7 Days at the Hot Corner (4 page)

My stomach felt weak and my skin tingled like a thousand little needles were pressing into me all at once. All I could think about was that day at the batting cages, Travis's blood all over my hands. Could Travis have AIDS? Could he have had AIDS back then? Isn't that a huge risk for gay guys? I knew that not
all
gay people automatically get the disease—I mean, I'm not
that
stupid. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. Travis was gay and I'd had his blood on me.

I just blurted out, “Do you have safe sex? … Could I have AIDS?”

Travis looked at me like I'd just kicked him in his stomach. He said, “What do you mean? You and I never had sex.”

Just hearing him say it made me sick. “Yeah, of course not, I know we didn't, but what about that day you bled all over me at Spencer's Batting Cages?”

At first Travis looked confused, but then he remembered. “That was way last winter.”

I asked, “So I'm safe, then?”

Travis, actually sounding upset, asked, “You think I wouldn't mention something to you if I thought there was any risk?”

“I-I …” I stuttered. “I don't know
what
you'd do anymore. I mean, I thought I knew you, but obviously …” I could tell by the look on Trav's face that each word I spoke was making things worse, so I didn't even finish my sentence.

But he was already mad. “What kind of friend do you think I am?”

I shot back, “I don't know. I guess a gay one?”

Travis turned red, and said, “If you're worried about AIDS, go get a test. You can get HIV from
any
unsafe sex, you know?”

I knew he was right, and he knew that I'd been with girls before, but
he'd
bled all over
my
hands, and he'd never answered my question about maybe being HIV.

We sat through another awkward silence, and it felt like Travis was reading every negative thought in my mind; he said, “You can't handle this.... I didn't think you could.”

Stalling, because I didn't know what to say, I muttered, “What?”

Travis said, “You heard me; I knew you'd react this way. My being gay doesn't fit your imaginary view of the world.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look how you are, man—baseball and bullshit—you think everything is the way you wish it were, when really nothing is!”

That
really
got to me. My ears burned even hotter than before; my face and neck felt flushed as I got more and more mad; finally, trying to control my tone, I said, “How am I the bad guy in this thing? You're the one who's gay, who's making some big issue of …
coming out....
Big friggin' deal! Why do gay people think all the rest of us need to know that stuff about you? I never get that.”

Travis, blushing, snapped back, “You never will, Scott, not as long as you live in fantasyland, a wonderful world where baseball is more important than anything or anybody, where my parents are perfect and your parents are not because they got divorced, where I have to be straight to be all right with you, and … man, the list is endless.... Fantasyland!”

“Fuck you!” I yelled, surprising myself by how loud I said it. “You never trusted me to handle it before, you never gave me a chance—”

He interrupted, “Well, now's your chance—”

I interrupted right back, “Yeah,
now
, along with every kid in school. Thanks a lot.”

He said, “Trust has to be earned.”

I felt frozen, unable to say anything more. We just sat there in another long silence. If he said another word, I'd want to beat him up; he probably felt the same way toward me.

But all I could think about were three things: First, every kid in school but especially my teammates finding out about Travis being gay, and all of them thinking that I must be too; second, being distracted when I should be focused on playing ball; and last, about dying, about being
dead
just because I was a friend to Travis Adams. I felt like throwing up. The room swirled around me and I couldn't find the words to tell him how afraid I was. Instead, I looked up and forced a weak smile. I said, “It's cool,” although it sounded phony even to me.

Travis didn't smile back and he didn't say another word.

I'd said it was cool, but it wasn't then, and it sure isn't now.

That conversation was yesterday, and we haven't spoke ten words to each other since.

After my AIDS test today, when I get home, the house is quiet. I go straight to my room.

Travis is lying on my bed when I open my door. He's been sleeping on the couch downstairs.

He looks up and asks, “You want the bedroom?”

I answer, “No, I'm good—I just gotta grab my stuff for the game.”

