Home Run: A Novel (12 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Sinker

“Everything looked fine on the outside. But the inside was a definite mess.”

The average-looking guy stood in front of them in the average-sized church. He’d said his name was Phil. He wore dress pants and a dress shirt, as if he’d just come from work at some job requiring a tie, which he’d taken off before speaking. He read in a solemn tone from a sheet he’d brought with him to the podium. Along with Cory, there were thirty other people sitting in the pews.

“What started as a private curiosity became something I couldn’t stop. Eventually I was looking at porn at work, with my office door shut.”

Did he just say porn?

Cory glanced around to see if there was a reaction from anybody else, but nobody seemed to be surprised. All the faces of the people around him listened attentively to Phil.

“And even with the door open, when I thought I could get away with it. The sad thing was I actually thought I was getting away with it. Until the day two security officers confiscated my computer and escorted me out of the building in front of my coworkers and subordinates. They had every website and every minute I spent looking at ’em logged right there in black and white. I’ve never felt such shame and embarrassment.”

You’re not the only one feeling embarrassed.

Since he was sitting near the back, it was easy for Cory to slip out and leave the sanctuary behind. He figured he was in the right place but the wrong meeting.

“My porn addiction and unwillingness to face it led to the loss of my family, my job, and my self-worth,” the speaker continued.

The door provided relief from poor old Phil and his sad story. In the lobby, Cory looked around to try to find where he was supposed to be. That meeting inside was indeed a Celebrate Recovery gathering. Except they’d neglected to tell him it was for porn addicts.

Maybe the crackheads were down the hall and glue sniffers were in Sunday school rooms.

Don’t put them there—there’s glue!

The joking in his head didn’t ease his nerves. As he was about to wander down a hallway leading away from the main entry, a figure approached him.

“John Townsend. Folks call me J. T.” The man had a warm and welcoming face.

“Hey,” Cory said with relief as he shook the man’s hand. “Yes. My agent told me to look for you. You’ll be signing my paperwork, right? Listen, I think I landed in the wrong room. I’m looking for, uh … your basic twelve-step program. I think I connected with the sexaholics instead. Not that I’m judging.”

“You were in the right room. Just takes a while to know it. Come over here.”

Cory followed him across the foyer to a bulletin board, the ache in his knee acting up since it was getting later in the evening.

“There are three different group meetings in Celebrate Recovery. The large group is the one meeting right now in the sanctuary. That’s held every Friday night for our group here in Okmulgee. Anybody can come—and there’s no obligation to share.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Following that, we gather into smaller groups called Open Share. There’s one for eating disorders, one for victims of childhood abuse, and so on.”

Cory glanced at the board with the various room assignments. Besides the ones J. T. had named, he saw Sexual Addictions, Chemical Dependency, and Codependency.

“So what if you have ’em all?” Cory asked, trying to be funny.

J. T. smiled. “You take it one day at a time. I’m the ministry leader, so if you have any questions, concerns, or jokes worth telling, I’m here for you.”

“And what about the other meeting? You said three?”

“Step studies. Those are held here on Tuesday nights with a small group of men.”

“And those are mandatory?”

J. T. nodded.

“So all together, how long do I get to celebrate being in recovery?”

“Hopefully the rest of your life. But for official purposes, you’re supposed to attend eight weeks. The program is designed around studying eight recovery principles.”

Well, I guess there’s a case to be made for not having to go twelve weeks for a twelve-step program.

“Guess I should head back in there then. Though I still can’t believe people are talking about things like
that.
In a church.”

“Surprise,” J. T. said.

“Well, it’s good TV.”

J. T. held the door for him and followed Cory back into the sanctuary. Phil was still up there, still talking.

“Depression followed, and prescription drugs made me feel better. But I was never able to reveal the true reason for my depression and addiction. But God changed everything. He changed me. Long story short—my wife and I renewed our marriage vows last August. Our three children and their spouses stood up with us as we recommitted our marriage to God and each other.”

His wife came back? Is she meeting with the Bad Decision Makers?

“Because of my time in Celebrate Recovery, I know how to run to God—and His people—when I need help. And He does help me, every time. Thank you for letting me share.”

Phil smiled and went to sit back down. Cory still felt like he was at the wrong place. The wrong building and the wrong room and the wrong celebration.

I’m so going to kill Helene for this.

A short while later, in a smaller room in the church, a group of nine men sat in a circle just like at any AA meeting. Cory had been to a few of those due to some of his run-ins with the law, so he wasn’t sure what made this Celebrate Recovery any different. Until J. T. started to talk.

