Home Run: A Novel (3 page)

Cory looks at the pitcher and smiles before stepping up to the plate. He doesn’t do it to taunt or to tease. He just can’t help himself. He wants to come up to this plate ten more times and swing away each time just like the one before. He knows now what it feels like—what the motion and the swing and the sound all feel like—and he doesn’t want those feelings to go away.

The pitcher is tall, probably twelve years old like Cory, but he’s got fear dumped all over him. The poor guy just wants to go home. He probably thought he was pretty hot stuff, whipping the ball like that and striking out all the other kids. But Cory knows now he’s not like the other kids.

This is his fourth time at bat. The last three times resulted in three home runs. The last one got the entire crowd cheering like it was some championship or something. People even cheered his name. He hears Clay’s voice above the others. His little brother never misses a game.

Cory still doesn’t have any kind of routine for getting ready to hit. At home, the balls have always come fast and furious. At home, he’s had to swing in order not to be hit. There’s never been time for a routine.

The first pitch is way outside. The pitcher doesn’t want another bomb over the back fence. The score is already eight to two, so it’s not about losing anymore. It’s about being humiliated.

Cory sees the eyes studying him. He knows they’re scared. He knows that kid doesn’t want to be here.

The kid throws the second pitch, and Cory knows it’s his.

Something rushes through him, like the feeling you get when you curl up a fist as hard as you can, or the moment you leap off a tall bridge, or the instant you suddenly think of a brilliant idea. It’s quick and thrilling, but it’s also simple.

He feels like breaking something with the bat as he swings.

There’s that glorious sound again, followed by the reaction of his teammates and the crowd behind him.

The ball soars into the sky.

For a brief second, Cory looks at the pitcher. The kid doesn’t bother to look at the ball; he knows.

It’s an image Cory files away somewhere important. A mental picture that he knows he’ll see a lot more in his life. The dejected, angry look of someone who knows something couldn’t be prevented.

Cory jogs to first base, this time even more slowly and confidently than the last three times.

This is the place he needs to be.

Ripping that ball and blasting it far over the fence makes it all go away. For the moment.

But at the moment—
this
moment—as he runs toward second and sees the stares of the other team and hears the screams of the crowd …

It’s enough.

Chapter Three

Tag

Cory was usually the last player to leave the clubhouse before a game and the first person to leave afterward. Today was no different. As he walked onto the familiar grass of Samson Field, he heard the swell of the cheers greeting him. He heard and felt them, a feeling that was almost as good as taking a shot in a cloudy sauna. It never got old, to be honest. The only thing you had to get used to was the flip side, the boos and the curses. Especially if you were a star playing an away game. Especially if you happened to be a left fielder. And especially if you were in a bit of a slump and the opposition’s fans knew it.

Yeah, those LA fans especially love me.

The afternoon sun felt brighter and the fans seemed more energetic and his head throbbed just a bit more. Cory scanned the seats above the Grizzlies dugout and could see a team of kids decked out in worn red baseball jerseys and caps, laughing and smiling while their dads sat nearby. He was trying to forget about the whole Father’s Day marketing gimmick, though there were signs everywhere celebrating it. Some of the Little Leaguers waved his way, and he nodded in response.

Cory chewed his gum a little harder as thoughts crept over him like a pickpocket in the shadows. He would fight the thief off if he knew he’d forever leave Cory alone. But sometimes there wasn’t anything Cory could do about him. This thief had been taking from him his entire life. The noise of the park and the vastness of the sky above and the soft cushion of the grass and the crack of the bat allowed Cory moments of respite. But he’d never forget completely.

He glanced at the boy in the red T-shirt who was talking to Ross, a batting coach. Ross turned toward him with an amused look, as if he was expecting Cory’s reaction for some reason. The kid, dark skinned and bright eyed, spotted Cory and suddenly stopped midsentence.

“Hey, man,” Cory said to both of them while offering the kid a high five.

The kid didn’t say anything, and his high five was weak. Cory noticed the logo on the shirt.

“Bulldogs, huh? Got your whole team here with your dads?”

Cory looked out at the kid’s teammates. They were all looking his way. Then he scanned the crowd like he usually did, his Oakley shades and cap allowing him to look around without anyone knowing where his gaze was focused.

“What’s up, Ross?” Cory said. “Doing a little babysitting today?”

“Just like any other day. Except these kids probably hit better than some of the guys around here.”

“Heh.” Cory laughed. “So, you play baseball, buddy?”

For a second Cory wondered if the kid knew how to speak English, but then he heard a squeak of a
yeah
come out of the kid’s mouth. Cory gave him a nod.

