Plunking Reggie Jackson (21 page)

Before they went to bed, Bree spent more time in the bathroom than she usually did, and the closed door represented unusual modesty. She slid in next to him beneath the sheets and kissed him, but didn't seem inclined to activate any foreplay. Coley didn't mind; in fact, it was almost a relief. He used the remote to switch off the TV.

There was plenty of available parking space in the Lee County Stadium complex. Besides the baseball stadium itself there was a network of offices in a sprawling, undistinguished one-story brick building. The building was a bit confusing in its orientation because the Twins and Red Sox also had offices there.

Coley was too early. A secretary in the Royals' wing told him that Bobby Ricci was in town, but he never arrived at the office before 10
A.M.
She also told him that Ricci was more than just a scout, he was head of player development for the whole Kansas City organization.

This had to be a good omen. Ricci was not only in town, but he was a honcho. Coley could feel his nervousness easing a bit. He killed some time by wandering around the stadium, where maintenance crews were doing some small-scale remodeling and painting. Mostly on the concession stands. There were individual chair seats in the sections near home plate, but the rest was just bleachers, extending along both foul lines. It was a nice stadium, but Coley had played in better ones—Pete Vonachen Stadium in Peoria, for example, and Jack Horenberger Field at Illinois Wesleyan University. He decided not to go back to Ricci's office until at least ten thirty. It wouldn't look too good if the man hadn't had a little time to make some phone calls or check his mail.

When he did go back, he was received immediately, which was a good feeling. The tight spot in his stomach loosened a little. “Come in, come in,” said Ricci. “I saw you pitch not so long ago.” They shook hands as Coley entered the office. It was a small room with a nice desk. The framed photographs on the wall were so numerous he couldn't help but think of Patrick's old room, back at home.

Ricci was a small, wiry man with thinning black hair. His deep tan suggested that when he wasn't at a baseball field watching players, he was probably on the golf course. He also seemed to have a penchant for saying things twice. “Have a seat, have a seat.” Coley sat down.

“Do you drink coffee? I don't have much else I can offer you.”

“No, no coffee. No, thanks.”

“What was that town where I saw you pitch? I was up in Illinois for more than a week.”

“It was Galesburg,” Coley told him.

“Yeah, Galesburg. Galesburg. You had good stuff that day. You were strong out there.”

“I had good stuff that day,” said Coley. “I didn't know you were there, but my coach told me after the game. My ankle was healed by then.”

“I heard about the ankle. What kind of injury was it?”

“It was only a sprain, but it was a bad one.”

“Did you have surgery on it?”

Coley didn't want to talk too much about injuries. He knew that injuries were like red flags to scouts. “No, no surgery. The ankle's fine now. Coach told me you used to pitch for the White Sox.”

“Six years for the Sox, and a little more than three with the Pirates. I scouted for them for about five years before I took this job with the Royals. So what can I do for you, Coley Burke? What brings you to Fort Myers?”

Even though Coley had given plenty of thought to this moment, now that it was here, he knew that choosing the words would not be easy. Luckily he had a few moments to gather himself while Ricci got up to pour himself another cup of coffee.

“I'd like to throw for you,” he said to Ricci, just after the scout resumed his seat.

“Good. I'd love to watch you throw. But why me? Why us?”

“Well, I can tell you this much. I'd like to play for the Royals.”

“Great. I'm sure we'd love to have you. But we can't always get what we want. There's a thing called the player draft, and unfortunately the other teams get picks too.” Ricci was grinning.

“I know about the major-league draft,” said Coley sheepishly. He shifted his weight from one hip to the other. There was a framed eight-by-ten photo on the desk of Bobby Ricci and three famous players—Willie Stargell, Roberto Clemente, and Dale Murphy. They all had golf clubs. The picture was probably taken at one of those celebrity tournaments that raise money for charity.

“In our computer,” Ricci continued, “you're already a second-round pick, or third at the latest. Plus, I saw you pitch. You don't have much to prove to us.”

