder felt more sore than usual, but in reality, this late in the season, no player, coach, or ump remains pain free.

As I gun a few fastballs, a lazy pop fly descends into an open glove to end our half of the inning.

Just as the gate to the field opens, Speedy clears his throat. “Make me proud, you hear?”

We lock eyes and I nod, unsmiling.

As my entrance song blasts over the loudspeakers, my confidence swells. I know I’m ready.

Speedy pats me on the back, looks out at the crowd, and says, “Well, it’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.”

I step out onto the field feeling good. Really good.

***

Ten minutes and three seconds later, however, I’m no longer in a happy mood.

Our starting catcher barks in my ear, “Look, man, just forget about what’s happened so far and concentrate on this next guy. All right?”

The first batter was no problem. I easily overpowered him with my fastball and struck him out. The next, however, got lucky and found a hole for his broken-bat hit to sneak through.

The third batter was the beneficiary of an error by the first baseman, who couldn’t hold on to the softest lob I could give him. Now, we have runners at first and third with one out.

The catcher points toward the plate. “This next guy—”

“Don’t worry about Woodie. I know him inside and out. Just be ready for a steady diet of high heat. He’s going to try to hit this ball to New York City and win it right here.”

The catcher nods, but rolls his eyes as he turns away, clearly not in agreement with me. It’s good to see Woodie no matter the circumstance. Right now, though, it’s time to end this game. We share a tight-lipped smirk as he circles home plate and makes himself comfortable.

The catcher wants a slow curve, down and away. I shake him off several times until I see the signal I want. High heat. Perfect choice. Maybe this catcher has a brain after all.

I wind up and let the ball fly. Once again the cameras flash and pop.

As I expected, Woodie swings hard enough even his toe muscles are strained.

“
Strike one
.”

The ump’s deep, scratchy voice booms urgently, as if his life depends on everyone in the galaxy knowing what he’s saying. To me it sounds beautiful, and I hope to hear it twice more.

Hope Woodie got a good look, because this next pitch will arrive a little higher and a lot hotter. I wind up and once again throw the ball toward the plate at the highest velocity possible.

“
Steeeeee-rike two
.”

Although I’d love for Woodie to ground into a double play, I do wonder how loud the ump yells for strike three. Sure, my mother stayed at home in Cleveland, but I think this guy can yell loud enough for her to hear.

This next pitch needs to start low and sink even lower so that he swings over top of it. If Woodie takes the same approach as he has the last two pitches, he’ll bash the ball into the ground. I grip along the two red seams on the ball and stand straight.

I freeze the runner at first with a glance and begin my delivery.

Over ten thousand amateur photographers memorialize each millisecond of my wind-up, and through the distraction of the flashes, I release the ball.

My shoulder emanates a popping noise, as loud as all of those cameras. Through the sudden burst of pain, I watch my sinker float on a straight course right over the meat of the plate, a lame duck limping toward Woodie’s massive bat.

He crushes the ball.

Everyone watching, including me, tracks the baseball screaming high over the right field wall. As far as I can tell, it carries all the way to the HSBC Arena, where the Buffalo hockey team plays.

The crowd erupts. Game over. I walk off the field, holding my arm to my chest, knowing I just blew my shoulder and my chances of heading to the Majors this year.

Chapter Ten

September 14, 1999

“Thanks, Omar,” I exclaim into the phone. “I’m looking forward to continuing my rehab. It’s awesome to be home, but I miss baseball like I never thought possible.”

Omar De Leon chuckles, and says, “Got the itch? Good, I’d be worried if you didn’t. How did your workout go today?”

“Eh, it was fine, but Mitch was a no show again.”

“Sorry, Ryan, I didn’t think he’d flake on you.”

I grab my wallet and dig around in a drawer that I’ve apparently filled with everything but the keys I’m searching for. “No biggie. The guy owns half of the gyms in town, I’m sure that keeps him busy, and I know he has higher profile clients than me. I appreciate you putting in a call to him.”

“No, it’s not that at all. I’ve known him for decades and it’s not like him to duck my calls like this.” He pauses, and then asks, “And how are things are on the Molly front?”

When Omar and I first started to discuss his daughter I was beyond uncomfortable, but over the past few years, he has been very supportive and helpful in my mission to woo her. “Funny you should ask. As soon as I hang up, I’m meeting up with her to await Woodie’s call. His agent is convinced Woodie’s getting traded now that the Sox resigned their everyday centerfielder to big money.”

“So, he’s finally going to get a real shot at the majors?”

I nod, though Omar can’t see me. “Just a shame they didn’t pull the trigger earlier so he could be added to a postseason roster. His agent seems to think he’s headed out to a west coast team.”

“Good. Keep him away from Molly.”

Omar admitted he got bad vibes from Woodie, but was as hesitant to explain as I was to hear anything negative about my friend.

My phone alerts me to another call coming in. “Mr. De Leon, this is my trainer calling, I’ll talk to you before I leave town.”