Cory knew the eyes of the crowd were on him, and as always, he didn’t want to let them down. Not out here on this field.

“What position do you play?” he asked.

The kid once again gave a high-pitched
yeah
, which made Cory think perhaps he didn’t understand English either. And Cory’s Spanish wasn’t so great, especially on the days when his head felt like a catcher’s mitt after a doubleheader.

How do you say “Too much tequila last night” en Español?

Cory tapped the kid on the back. “What do you say you and I get to work? Huh?”

He could have said more, but he walked away. He had made some sweet talk with the kid and had given the cameras a nice shot to show on ESPN. Now it was time to get down to business.

The crowd gave its loudest roar the moment Cory first approached the plate. The noise gave him a surge of energy and hope just like always. He wanted to answer their cheers with a nice long home run.

The pitcher eyed him, but Cory was used to that. Pitchers had never intimidated him. He knew they were trying to outwit him any way they could. Cory Brand wasn’t just another player they were throwing to. He was one of the batters they needed to get by.

The first throw was outside. Cory stepped away and felt anxious for some reason. He quickly got back into his stance and waited for the ball.

He did everything right when he connected with it on the second throw. He had already started to burst toward first base, knowing he’d hit a winner. But for some reason, the ball seemed to pause in midair and then slow down. He could see the outfielder reaching, catching the ball, and the inning was over.

Cory cursed as he jogged back to the dugout, knowing his slump had continued, knowing these fans were all feeling the same way he did.

No-scoring games like this one drained the life out of him.

He didn’t care about Father’s Day and all those daddies with their sons and daughters. He didn’t care about his team’s losing streak and his batting slump that Helene was all over him about. Yeah, sure, he
did
care that it was a contract year, but that was about it. He didn’t care about his ninety-year-old knee that needed a vacation in Maui to mend.

As the sun beat down on the field and the crowd grew restless at the lethargic offenses that had come to play on this day, all Cory could think of was finishing the game and getting rid of the pounding in his head. To scratch the itch, the slow-burning itch that got restless when the excitement wasn’t there. Sometimes he found himself thinking this way in a game, already looking past the final pitch and looking forward to that first drink.

The first drink was usually the best.

Yeah, but your first drink came at about nine this morning.

The little Latino kid was still hanging around, handing everybody their bats and offering high fives to every player even though no player deserved one. It had been cute for a while, but by the time Cory stepped up to take the bat in the seventh inning, he’d grown a bit weary of this bundle of joy.

“Good luck, Cory.”

He gave the kid a nod, his eyes already off of him, his focus on the subdued fans wilting under the sun. It was a hot day, and he’d give anything to be a fan in the seats, sipping on a beer. But he’d never really been a baseball fan himself. He never had time. He’d been given a bat and forced to hit, and then when it appeared that he was good at it, that’s what he did.

He hit and kept hitting.

He’d been hitting so much that the actual game—the history and the love and the adoration and the mystique—was all a bit lost on him.

Those fickle fans out there didn’t care about him, not really. They cared about CORY BRAND in all caps and all exclamation points. They cared about the autograph and the value of the card with his picture on it. And they
especially
cared about the hits. They loved you when you gave it to them, and they started to loathe you when you suddenly went dry. That was the reality of this world, this so-called dream he was living. Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t a dream or a fantasy—not for guys like Cory. It was a job. A job that came with stress and expectations and the spotlight.

No, the dream came after the spotlight went away, when it was just him alone at the end of the day. Whether he was with the teammates or with a woman or by himself. That was when he could lose himself in his own fantasy. When he could buy into the hype and like that handsome mug smiling on his Facebook fan page.

The first pitch from Weller was a ball. Cory backed up, then stood back in place, shaking his knee out and getting set. He didn’t scrunch down like some players when standing at the plate. Cory had gotten used to standing tall and just swinging when he was younger and didn’t have an option. Yet he had grown into the habit of a leg kick as the ball came.

Hence the ninety-year-old knee.

The second pitch was a fastball the idiot behind him called a strike. He turned around and looked at the umpire, shaking his head. “Seriously?”

The least the guy could do was give in a little, considering the score and the little kiddies out there looking for some runs.

Cory stepped away and glanced out to the field. On the JumboTron, he once again saw a flashing sign that said HOME RUN CHALLENGE—$10,000. They especially liked showing it when everybody’s hero stepped up to the plate.

So far there had been absolutely no money raised for whatever kids’ charity it was going to.

His first two hits were a pop out and a groundout. Not exactly crowd pleasers. Nothing would get the fans going more than a clean crack right over the grandstands.

