Plunking Reggie Jackson (14 page)

Some days, after he finished this private workout, he did join the squad on the field; he didn't participate in the team drills, but he sat on the bench. He passed the time, even during games, doing ankle lifts by means of a rope tied to a ten-pound weight that he looped over his toe.

At times he helped Jamie Quintero. Coley watched him throw and gave him pointers. At least it was a small contribution he could make.

Once, during a practice break, Rico asked him how the rehab was coming.

“It's coming good. I feel like I could do about anything I wanted.”

“You have to be sure, though, man. Don't take any chances.”

“Not you, too, Rico. That's what everybody tells me.”

“Yeah, but it's true. I think I've got this thing figured out.”

“What thing?”

“The scenario. Here's how it goes: We get you back at the end of the month for those two games in Peoria and Decatur. Assumin' we're still alive for the play-offs, that is, which I think we will be. If we're not, then we will be just as soon as you nail down those two.”

“You're sayin' I should wait till the end of May before I pitch again.”

“Here's what I'm sayin': It doesn't really matter how many games we win, as long as we get in the play-offs. That's startin' over, everybody is equal. That means we've got you on the mound, one hundred percent, and we're still in the play-offs. What could be better?”

“Is this Coach Mason's idea or yours?” Coley asked him.

“This is me, man. This is me talkin'. Mason might like the idea or he might not, I don't know.”

“There's gonna be scouts, Rico. There's gonna be major-league scouts that wanna see me pitch, and the player draft is in June.”

“You think I don't know that? You've already got a scholarship, though.”

Coley made a face. “I know, but you're talkin'
college
. If I could get a decent contract, I'd rather sign.”

“That's cool,” Rico said. “I don't blame you. But just remember, the most scouts will show up for the play-offs.”

“Yeah, that's true,” Coley had to admit. Even when the advice sounded sensible, there was just too much of it.

Coach Mason joined them, and the conversation turned in the uncomfortable direction of academics. “How's the ankle?”

“Pretty good, I guess.” What else could he say? “It'll be okay.”

“How's your grades?”

“They'll be okay too.”

“You're sure about that?”

“Yeah, they'll be okay. I've got Ruthie Roth helpin' me from time to time.”

“Who's that?” the coach asked. “Never mind. Anybody that gets a progress report before the end of the month won't be eligible for the play-offs. You know that, don't you?”

“Hell, yes. How could I not know that? Coach, it's like I get this from my old man all the time, do I have to hear it from you, too?”

“I don't know. Do you?”

This pissed him off. Instead of answering, Coley reached for the walking cast. He hadn't come to practice so the coach could get on his case.

It almost blew Coley away when he discovered Bree was upset. She was pissed about the evening he spent with Ruthie Roth brain-storming on the human dynamics project. “Are you kiddin' me?”

“You're not supposed to date other girls,” she said.

“This was no date. You know who Ruthie Roth is?”

“I've never heard of her.”

“That's what I thought.”

“That's not the point anyway. I've given myself to you, Coley,
all
of me.”

It was the type of Bree remark that tended to knock him out of sync; nevertheless, he said, “If you knew who Ruthie was, you'd see how comical this is.”

“I don't think there's anything funny. You're not supposed to date other girls.”

“I told you this wasn't a date, are you listening to me? She helped me with a homework project. It was
homework
.”

“Where did you do the homework?”

Coley sighed and shook his head. This was nuts. “We went to this place called the Coffee Barn. It's out in Campustown.”

“I know where it is,” Bree informed him. Her flashing eyes stared straight into his own. He couldn't believe how intense she was when she got mad. “That's a long way out there,” she added.

“A hell of a long way.” At least they agreed on something.

“Did you take her in your car?”

“Well, we sure as hell couldn't walk. That's, like, about four miles, at least.”

“You took her in your car to the Coffee Barn, but it wasn't a date?”

