Plunking Reggie Jackson (16 page)

“It's not done yet.”

“It's not done yet?”

“I'm still workin' on it.”

“How much have you finished?”

“Never mind that, I need a book to report on.”

Before Ruthie continued, she finished her hot dog and washed it down with some of her soft drink. “Have you ever read
Mice and Men
?”

“
Mice and Men
? Didn't they make a movie of that?”

“
Of Mice and Men
, by John Steinbeck. Have you read it?”

“I don't think so.”

“Okay, then, that's my recommendation.”

“How long is it?” Coley wanted to know.

“It's very short. It's practically nothing more than a long short story.”

“Because I need a book that's short with large print.”

She was bobbing her head up and down before he'd finished the sentence. “I'm way ahead of you on this, you can trust me.”

Coley was halfway done with the third chili dog. “So what's it about?”

“
Of Mice and Men
?”

“Are we talkin' about some other book here? Tell me what it's about.”

“It's about a guy with brains and a guy with brawn. Come to think of it,” said Ruthie, “it could be about you and me.”

“I don't know what you're talkin' about.”

“Me neither. It was just a thought.”

For a few minutes Coley was silent.
Of Mice and Men
might have been one of the books Mrs. Alvarez had given him that day. “You better not be makin' fun of me.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

“I'll take you over to the water slide and throw you down it.”

She was laughing. “I didn't bring a bathing suit.”

“That'll be your problem. I'll toss you big time.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

Coley had never seen her laugh this much before. He was glad she was enjoying herself, but he wasn't done with the questions quite yet. “Is it out on video?” he asked her.

“Is what on video?”

“
Of Mice and Men
. Can I get it at Blockbuster?”

“Oh, how would I know? Don't start with the dumbing down, it's not really you. If you want to watch it on video, at least you should read it first.”

“Now you sound like Mrs. Alvarez,” he declared.

“You could do worse.”

Chapter Twelve

Supper was grilled hot dogs and hamburgers on the deck. Coley was throwing halfheartedly in the bull pen, testing the ankle. He never knew when there would be pain. Sometimes never, sometimes immediately. Sometimes only a minor, nagging twinge, but other times a pain so sharp it shocked him.

His father came to watch, cradling his third martini. He asked Coley if he was going to pitch against Jacksonville.

“I don't know. Coach wants me to.”

“If he wants you to, why don't you know?”

“I just don't know, that's all.” He grunted as he threw a good-velocity fastball that whistled under the elbow of Reggie Jackson's closed stance.

“Do you feel okay?” his father asked him.

“Yeah, I'm all right.” It was the easiest answer, always the easiest.

“Then you need to pitch. You're not going to impress any major-league scouts if you're sitting on the bench and watching the game like some cheerleader.”

“It's the ankle,” said Coley, realizing how lame it sounded even as the words came out.

“What about the ankle?”

“I don't know. I can't trust it yet.”

“You can't trust it. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I never know when there will be pain. When I throw, I can't just cut it loose. I can only throw tentative.”

“It won't work if you throw tentative.”

“That's what I'm tryin' to say. I'm afraid I'll hurt my arm. Dr. Nugent said there's nothin' worse than a sore arm for a pitcher.”

“Do we need Dr. Nugent to tell us this? It should be as plain as the nose on your face. Dr. Nugent also told you that there's absolutely nothing wrong with your ankle at this point. Even the last X rays show no damage whatsoever.”

“X rays are one thing, but real life is another thing.”

“
Real life
,” his father repeated the words with contempt. He took a couple of swallows of the cocktail before he continued, “I'll tell you about real life. The fact is there's nothing wrong with your ankle. It's all in your head. You can see that, can't you?”

It had occurred to him more than once, which was the confusing part. “It might be,” he said honestly. “It happens sometimes with rehab. Sometimes the mental part is harder to get over than the physical part.”

“Don't lecture me about sports injuries and rehab!” Ben Burke sputtered. “Remember who you're talking to here—do you think there's anything about baseball you've thought of that I haven't?”

“Oh, hell no.”

“Why don't we just put the cards on the table here, Coley? The thing standing in your way is your head, not your ankle.”

“Maybe that's what I'm tryin' to tell you. Sometimes the physical part of an injury heals faster than the mental part. I won't be ready to pitch—not really
pitch
—until I have confidence in it.”

“In your case that means the lack of mental toughness. It's always been your problem; you have all the talent in the world, but you lack the killer instinct.”

“I've heard it all before, okay?” He lobbed a puny change-up toward the plate.

“This time it's the ankle. It's turning into an excuse to fail. You don't have an injury anymore, you
had
an injury.”

Coley felt the confusion contracting his insides. The worst part was he was afraid his old man was right; at least he couldn't think of a way to dispute what he was saying. He vented his frustration by unleashing a pain-free, fearless 93 mph heater, which caught the statue right along the ribcage and sounded a fortissimo
gong
that reverberated through the neighborhood.

He tossed the glove to the ground and headed toward the house. “The next thing you'll be reminding me about is how tough Patrick was.”

“You could do a lot worse. Patrick was a bulldog when it came to mental toughness. Why do you think he was on a major-league roster by age twenty?”

Coley continued toward the house, and his father followed a few paces behind. “I'm not Patrick,” said Coley.

His father ignored the remark and replied, “You can find any hiding place you want, but I'm asking you why you might not pitch on Monday and you haven't got an answer.”

“You can get off my case any time. Maybe I want to win. What if I told you I want us to win the state?”

“Somebody has to win the state, it might as well be you. What's the point?”