“We always read these small-group guidelines,” J. T. said, more to Cory than to anybody else. “They help keep this group safe.”

Cory glanced around and then nodded at the group leader.

“Number one: keep your sharing focused on your own thoughts and feelings. And limit your sharing to only a few minutes.”

I bet I can limit mine to a few seconds.

“Number two: there is no cross-talk. That’s when two people engage in conversation that excludes others. Everybody is free to express their feelings without interruptions.”

J. T. had a sheet in front of him, but it was clear he was reciting these from memory.

“Number three: we are here to support one another, not fix one another.”

A couple of the men around Cory gave knowing nods.

“Number four: what’s shared in the group stays in the group. Unless someone threatens to injure themselves or others.”

Cory liked number four. He didn’t want to hear anything he might say showing up on ESPN later that night.

“Finally, offensive language has no place in a Christ-centered recovery group.”

For a brief second Cory thought of blurting out a profanity as a joke, but the guys around him looked pretty serious.

With those “rules” now read, everybody started to go around and introduce themselves, starting with the leader.

“I’m J. T. I’m a grateful believer in Jesus, and I currently struggle with alcoholism.”

As everybody greeted J. T. and told them they were glad he was there, Cory wondered if any of them were ungrateful believers. Surely a few of them weren’t
that
grateful, right?

A fiftysomething biker dude next to J. T. went next. “My name is Rick, and I’m a Christian who struggles with cocaine addiction.”

This would certainly be a strange Sunday school class to be a part of.

J. T. gave Cory a relaxed and friendly nod to go next.

“Oh, uh … hey, I’m Cory. I’m currently struggling with—my agent.”

The group laughed as they welcomed him there. J. T. gave another nod, which was nice. Cory didn’t want to have to go overboard and suddenly become someone he was not. He was here anyway, sitting in this room, doing as he was told.

Soon each person in the group began to share something going on in his life. The hard-edged rocker type named Rick cursed, then apologized to J. T. for his language.

Cory wanted to ask if he was kidding, but Rick didn’t appear to be the comic type. This group took their rules seriously.

A man named Herb was talking about his neighbors being loud and obnoxious, and without thinking Cory chimed in. “Man, I hear you.”

J. T. politely reminded him there was no cross-talk.

So this is AA with a bunch of rules and a hallelujah at the end.

Yet as the men around him spoke, none of them seemed churchy or phony. There was Abe, who had once been in prison and was now serving at local prisons, helping other inmates. There was Steve, a businessman who had been abused as a child and still had major trust issues with everybody. But most of the sharing was optimistic and hopeful.

The meeting lasted an hour. There was still a lot that Cory didn’t understand, like “chips,” for instance. Or the step studies. Or other lingo that went over his head.

Afterward J. T. came up to Cory and shook his hand. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“That was pretty heavy, what Abe was talking about.”

“One of the things about small groups is the need for confidentiality. As I said, what’s shared in the group stays in the group. We don’t talk about it anyplace else. We want this place and these groups to be safe.”

“And no cross-talk,” Cory quipped, trying to play the game.

“There’s a reason for that. It avoids people giving their personal opinions. We’re not here to fix each other. We’re here to support each other.”

“So how is this different from AA?” Cory asked. “Besides letting overeaters and meth users in?”

“Celebrate Recovery is based on Scripture. It gives you God’s perspective while you’re working through the steps.”

“Okay.”

J. T. smiled. “This place changed everything about my life, Cory. But it wasn’t the people or the program that did it. It was the Lord who brought me here. I have a feeling He brought you here too.”

“Can I blame my recent batting average on Him too?” Cory cracked. All this God talk was making him tired.

“You can certainly try,” J. T. replied. “But believe me—that blame game doesn’t work. I’ve tried every sort of way possible.”

“So are you my sponsor?” Cory asked. “Or do I have to ask someone else?”

“We call it accountability partner.”

“That means if I don’t show up, I’m accountable?”

“Something like that,” J. T. said with a smile. “But remember—I am responsible for signing off on your official paperwork. And I’m not fudging the facts.”

J. T. told him he looked forward to seeing Cory next time they met.

As Cory walked outside the church and felt the cool night air hit him, he wondered who in this town had started Celebrate Recovery, and if any other churches in Oklahoma were doing the same strange thing.

The open sky and endless stars beckoned to him, but Cory ignored them as he tried to ignore the comments swirling around in his head from the last hour.

He remembered one of the guys referring to “God the Father.”