“I'm tellin' you. It was
homework
. Look, Bree, someday I'll introduce you to Ruthie and you'll know how this whole conversation is out of touch.”

Bree ignored this appeal. “I don't know why you couldn't just study at her house, if all it was was homework.”

“Because she wanted to go to the Coffee Barn, so we did. She likes the college atmosphere. Can we drop this now?”

“You had a study date.”

Coley needed another deep breath. “Okay, me 'n Ruthie had a study date. Let's have it your way. Can we drop it now?”

“A study date is still a date.”

He couldn't take any more of this. “Yeah, we had a date. I gave her a corsage first, then we went to the Coffee Barn. Afterward, we spent the night at the Holiday Inn.”

“You think it's funny, but it's not. You don't know what it means to hurt.”

“What's that about?”

“You don't know what it means to hurt. You don't know what it means to
need
.” The change in Bree was so sudden, but it wasn't just in her voice. It was her eyes. They had shifted from the hard, shallow glitter of anger to the opaque liquid of deep pools.

“What are you sayin' to me?” Coley was knocked out of rhythm again. Sometimes conversations with Bree were like games of
Star Quest
; you just never knew which direction to look for the next spaceship attack.

“You've always been popular. You've always been a big star. What do you know about
needing
?”

The green eyes had been flashing a moment ago; now they were glistening. You could almost fall into them, like down a well. A moment ago he had felt like a prisoner beneath a hot light; now he felt like he needed to become a shelter. He said, “I have to get at least a B in the course. If I don't, I could lose my baseball scholarship.”

“Please don't make me hear about that again, okay?”

“What else can I say? That's the reality of the situation, that's the whole reason behind needin' her help.”

“I could help you with homework,” she said. “I'm a good student.”

“I know, but Ruthie is a straight-A student. She helped me with geometry when we were sophomores.”

“I could help you,” Bree repeated.

“Yeah, well, look at it this way. Ruthie's a senior. She's, like, in the top two or three in the class. She's a theater geek, so I can't get distracted.”

“You'd be distracted with me.” It was a question that didn't sound like one.

“What do you think?” Coley asked her. “With you and me it'd be about five minutes of homework, then two hours in the sack.”

Bree smiled for the first time. “Please don't say ‘in the sack.'”

“Okay, we'd be having sex. Is that better? Enough study time with you, and I'd lose my scholarship for sure.”

“If it wasn't for the grade you need, you wouldn't see her at all, would you?”

“Hell, no,” Coley replied quickly.

“And you really mean that?”

“You want me to say it again?” The admission brought him an unexpected measure of regret, even if it was mostly the truth. “Like I said, someday I'll introduce her to you. You'll see.”

“I don't want you to. I don't want to meet her. Promise me you won't go out with her again.”

Coley felt too whipped to quarrel with the
going out
terminology. “Okay,” he said.

“But you have to promise, though,” Bree insisted.

“Okay, I promise.”

Chapter Eleven

The trainer was a girl named Shannon who was a senior at the university majoring in sports medicine. She taped his ankle so heavily it felt like an artificial limb. “How's that feel?” she asked him.

“Stiff as a board,” Coley replied.

“Good.”

He threw batting practice for the first time. It was awkward. He hadn't worked from the mound since the injury, and the rigid right ankle made his drive and follow-through tentative.

He didn't try to get people out. All he wanted from this outing was to throw strikes and to be as comfortable and fluid as possible. His flat pitches were in the strike zone, but without much velocity. His teammates delighted in driving Coley's pitches clear to the fence, and sometimes even over it. He didn't care.
The only thing is to throw strikes and feel comfortable
.

After twenty minutes or so the sharp pain in his back surprised him. It came, unfamiliar and sudden. He stood up slowly, put his hands on his hips, and told the coach he'd had enough.

Coach Mason followed him to the bench. “You okay, Coley?”

