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The lies we tell ourselves. That one thing will not lead to
another. That meetings by chance will not progress to meetings by plan.
“You’re
sure?”
“Come on,
Dad. Have you seen anything resembling business? Go ahead! Build up some bulk
so you can throw those slow pitches even slower.”
Pablo
flashes his goofy grin – the one that erases all the flaws in his face – and
David is on his way. As always, he feels conned. The kid is too smooth. He’s
probably slipping pot brownies into the mudslide ice cream.
Like I’m one to talk, thinks David. As
soon as he pulls onto Chance La Mer he’s on his cell phone, conjuring faeries: Gym 2 p.m. He has completed a dozen
half-hearted bench presses when Abbey enters, casually tosses her shirt and
bends over to offer him a breast: apple-size, spiced with cinnamon freckles, a
nipple the color of croissant. A minute of suckle, sigh and catch-breath, he
smiles. “Dispensing with the preliminaries.”
“What if I
just sat on your face?”
“Nope. Still
married.”
“Short-sheeted
by ethos! Just for that, I will work out topless and drive you insane.”
She begins
by touching her toes, which leaves her small, ripe ass inches from his face.
“Where’d you
meet her?”
“Spanish
class.”
“Teacher?”
“Classmate.
Her parents were from that strange generation that decided they should raise
kids that weren’t too obviously Mexican. You’ve seen Elena – how was that supposed to happen?”
“Dios mio!”
“At home,
they spoke nothing but Ingles. Elena got tired of not being able to speak to
her abuelita, so – Spanish class. She assumed it would be in her blood, kept
trying to skip the hard steps – conjugations, genders, vocabulary. So it was up
to the gringo in the next desk to act as her speedbump, tutor, novio, esposo,
padre de sus hijos. I still speak better than her. You should have seen our
trip to Cabo. How about you? You and Randy.”
Abbey
spreads her legs and moves her face to one knee.
“I don’t
know if I should tell you, Man Who Does Not Screw.” She smiles between her
legs, her breasts dangling like water balloons, her crotch covered by bare
millimeters of lycra.
“Look at
it,” she whispers. “It’s all yours. You could reach right up there and grab
it.”
David takes
the bar and goes back to pressing. “Domine deus, agnus dei, salvet factotum
Erin go bragh…”
“Asshole.”
She grabs a foot and holds it behind her back, which causes her breasts to
point to the ceiling.
“Randy liked
you. He’d be telling you to go ahead. He’d be happy for us.”
David lowers
the bar till the weights click back in.
“Randy’s not
the issue, honey. My family is. Now let’s enjoy what we’ve got and stop getting
ahead of ourselves.”
Abbey drops
her foot, lowers her head in a posture of shame and says, “I’m sorry, Professor
Falter. But sometimes I get nasty thoughts.”
She cups a
breast and begins a self-massage.
David closes
his eyes and reaches for the bar. He is going to explode.
Billy in the
bleachers is not the same as Billy in the field. The team has lost its fire;
they’re not doing the small things, they’re not playing smart. Batting in
Billy’s number-six spot, Pablo comes up with bases loaded and two outs and
can’t resist the big jackpot. He yanks the ball to left, a deep fly that
accomplishes a big fat zero. Maintaining a life-long pledge to not become his
father, David says nothing.
Their
opponents begin the next inning with a grounder to second and a fly to short.
The next batter lifts a fly to right and Derek reveals the dark side of his
nickname, clanking the ball off his glove for a double.
It starts to
rain. On the Rain Coast, in the sixth inning, this changes nothing. Down by
eight runs, facing a cleanup hitter who looks like Paul Bunyan, David is
tempted to serve up a gopher ball and send everybody to their nice dry homes.
Mr. Bunyan has the same idea. He coils like a python and unleashes a windmill
swing. The ball goes straight up. The spin carries it behind the backstop,
where it smacks the cement and takes a high hop. It’s about to clear the
bleachers when Billy, seated at the top left-hand corner, reaches up for a
barehand grab.
David expects
a quick throw-back but Billy is frozen, staring at the ball as if he’s
expecting secret messages.
“Yo, Billy!”
“Last ball,”
says the ump. “Need that one.”
Oh well, thinks David. Homeless
ballplayers – gotta expect the occasional flashback. He jogs to the bleachers
and slaps his glove on Billy’s shoe. Billy looks down like he’s seen a ghost.
“Billster!
Can I get the ball back?”
Billy looks
at the ball as if it has just appeared in his hand.
“Oh. Sure.”
He drops it
into David’s glove, then stares toward right field, his eyes all spacey.
David’s relieved to see Abbey returning from the truck.
David takes
the mound and finds that now he’s
distracted. Something about the high hop, the barehanded catch, looping through
his head like an instant replay. He shakes it out, taps the rubber and delivers
the pitch. This time, Paul Bunyan doesn’t miss. He crushes the ball, a majestic
drive toward the spruce trees in left. It’s the drive that killed Larry. David
summons his superpowers and blows the ball toward the woods. A name pops into
his head.
Abigail.
Although the
ball is forest-bound, so is Pablo. Merzy shouts a warning, but Pablo seems to
know what he’s doing. He finds a treeless gap and bounds into a patch of ferns.
He’s a freakin’ explorer.
Meriwether.
Twenty feet
along, his eye still on the ball, Pablo comes up against a broad spruce. He’s
out of room. He takes hold of a low branch, digs his cleats into the rough bark
and launches himself. At the apex of his leap, he pockets the ball, slams
against the tree, and lands with his armpit firmly wrapped around the branch.
Dangling there, he discovers that his glove is pregnant, and holds up his
trophy.
On a night
when nothing else is going well, Run Like Hell goes nuts. For that matter, so
do their opponents. People will talk about this play; no one’s seen anything
like it. Kirk Gibson’s home run, Willie Mays’s catch. Pablo jumps into the
ferns and takes a theatrical bow. Paul Bunyan makes a comic show of slamming
his bat to the ground. Bobby Thomson’s Shot Heard ‘Round the World. Don
Larsen’s perfect game. Babe Ruth’s called shot.
Saddle.
The Curse of
the Bambino. Bucky Fucking Dent. Bill Buckner. The Curse of the Billy Goat.
Moises Alou. Alex Gonzalez. Steve Bartman. The Memphis Blues. Big John’s Curse.
Duffy’s Drop. The Grand Fool Double.
Billy.
Billy
Saddle.
David’s spell is broken by Pablo, who
slaps him on the arm.
“Geez, Dad. What’d I do? Put you in
shock?”
“Oh, um. Yeah. Great catch, Pablo.
Wow.”
They jog to the dugout, where Run
Like Hell has vowed a comeback that will not materialize. David looks to the
bleachers, where Abbey and Billy are huddling beneath an umbrella.
Photo by MJV
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