“The point is,” Coley replied as he eased back into one of the vinyl strap loungers on the deck, “if I'm one hundred percent, we have a better chance of winnin' the play-offs. If I'm only fifty percent, we're just like most of the other teams.”

But Ben Burke was shaking his head aggressively even as he found his way into a nearby deck chair. “No, no, no. This isn't about winning high school play-off games. It's about your future.”

Coley's mother brought some tossed salad to the table and said, “Maybe we can shelve this argument now. It's almost time to eat.” She returned to the kitchen to fetch plates and silverware.

“You probably think I don't know you batted right-handed down in Florida,” said Ben.

Coley's surprise lasted scarcely a millisecond. “I doubted if it would get past you,” he replied.

“I suppose that was for God and country too, huh? Stupid. It was stupid.”

“The guys want to win. They're winnin' without me, most of the time. They don't need me to get past the regionals. But if I'm one hundred percent for the sectionals and the state, we could go all the way.”

“Tell me whose idea this is.”

“It's mine. It's Rico's. It's Coach Mason's. The guys want to
win. I
want to win.”

There was a pitcher of premixed martinis on the table. Ben Burke freshened his drink before he said, “Major-league scouts don't give a damn who wins or loses high school play-off games. Nobody does.”

“
We
do.
We
give a damn.”

“Don't interrupt. Five years from now nobody will even remember who was in the play-offs or who won. But five years from now your future may be carved out. That has to be your priority, not who wins the regional tournament.”

His mother returned to set plates on the table. “I thought I told you it was time to put this argument to rest. I'd like to have a pleasant supper together, if that's possible.” She began forking wieners into buns. Coley could see the muscles of her jaw working.

“I'm just trying to explain something to him about his future,” said his father.

“I know,” said Mom. “I've been listening, in spite of my best intentions.”

“Then maybe you could help out here.”

“I doubt it. I don't think you'd want to hear what I think. Hot dog or hamburger?” she asked him.

“Jesus Christ! Do you think we could cut to the chase here?”

That's when Coley knew the old man was getting drunk: When his mother sent out these kinds of warning signals, you'd better pay attention, unless you wanted the shit to hit the fan. His dad knew it as well as he did.

“Ketchup and mustard?”

“Tell him to think about his future first. That's all I'm askin' here—is that so hard?”

“Let me ask you something,” she said to Ben. Before she asked, she took a seat and began tonging tomato wedges onto her bed of chopped iceberg. “Isn't playing on a team supposed to teach you to subordinate your own individual needs to the good of the group?”

“That's a different subject.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. It seems to be Coley's subject. He seems to be saying he feels bonded to his teammates. He's concerned about their success as well as his own.”

“If this is all you've got to contribute, why don't you just drop out of the discussion?”

“I warned you, didn't I?” His mother's eyes were flashing. “I told you to leave me out of this altogether, but you chose not to listen. Your son wants to share in the team experience, but you can't see any value in it.”

As rapidly as he could, Coley prepared himself three hot dogs and squeezed on the ketchup and mustard. If this was going to be a knock-down-drag-out, he wasn't sure he could stand to be in the vicinity.

“The hell with the
team experience
! If he can get his head together, this kid may be standing at the threshold of a major-league career! Is that so hard to grasp?”

Coley scrambled for a cold Pepsi.

“The difference between the two boys,” she said, “is right in front of your face. What you usually refer to as ‘lack of a killer instinct' is actually a decent human being.”

“It's chickenshit,” argued Ben. “It's the excuse to fail.”

“It's called
character
,” countered his mother. “If Patrick had had any of it, he'd probably still be alive today.”

Coley stood up. “Y'all can knock this off right now, or I'm leavin'.”

“You better leave,” said his father quietly through clenched teeth.

Coley went downstairs with his food. He could hear the shrill tenor of their raised voices through the open windows. He couldn't make out all the words, but he knew them anyway.

You can't live your dreams of glory through your sons
, his mother would say.
They weren't put here to fulfill your fantasies
.

They were put here to fulfill something
! Dad would reply.
Some level of greatness, some measure of achievement. If it was up to you, all they'd need to do is keep the yard mowed and go to S.A.D.D. meetings after school
!

And his mother would answer by saying in a shrill voice,
Maybe you'd better think of another example! If Patrick had ever shown any interest in S.A.D.D. meetings, he'd probably still be alive today
!

How dare you say that to me? Patrick died in a boating accident! How dare you blame me for his death
? Drunk, he would sputter out his indignation in a chain of incoherent protestations.

While his mother, more adept than he in the war-of-words format, and certainly far more composed, would ever so slightly turn the knife that she had skillfully inserted:
Did I say that? Did you hear me blame you for Patrick's death
?

The words might change—some of them, at least—but the agenda itself wouldn't change, and neither would the animosity. Coley turned up his TV loud to blot out the fevered pitch of their angry voices. He gobbled all three hot dogs in less than two minutes washing them down aggressively with Pepsi-Cola.

He heard the front door slam hard enough to shake it from its hinges. His father, drunk and pitiful, would swim his way to the Buick in the driveway.

He heard the car door slam. He heard the tires squeal on the asphalt. He knew his father was headed straight for the country club, where he would find his way to the bar and spend the rest of the evening in the company of some good-old-boy drinking buddies.

The day she told him she was pregnant they were swimming in the pool. His ankle felt great, even when he swam at full speed in pursuit of her.

Giggling breathlessly while hanging on to the side, she said to him, “I've got big news. You're going to be a daddy.”

The demeanor didn't fit the message. She might have been telling him she'd just scored some floor tickets for a concert. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. I'm pregnant.”

“You can't be pregnant. How do you know?”