He asks, “Where you been?”

I'm not about to admit to him that I was at the Public Health building, getting an HIV test, not after how he acted before, so I say, “Just out, getting gas—nothing much.”

We're both quiet.

I'd like to ask him if he's heard about anyone figuring out that he's the guy from the “Coming Out” article—that's what is really on my mind, but I don't know how to ask it without him getting upset again. Thinking this actually makes me kind of mad. So I'm mad that he's mad. Nice, huh? Real mature.

I realize that I've been standing here quiet for a long time, with neither of us saying anything at all. It's weird. I almost feel guilty about not talking. But he hasn't said anything either—why is it my responsibility? Why do I have to be the one to start some ridiculous conversation about things that I don't even want to talk about? Come to think of it, there's
nothing
I could say to him right now that wouldn't take us straight back to my yelling and swearing at him again.

I look at him lying there on my bed, lying on his back, with his arm up over his face, his elbow covering his eyes, like he's trying to take a nap.

I feel a sudden urge to just go over and punch him.

Instead, I gather up my bag, grab my two aluminum bats, and kind of intentionally clank them together so that he can tell I'm moving around and getting ready to leave. He doesn't budge, doesn't move a single muscle. I decide not to say good-bye; I walk to my bedroom door and go out, slamming it pretty hard; hey, it's
my
door!

Third base defense, final thoughts: No matter how well you position yourself in the field, no matter how much you practice and how quick your reflexes, no matter how hard you try, there's no way to anticipate what's coming your way next. It's just the nature of the game; to play is to risk a laser shot or a bad hop or a simple botch job where you take your eye off the ball half a second early. So here's the truth: No matter how good you are, no matter how much you love the game, playing the hot corner can humble you. I'm feeling pretty humble right now.

Baseball offense: I love the line in the movie
Major League
where the announcer says of a player, “He leads the league in most offensive categories, including nose hair....” Of course, in baseball by “offense” what you're talking about is hitting—kind of simple really: “See da ball, hit da ball.” But like everything else, it's not that easy. Offense in baseball, if you think about it, actually means risking your life: You have a guy who can throw as hard as anybody you've ever met, standing sixty feet, six inches away. He rockets a hardball, an object with the density of a rock, pretty much at you. We ballplayers call this “fun.”

We won our game yesterday. That makes fifteen in a row. Joe DiMaggio, Shoeless Joe Jackson, Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, and every other baseball god and legend are smiling down on me right now saying, “Keep it rollin', rookie!”

But I haven't been at school for five minutes this morning when I hear a big uproar behind the gym, near the student parking lot where I've just parked. I'm opening the black storage box on the driver's side of my truck cab when I see three kids running, with another kid following right behind them.

“What's going on?” I ask the kid lagging behind the others, moving as fast as his short legs will carry him.

“There's a fight!” he pants excitedly. “Somebody's beatin' up the gay kid.”

Travis! I toss my books in my truck bed and take off running after the others.

When I round the corner, I'm still fifty feet or so from a circle of what looks like a hundred kids. I can't see inside, but the kids watching are silent. It's so quiet that as I run toward the circle, I can hear the sickening sound of a fist smacking into flesh.

I feel a buzz of adrenaline, mixed with a killer dosage of anger and fear. I'm sure that when I get to the middle of the circle, I'll see some big, dumb, vicious Neanderthal beating up Travis.

As I get closer, I hear another punch land and the crowd give a soft gasp.

I see the guy throwing punches: It's Floyd Ingram, a real quiet guy who finally managed to letter in football just this past fall, his senior year. I've never thought of Floyd as being very tough. He's kind of pathetic. He wears his letterman's jacket
every
day, including the very few times I've ever seen him out on a Friday or Saturday night. The only thing he doesn't do in that jacket is shower; by the dirt on the thing, you'd think he'd lettered in 1982 rather than just six months ago. Truthfully, I've always kind of liked Floyd—I've never hung out with him, but he's always seemed like an okay kid. I've always felt sorry for him—until today. I can't see Travis yet, but I hope he isn't hurt too badly. Floyd's face is sweaty and red, and the knuckle above his ring finger on his right fist is bleeding.