He offers a goodbye and I click over. “Ho, I’m getting amped for my trip to your facility. I did my lower body stuff today and felt strong.”

Ho says, “When you arrive, we’ll do some testing to see just what the latest damage is. Then we’ll devise a plan to get you back on the mound by next spring.”

He doesn’t bother to mention what will happen if the tests don’t look good, like last time. In spring training I was shut down for the whole year, after aggravating my shoulder. Ho has a state of the art training facility in Washington, where he’s invited me to complete my rehab under his close watch. I know I’m facing a long uphill battle, and more surgery might be needed before I’m right again.

In the background on Ho’s end of the phone, it sounds like a bar brawl has broken out. “Ho, I’d ask how your kids are getting along, but from the sound of things, life at the Ban house hasn’t mellowed even a little bit.”

He chuckles, and asks, “Did you ask Molly if she’d visit you?”

Damn, I’m starting to think I’ve confided in too many of my guy friends. “Well, I plan on reminding Molly what she means to me, especially since I’m going to be gone all winter rehabbing. I don’t want her second-guessing my feelings. Given the amount of successful political campaigns she’s helped recently, I may come back to find her in D.C.”

“Well then, I won’t keep you. Good luck.”

I hang up, fire up the car, and head to the near west side to surprise Molly at her office. Sure, it’s Woodie’s big day, but I can still sneak her away to lunch to open up to her. As I turn onto Fulton Avenue, a thick cloud of rising smoke alerts me to a car accident ahead. Traffic is backed up as far as I can see.

I do a drumroll on my steering wheel. “Damn. Come on, I’m trying to stay upbeat. I need all the positive vibes you can send my way, world.”

I hit the brakes and reach over to grab this morning’s paper from the passenger seat. Yesterday my father told me to snag a copy, because the Cleveland Press was doing a feature on Molly and her political work.

The paper falls apart into its various sections, lining my car with ads and unnecessary coupons. I grab the sports section. I don’t need to read the credit line to recognize the large photo of a local baseball player. Woodie seems to have hit the big-time. I read the article, forgetting lunch all together.

Five tool player will be a wonderful addition to a new team.

After a monstrous 1999, Woodie Wodyzewski is preparing to make his push to become a Major League starter. Many feel that if the White Sox hadn’t had such a stellar run in the past few years, he might have broken into the line-up sooner.

“I just want to go out and do my part to energize my team, make the plays I can, and leave the rest up to the guys to pick me up,” Mr. Wodyzewski said.

Coach Hargrove told us, “Based on his play, it’s becoming more apparent that we need to find a way to keep Woodie here, but with all of these trade rumors, all we can do is sit back and see how things shake out.”

In 1999, Woodie split time at left and centerfield, hitting .303 with 16 homers and adding 32 steals to his resume. What impressed scouts around the country the most, though, was his stellar defense.

“Woodie flies around the outfield with reckless abandon and carries himself like he owns his territory. This kid stands poised to take his game to the next level and be a star in this league,” said Chad Jeanne, a scout for the—

A blaring car horn rips my attention from the page. Traffic has inched forward. I put the car into gear, pull ahead, and wave one finger to the irritated driver behind me.

After parking at the first open space available, I pop in a mint and head into The De Leon’s headquarters. Molly’s assistant Claire looks up from her David Fulmer novel. “Hello, can I help you? Oh, hey Ryan, sorry. With the sun glaring, I didn’t realize it was you.”

She straightens her thick, red-framed glasses and stands, though Claire’s legs are short enough that the maneuver doesn’t help her peer over her imposing desk any better.

I tap my fingers against my leg, more nervous than I realized. “Molly around?”

“I’m afraid this is bad timing, Ryan. Molly has a big meeting today and she’s swamped.”

Her hesitation leaves me feeling like I’m getting brushed off, and I don’t like it.

Before I can get a word out, Claire pops a humongous gum bubble. “Well, the Senator is back in her office, so maybe she can tell you where Molly is.”

I nod and head toward Sen. Jane De Leon’s overtly decadent office. Over the years I’ve visited this building many times, mostly to help get Molly out of work and into trouble. Without a second thought, I enter the largest room in the building through the thick, mahogany doors.

Inside two people occupy the candlelit office. Neither one of them appear concerned with making Ohio a better place for its citizens. I recognize Senator De Leon’s slender frame, though she’s half hidden by a large mass of tousled brown hair belonging to the person she’s sucking face with.

The door slams shut behind me, jolting all three of us in the room. Before the couple turns, nervous words begin spilling from my mouth faster than I can process what I’m saying. “Molly, lunch, kissing...That’s not Mr. De Leon.”

I fumble for words and for the door. “So sorry to interrupt. Just going to take Molly for lunch and...”

As the second person turns around, I recognize Mrs. Wodyzewski. My guts twist into knots. Her dark brown eyes widen with surprise, but there’s no way she’s as shocked as me.