A couple more balls bored both the crowd and Cory. He positioned himself at the plate, the count three and one, feeling that buzz deep down inside of him.

He was a kid again, standing in the dirt, facing someone he hated. All he could do—the only thing he could ever do—was hit the ball the right way. Bash it far out on their property to make the old man shut up and go away. Make his haughty little smile calm down. Make his mockery and belittlement dry up so he could go have a few more beers.

Cory swung, every inch of him willing the ball to blast right through the nightmare playing in his head.

The whack of the ball and the roar of the crowd made the monster and the farm disappear. The ball soared toward center field as Cory hauled his way toward first base. He’d know soon enough if it was a home run.

He was waved toward second and he kept going, knowing the ball had hit the back fence.

The crowd screamed, and the figures around him blurred as he kept running.

I used to be a lot faster.

But he ran steady and hard, taking second and then continuing to sprint onward.

Then he saw the third-base coach telling him to stop.

Yet all around him were cheers and wails and screams telling him to keep running, to score, to “Go, go, go!”

Cory thought of the banners and the home-run challenge and the kids watching with their proud fathers, and he kept going, heading toward home plate.

This wasn’t thinking anymore, just acting on pure adrenaline and the rush and the madness and the beating in his head. The defiant will that had always driven him, that had gotten him where he was.

He neared the plate and began to slide and knew he had made it even before the umpire signaled safe and the crowd went crazy.

Cory cursed in a triumphant, vicious manner. Then he laughed at the catcher, who’d taken the brunt of his slide, as he stood up and brushed himself off. He glanced out around the stadium and took it in. The sights and the sounds of over fifty thousand people cheering and high-fiving and finally being given something to see.

A group of fans in the stands waved signs that read
Young Life
and
$10,000
. He did his part, pointing their way and thanking them.

I’m just a humble servant, and I do this all for you.

That’s of course how he wanted to appear. A meek and humble player who made seventy-four thousand dollars per game. A clean twelve million per season.

As Cory pandered to the crowd, something strange happened. The pitcher stepped off the rubber and threw the ball to third base. The basemen caught it and tagged the base, and the third-base umpire signaled an emphatic
He’s out
!

An appeal? For a moment Cory wondered if this was some kind of joke. Were they doing this for show, as part of the Father’s Day celebration?

There’s no way I missed third base.

The crowd began to show their displeasure as the image of him rounding third played on the JumboTron.

No freaking way.

The shouting and the madness around him went away for the moment as the fury inside of him began to swirl around. Everything suddenly turned red and upside down. Losing control, being unable to do anything, standing there stupid and helpless and out of place …

A feeling he’d had his whole life.

“Are you outta your mind?” he yelled at the umpire.

Suddenly logic and control ceased to exist.

Cory forgot where he was, forgot the cameras surrounding him and everything else. He just knew he was furious and couldn’t take anything anymore.

He wasn’t sure how long his hysteria lasted, hurling out curses and insults as the umpire threw him out. Soon he was surrounded on all sides by teammates holding him back, trying to calm him down.

One of them was his manager, but Cory didn’t care.

He didn’t understand. Just like the ump and the rest of the world.

Nobody understood Cory’s pain and rage.

It should’ve been a home run. God knows he should’ve been safe. For once he should have been
safe
. But once again something had been taken away from him.

He wanted to break everything around him.

He wanted to take the baseball and make the umpire choke on it.

Ross dragged him off the field and made sure he got into the dugout. Cory didn’t want to look at anyone. He was done. He just wanted to get out of there and leave this stupid game behind him.

The first thing he saw was the Gatorade cooler, which he wished was the umpire’s fat head. Cory kicked it and sent it tumbling over, with several guys jumping out of its way.

The booing around the field continued as his cursing in the dugout just got louder.

A little thing like neglecting to touch third base had managed to get him out.

It was unfair. It was stupid.

Cory grabbed a handful of baseball bats, taking them back out onto the field and throwing them in disgust. He heard Ross’s voice behind him and knew the batting coach was trying to calm him down. But nothing was going to calm him down. Not now.

Don’t you dare touch me or tell me what to do.

He jerked back, ready to shove Ross away from him, and suddenly he felt something crunch under his elbow. Then he heard a muffled wail and saw the kid in the Bulldogs shirt, holding his nose as it gushed blood.

Oh no.

The screaming and booing suddenly stopped as if someone had unplugged a stereo. For a second he stood there, wondering what the stupid kid was doing there in front of him. Wondering where he had come from. Cory started to go help him, but Ross and a trainer and a couple of other guys swarmed him before he could do anything. He started to object, but they grabbed him and made sure he was heading to the clubhouse.