“Say you're the fag,” Floyd says.

“You're the fag!” a voice comes from the ground off to my left. It isn't Travis's voice, but it's familiar. For a second I can't quite place it, but then the kid who has spoken gets up and I see that it's Zeke Willhelm.

I ask the kid next to me, “What's going on?”

“Every time that big guy hits that little guy, the big guy says, ‘Say you're the fag,' and the little guy gives him the finger and says, ‘You're the fag.' Then the big guy hits him again.”

I watch for a few moments and it's just the way the kid described. Zeke isn't punching back. But he keeps bobbing and weaving so that most of Floyd's punches aren't landing very cleanly and they don't seem to be hurting him much. Zeke has an incredibly stubborn look on his face and an attitude that screams, Hit me again, take your best shot, I'll never give up! Floyd sees the finger sticking up in his face and looks pissed. He swings at Zeke, landing a weak grazing shot across the right side of Zeke's face. Zeke barely budges when it hits him.

“Say you're the fag,” Floyd says, but his heart isn't in it. He's getting his butt kicked by somebody who isn't even throwing a punch.

“I'm saying it, man.
You're
the fag!” Zeke screams, and pushes his middle finger toward Floyd's face again.

“Okay,” I say, stepping into the circle. “That's enough; come on, cool it.”

“He's the fag,” Floyd says to me, breathing hard, trying to sound tough but obviously sick and tired of the fight.

“I don't really care,” I say back. “What difference does it make to you?”

As my question registers, Floyd, surprised, says, “What?” looking at me as though he might punch me, too.

“Take it easy, Floyd. Come on, it's over,” I say in a low, nonchallenging voice.

“Hey,” Zeke says, staring straight at Floyd, “you're not really a fag.” He pauses a moment, then raises his hand, again holding up his middle finger.
“You're not cool enough to be gay!”
he yells.

“Zeke,” I snap at him, “knock it off.”

For a second it looks like Floyd will punch him again. But instead he grabs at the chance to just walk away, shrugging his shoulders and moving through the crowd as if nothing has happened.

In a matter of seconds all the kids who've been watching just melt away. In less than a minute Zeke and I are standing all alone on the weedy patch of dirt where the fight has just happened. We've been in the same schools together since we were in fifth grade, so I've always known him. When we got to high school, he started doing weird stuff with his hair, making it a different, unnatural color—blue, pink, teal—every few weeks, and he isn't overly fond of bathing. His teeth are sometimes kind of fuzzy, but he's a typical skater kid: I don't think he cares about other people's opinions of him. I've never thought much about him; he's not a baseball player—in fact he's kind of a freak.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“He said I was ‘the fag' and wanted me to admit it,” Zeke says, suddenly sounding tired and sore. He touches his lip, which is puffy, and the side of his face where it's darkening into shades of reddish blue. “He kept wanting me to say I was the gay guy from the article or to deny it. I wouldn't do either.”

“You're not gay,” I say. “I've seen you with your girlfriend—you two look like rabbits in heat—why not just say so?”

Zeke looks at me, disappointed. “Come on, Latimer,” he says, “think about it. That Floyd guy is an idiot and a bully, gettin' all wigged out over whether somebody's homosexual or not, and he's not the only one. I wouldn't do anything a guy like that ordered me to do—nothing! Much less take the credit for being brave enough to admit something so personal in the school paper.” He pauses a moment and looks around at the ground, then spots his skateboard and walks over to it. He stamps down on one end of the board and it flips up into his hands. “Whoever that gay kid is, he's got a lot of guts; he deserves not to have to be afraid of jerks like Floyd. That kid's sexual thing is nobody's business but his own!”