Sen. De Leon removes her hand from my friend’s mom’s neck and gazes at me with an even smile. “Maybe you can take me out for a bite instead?”

I reel back on my heels, until I feel my back pressing against the door. If there was ever a time to walk through walls, now would be it. I gauge each women’s emotions by reading their vastly different body language. Mrs. Wodyzewski’s eyes hold a mixture of panic and embarrassment, while Sen. De Leon maintains a calm and collected composure as if I just walked in on them completing their taxes and not committing adultery.

“Ryan, you know Deborah,” she says.

Mrs. Wodyzewski’s mascara blotches around her eyes as she looks to her partner for advice. Smeared rose-red lipstick gives her face a clownish appearance

The senator, however, only has eyes for me. “So, what do you say to my offer of lunch?”

I nod. The Senator hops off her desk and we shuffle out of her office.

We pass Claire, who refuses to make eye contact.

Sen. De Leon opens the door for me, and then follows out into the daylight. “I’m worried my daughter works too much and never meets anyone, so I asked another workaholic friend of mine to take her out on the town today. Of course, I had my own reasons for wanting the office clear, but that plan has been vetoed by you.”

Sen. De Leon flashes the bright, welcoming smile that has earned her votes since before I was born.

We walk a few blocks in silence, the senator’s expression assuring passersby life couldn’t be any better. We turn a corner, passing my car, and now she’s ready to talk. “You have feelings for my daughter, and you must know she has feelings for you as well.”

I search her statement for a question. Sure, Molly and I have never had a steady relationship through the years, but we’ve had our moments. I consider mentioning our first kiss, going to prom together, and even our weekend trip to Canada that remains a secret to this day, but I maintain my silence.

“She’s a beautiful lady, my Molly. I am so proud of her accomplishments already, but I fear for the day she realizes there are bigger fights to take on than what’s happening here in Ohio. I want to see my daughter succeed, of course, but I want it to be here at home, not D.C., New York City or Chicago.”

My stomach grumbles as we pass the deli I intended to treat Molly to. I want to know where we’re headed, but the longer the senator talks about Molly, it leaves less time to discuss what I just witnessed.

“My husband and I both thought Molly would have settled down by now, but that girl is just too stubborn. You must realize that Molly needs to live life on her own terms, and settling down with someone, anyone, right now is just not in the cards.”

Anger boils inside, but it’s not directed at Molly’s mother. It’s directed at the truth of her statements. At this point I just want to know why she’s making them.

Mrs. De Leon turns to me. “Behind me stands the restaurant where my only daughter is enjoying a stellar meal with a wonderful businessman. She’s not wasting away her day playing games, competing to see who can be the biggest loser in a triangle of fools.”

My jaw drops at her gall. This elicits a thin smile from the senator.

Unable to look at this predatory, cold-blooded animal anymore, I redirect my attention toward the restaurant facade. It’s a three-story rust-red brick building overgrown with a leafy vine. A maroon awning protrudes above the entrance, proclaiming words in a language I can’t read. I’m out of my league, a minnow in a kiddie pool full of sharks. I take an involuntary step back.

“Don’t get me wrong, Ryan. I admire your determination, but your particular set of skills is not what my daughter deserves.”

“Shouldn’t Molly decide what she needs and wants?”

“Shouldn’t a mother guide her daughter down a path of success?” Her tone is icy, Lake Erie in February. Maybe she’s right, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“I just find it funny that as a concerned mother, you’d steer her clear of the two men in her life that genuinely make her happy rather than the stiffs you always feel are right for her. I’ve spent enough late nights listening to your daughter cry and recount how disastrous those forced parings ended up. Or is it that you’d prefer she find a nice woman to settle down with?”

She looks on, but her face remains stone.

“I could see her one day choosing Woodie over me, but I can’t see her ever giving up on both of us. Good luck explaining this to him, by the way, when Woodie knows you’re intentions to cut us out, he’ll go nuclear.”

She can hide behind her poker face all she wants, but I know she must be worried about dealing with him and his temper.

“Tell Woodie?” she says, looking taken aback. “There’s no need. I can see the hamster wheel spinning in that one-track mind of yours. I give it twenty minutes before you’re calling him, crying like a little boy who just had his toy stolen by the neighborhood bully.”

Too stunned to offer a retort, I let Sen. De Leon stroll away. I stumble over to the large window and peer into the restaurant like a lonely dog in the rain. As if the senator planned every detail of the moment, Molly sits at the back corner table facing me, beaming like she’s having the time of her life. The man at her table turns, and I recognize Mitch, the trainer I was supposed to work out with today. His family-run gyms are all the rage in town and I’d wager he donates plenty of cash to Mrs. De Leon’s campaign.

I step toward the door, pause, and then take a step toward my car. I turn back to the door and pause again, lost in confused thought. Through the window, I watch Molly for a few more moments. She looks happy, whether forced to be here by the senator or not.