Coley sat up straighten. He moistened his lips before he moved the moment to its crisis: “I thought if I could throw for you, you might take me in the first round.”

“Mm-hm!”

“I know it's askin' a lot, but I want to be here, in Fort Myers. I want to pitch in the Gulf Coast League.”

Ricci shifted suddenly into a mode that was clearly more businesslike. “Do you have an agent, son?”

Coley shook his head emphatically. “No, I do not. I've never even talked to an agent. My dad would never let me.”

“Does your dad know you're here?”

“No, he doesn't. I'm just here on my own. All I want is to throw for you, and you can decide if I belong in the first round. That's it. That's all of it.”

Ricci seemed to lose his edge. He leaned back in his chair and locked both hands behind his neck. “Have you graduated high school?”

Other than the agent question, none of the scout's inquiries was a surprise to Coley. “No, not yet. I'll be graduating a little later on. I'm just down in Florida on a little vacation, sort of.”

“Well, we're nearly at the end of May; I guess it's not spring break.”

“No, it's not spring break. It's a different kind of vacation. Our school year isn't over till the middle of June.”

Ricci sat up straighter and put his elbows on his desk. “Well, I'd love to see you throw. But I'm off to Tampa in about twenty minutes, so it can't be today. How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow would be fine. What time?”

“How about this time, say ten thirty? How about ten thirty?”

“Perfect. The only equipment I've got with me is my shoes, though.”

“You bring the shoes, we'll take care of anything else you need.”

“Great. See you then.”

The success of this encounter left him so relieved he was nearly euphoric; but euphoria was not comfortable. He didn't want to go back and deal with Bree right away. He needed to be alone. He drove without a destination, following 41 north across the Caloosahatchee River, east on Pine Island Road, clear through the city of Cape Coral. He ended up on Little Pine Island.

He sat on a beach picnic table for the longest time, confused and disoriented, as though lifted out of time and space. He stared across the water at the Pine Island National Wildlife Refuge, watching the herons and the cranes sail in and out of sight. It was breezy, so the water was rough. He thought about calling his mother again but realized reluctantly that where there were other people, there were agendas. And most of them were over his head. He just wanted to be alone. He soon fell asleep on the sand and didn't awaken until the middle of the afternoon.

He was starving. On his drive back he stopped at a Burger King, where he devoured two Whoppers rapidly and washed them down with a large chocolate shake.

Back at the motel he found Bree down on the beach wearing a brand-new pink thong bikini. It was almost like she was naked. She was searching the water's edge for seashells. She was the most improbable woman-child. Coley scratched his head. Looking up at the terrace by the tiki bar, he saw several of the middle-aged (and older) men staring at her. Her father probably looked like any one of them. It disgusted him to think of any old fart like that mounting Bree. He stared them down until they turned their eyes in different directions.

“How d'you like it?” she asked him. She meant the bikini, of course.

“I think it's absolutely fabulous. I won't be able to control myself. Neither will all those old farts up there by the bar.”

“You're not going to be that way. We're in Florida now.”

“That's where we are. This would be Florida.”

“Well, now that we're here, this is the style.”

“There's a difference between the style and the cutting edge, Bree.”

“You can say what you want, but I like the suit a lot, and nothing you can say is going to ruin it.”

“I'm not trying to ruin anything. I said I like the suit. Where'd you get it?”

“At a mall in Fort Myers Beach.”

“How'd you get there?”

“I took the bus.”

“You could've waited till I got back. I would've taken you shopping.”

“I know, Coley, but I got restless. You were gone so long. I got a Walkman, too. It's in the motel room.”

“Terrific.” He left abruptly to walk up to the threshold of the terrace. He dragged two of the webbed recliners down to the water's edge. “Sit down,” he told her, “so we can talk.”

They reclined on the lounges. Each time the tide came in, it scattered foam around the aluminum feet. “I talked to Ricci this morning.”

“What'd he say?”