It was a nice thought to think that God was like a father who sometimes heard you, but Cory knew better. He didn’t need some father figure in his life. He’d made it thirty-three years without one. He could make it a little farther.

Cory’s never been inside Hank’s Tavern, but he knows it well. It’s the place his dad has gone to drink most of their lives. Just a small square building that looks abandoned except for a few neon beer signs in the windows.

Cory wants to get some answers. He knows his father is inside. He wants to meet him on his home field. He wants to talk to his father man-to-man.

Emma is three months pregnant. He’s gone with her to a couple of doctor’s visits. Both times the doctor has hinted at other options, but they’ve never spoken about it because Cory knows Emma.

The question has never been whether to have the baby.

The question is what will happen with the two of them. With Cory and his baseball career.

A thousand different scenarios have played out in his head, and that’s why Cory is here.

He doesn’t want to ask his mother. He already knows what she’ll say. He doesn’t want to involve Clay or his friends or anybody else.

There’s a man drinking his life away in this tavern, and Cory knows that man will tell him the straight-up truth. For better or worse.

Chapter Seventeen

Strike One

When Cory woke up Monday morning, he wasn’t sure where he was. He knew he was in Oklahoma. But his last memory of the night before had been getting a call from Clay inviting him over to their house. Cory told Clay maybe, and he genuinely thought about going.

But the thought had turned somewhere else, just like his truck had. He skipped the Sunday evening family outing and instead found some watering hole to visit. The bar had been full, and the patrons had gotten a kick out of his stopping by. Especially the cute college-age girls who seemed barely old enough to drink.

The last thing he could remember was taking shots like a frat boy with those girls.

He looked around his motel room, checking to see if there were any signs of one of the girls coming back with him. But he knew he was alone. It was almost ten in the morning, and he was alone with a dry cotton mouth and a splitting headache, not to mention a throbbing knee that wouldn’t stop.

The two days after his first Celebrate Recovery meeting had been a blitz of drinking. Cory had woken up Saturday morning and found himself bored and more bored, with a fridge full of booze. Obviously there was only one thing he could do. The same went for Sunday morning.

When he found his phone and plugged it in to charge, he saw he had missed several calls. A couple from Clay and another from Helene.

He didn’t listen to them because he already knew what they said. It was the same old stuff. Clay trying to fix things and placate him, and Helene trying to fix things and placate him.

Thank God the Bulldogs’ practice wasn’t till later this afternoon. If he had to go looking and feeling like this, there might be some more drama on the field.

He remembered dancing in the bar and kissing some stranger’s lips. Cory winced. Then he thought of Emma and Tyler, knowing that was the last thing the two of them needed. Some bar-hopping daddy stumbling home in the middle of the night.

“Any word on Cory?”

“You think
I
know where that man is?”

It was Clay’s first day back in the office. His arm was doing okay in the cast and sling; it was his ribs that were slowing him down. He was taking pain medication, but he hated that stuff. He knew well enough that certain things ran in the family, like addictions. The less Vicodin he could take, the better.

It was around lunchtime, and this was the first time today he’d been able to call to see where Cory might be. Emma was obviously as clueless as he was.

“I invited him to our place last night and he said he was going to come, but he never made it,” Clay said.

“That sounds familiar.” Emma’s voice sounded cynical and annoyed.

“I just wondered—”

“I’m sure he’ll be out on the baseball field later today. Walking around like a coach.”

“Emma—”

“What?”

“I didn’t bring him back to Okmulgee.”

“I know,” Emma said, her resistance gone and her voice more relaxed.

“Please don’t blame me for my brother’s mistakes.”

“I don’t. It’s just—ever since I heard the team was going to the Grizzlies game, I had this sense of foreboding. Somehow I knew that Cory Brand was going to come back into our lives.
All
of our lives.”

“It’s funny how so many people say his whole name,” Clay said. “Like a product, you know. Folgers coffee. Nike shoes.”

“Idiotic baseball players.”

Clay laughed. “Look, if he doesn’t show up at practice, let me know.”

“I’m sure Karen would do that for me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she would too.”

Clay told her good-bye and sat at his desk for a few minutes, thinking. Part of him wondered if he should head down to Cory’s motel.

He’s a grown-up man who needs to take care of himself.

The phone rang. There was too much work to do here for Clay to take off and start searching for Cory. He’d lost enough time because of his brother.

He would keep praying that Cory was okay. And that this was the wake-up call Clay had been asking God for ever since Cory left Okmulgee to pursue his dreams.

There was nothing wrong with dreams unless a person forgot himself and where he came from in pursuit of them.