“I'm fine, Coach,” he lied. “That's enough for the first time.” He was slipping into his nylon windbreaker.

The coach left to press another batting practice pitcher into service, but when Coley started to sit down, the pain stitched him like a knitting needle. Halfway down he was paralyzed for a moment or two, unable to move at all. The sweat broke out on his forehead and along his upper lip. When it passed, he sat on the bench with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.
I've never had back pain like this before
.

“Are you okay?” asked the female voice.

He looked up to see it was Shannon, the trainer. “I'm fine,” he told her.

“Why'd you stop?”

“I've just had enough for the first time, that's all. Go worry about someone else.”

“Okay, amigo.”

Coley knew what the problem was—back spasms. By compensating for the ankle, he was throwing unnaturally and putting strain on the left side of his back, which could lead to shoulder damage. Nothing could undercut the career of a pitcher faster than a sore arm.

His palms were sweating even though it wasn't hot. The next time he threw, maybe he should try it without the tape. He would have to treat the ankle as if it were whole, instead of babying it so much. It was the only way he would be able to drive off of it with torque and then follow through.

The next day he played again, for the first time in competition. He felt pretty strong in warm-ups, so he approached the coach. “Put me in left, okay?”

“You want to play left? You feel up to it?”

“I'll be fine in left. Just let me play.”

“If you tell me the ankle feels good enough, I'll believe you.” Coach Mason was looking him straight in the eye. “This whole rehab thing is up to you. When you say you're ready, I'll trust you.”

“The ankle doesn't hurt.” That much was true. He knew, too, that any back pain would vanish in left field. “Just put me in the outfield, I'll be fine.”

The team was woefully shorthanded because it was an ACT Saturday; at least three of the juniors were sitting in Champaign for standardized testing, and two other players were injured. Ingram had a broken finger, and Bobby Lovell was out for the rest of the week with a sprained wrist.

“Did Shannon tape you up?”

“I'm taped,” Coley replied. It was a warm day, but not warm enough to account for the sweat beading on his face.

“Okay,” the coach said, “go for it.”

Coley's service in the outfield was uneventful. Running gingerly, but with minimal pain, he tracked down two fly balls in the fourth and cut off a single down the line in the fifth.

Swimming in the pool seemed to be the best way to give the ankle range-of-motion expression. In the water he could rotate the ankle freely, without pain. It made him optimistic to discover he could walk on the floor of the pool or kick slowly from the side. Or even, although he wasn't a very good swimmer, plow through the water in his thrashing freestyle with unrestrained flipper kicks with both legs.

He went to the deep end and scuttled along the bottom, feeling the definition of the tiny tiles with his fingers. He didn't know what intrusion of gravity it might have been that kept him down there. He might have been at the bottom of the sea, like the huge fish that took it to the limit against Santiago, the old fisherman. And then he wondered what it was that caused him to think of books at a time like this.

Bree joined him once while wearing her skimpy new fuchsia bikini. She was a strong and efficient swimmer—she seemed to slice through the water like a sea nymph. Coley swam after her with all the speed he could muster, but he couldn't catch her. She giggled like bells at his futile efforts to swim her down.

They frolicked until they were breathless, then rested against the side of the pool in the shallow end. “This is the best part of my rehab,” he tried to say to her, speaking between bouts of gasping for air.

“You mean it?”

“Yeah. It keeps me in shape. It's fun.”

“You mean it's fun when I'm here.”

“That's what I mean. And there's no pain in the ankle.”

“Maybe I should come more often.”

“Maybe.” He had enough breath now to kiss her, so he did. She brought her tongue with the usual fervor. Coley peeled back the shoulder strap of her top to take a look at the dramatic ribbon of white her tan line made. He was aroused immediately. He couldn't remember ever getting a woodie in the swimming pool but realized it was about to happen. It couldn't be modest, either—not with the blue nylon Speedo suit he was wearing. He knew that other people might enter the pool area at any moment.