“I get to throw for him tomorrow. At ten thirty.”

“Oh, Coley, that's wonderful!”

He sighed. “It's not wonderful. It's good, though.”

“But it's wonderful if you can be a pitcher in the Gulf Coast League, isn't it? That's the answer to all our dreams!”

He felt the urge to tell her how little money a player in the Gulf Coast League earned. Instead, he asked her, “Did you call the clinic?”

“They didn't have one in Fort Myers.”

“Yeah, okay. What about Cape Coral?”

“Yeah, they have one there. I talked to this woman.”

“Okay, so who was ‘this woman'?”

“I think she was, like, an appointment person or a receptionist.”

“So did you make an appointment?”

Bree was fussing at her hair with hairpins and a pink scrunchie. She didn't look in his direction. “Not exactly,” she finally said.

“Not exactly? What's that mean?”

“I'll tell you, but you can't be mad at me.”

“I'm not mad, Bree. Tell me.”

“But you have to promise you won't be mad, okay?”

Coley could feel himself slump. He wouldn't have had enough energy to be mad. He let his feet fall over the edge of the chaise so they rested in the sand. The surging tide rushed between his toes. “Just tell me.”

“They say I have to come in for counseling first.”

“So?”

“They say I might have to come in for two sessions.”

“So what's wrong with that? Abortion is a surgery. You can't have a surgery without talking to the doctor first.”

“But I'll be scared, Coley. You know how I hate it when people ask all the personal questions.”

“Bree, they may not ask you personal questions. They'll probably just be giving you information and telling you about your options.”

“But I will be scared. What if they ask me about Burns or my real dad? What am I supposed to tell them?”

“You don't have to be scared, I'll go with you. You remember when I sprained my ankle? I had to have consultations, and they didn't even end up doing an operation. The truth is, you'd be more nervous without the counseling.”

“Please don't bring up that ankle again.”

“It's just an example. Just to make a point.”

“Okay,” she said, sitting up on the edge of her lounger. “I get the point.”

“And you won't even have to go by yourself. I'll go with you. If you want me to, that is.”

“I'll have to think it over,” she declared. “I have to go change now. You can wait for me here if you want; I'll be back.” With that, she left.

Coley watched her from behind for thirty yards or so, until the sun hurt his eyes. Her ass was naked and the only thing across her back was the pink string, which looked about as substantial as a thread.

“I'll have to think it over”? What the hell did that mean? He watched the gulls swooping at the water's edge, fighting over a morsel of fish or one of the tiny, scurrying sand crabs. His gaze wandered out to sea, and he couldn't help but think of the desperate old fisherman in
The Old Man and the Sea
. It almost made him laugh out loud; it seemed so comical that he would choose this time and this place to reflect on books and Mrs. Grissom and English class.

Chapter Sixteen

For supper, they ate stuffed-crab salad at the tiki bar. Afterwards Coley stretched out in the hot tub, which was located near the swimming pool. He had the unit to himself, although there were children and their parents in the pool. There was no pain of any kind in his ankle anymore. Tomorrow, when he threw for Bobby Ricci, there would be no holding back.

Bree came out to sit beside him for a while, but she seemed listless. She was dressed demurely in a Reebok T-shirt and a pair of blue shorts that reached nearly to her knees.

“Hey, Bree, I'm horny. You wanna mess around?”

“Not tonight, Coley. I'm tired.”

“Tired from what?”

“I'm not sure. It must be all the stress catching up with me.”

“You're thinking about all the questions they might ask you in a counseling session, aren't you?”

“Maybe that's it.”

“I told you I'll go with you.”

She told him she didn't want to talk about it anymore. She went back to the motel room.

It was nearly midnight when Bree was watching some sci-fi movie on TV and Coley got into the shower. He lathered himself absentmindedly while anticipating how good his stuff would be at Lee County Stadium. If he could show Ricci enough, he might be a first-round pick, but he wasn't one yet. It was pressure, even though his ankle was sound.