Fast Baller

by Lulu Pratt

  “Watch batting practice? Sounds enticing but no, thanks. I think I’ll stay here.”

  “Oh, come on! It’ll be fun. You and me chatting about things in the stands. You know, the hot dog vendors are there, right? I know it sounds crazy, but there’s no line if we go at four.”

  “Really?” I was a little hungry. “You know what? Why not?”

  “That’s the spirit!” said Heidi.

  I got up from my desk and left everything exactly as it was, locked my door, and went over to the baseball diamond with Heidi. My first friend here.

  “I moved here a couple of years ago from Pittsburgh,” she said. “Much different place, Toledo. I heard stories, and when I got here, there wasn’t a whole lot to like about it. I mean, compared to Pittsburgh, which is the most underrated city in America.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Well, I went to school in Ann Arbor, but I was born in Detroit.”

  “The Motor City! Exciting. I bet there’s a lot going on there.”

  “Not lately, actually. Detroit has been hit hard by the recession and the subprime mortgage thing. My mom lives there now in a really nice apartment and she only spends like a thousand a month.”

  “Jeez. I should think about moving there.”

  “I am. Eventually.”

  “Really? So, you’re not here for long.”

  “Honestly, this is my first time working for a baseball team, and I love baseball, but I am used to working with others in a hospital setting, so a lot of what I say depends on what happens while I’m here.”

  “Makes sense. Toledo’s a pretty nice town. People are nice.”

  As we entered the stands, it was amazing to see almost nobody there. We both wanted to get a hot dog.

  “You know what? If this is your introduction to Toledo, maybe we should go out for an early dinner and catch the actual game. What do you say?”

  I was warming to Heidi. Funny how coming from a big and diverse city made you distrust people. But Heidi was a Midwesterner through and through. Hospitable and welcoming. A big heart. I was gonna like her. “That sounds great. Truth of the matter is, I am a little tired. I need a change of scenery. Just looking at the potted palm in my office is not company enough.”

  “Actually, that’s a ficus,” she said. She smiled at me mischievously. “Green thumb!” she giggled silently.

  “Well, you know what I mean. Human interaction is welcome.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “Listen. I’m not super-duper hungry at the moment. Why don’t we watch the boys toss their balls around a little for a bit and then go get some Tex-Mex or something. A couple margaritas?”

  “That sounds great!” I said. I have always loved Tex-Mex food and loved the idea of margaritas even more.

  We went to the stands and started watching the boys’ batting practice. I guess it was interesting seeing how they interact with each other, but more than anything, I just liked seeing balls being hit out of the park. And there were plenty of them, especially from Clay Carter.

  “Can I tell you something?” said Heidi in that singsong voice that made me smile inside every time I hear it. “Every girl in the front office has a thing for that new guy. You know the one from the Major League?”

  “Harrison? Harrison Brett?” Oh my God! I was doing it again! Bond. James Bond…

  “Yeah. Isn’t he dreamy? But he is so angry. He came into the office a few days ago, hollering about something to do with benefits or something. It took a couple of us ages to calm him down.”

  “Really? I never had him pegged for the type to freak out about things.”

  “Well,” she said, smiling. “I’ll be honest. He calmed down pretty quick, but me and one of the other girls took our time with him. Like I said, he is pretty dreamy.”

  Having her reinforce this opinion was not helpful to me. I already had my misgivings about getting close to him, and knowing he was the choice of everyone sort of made it less special. Add to the fact that he really didn’t seem to like me much, either…

  “He is so handsome!” said Heidi, jolting me out of my reverie.

  “He is pretty good looking,” I confirmed.

  “That jawline. It is incredible! And his floppy hair. Every guy in this city seems to have one of two of the same hairdos — the helmet head or the buzz cut.”

  “I noticed,” I said, not wanting to give too much away.

  “Oh, come on girl, you can confess to me. I’ve been lusting after him in my mind since I first seen him in the office. He’s a looker. And that ass! M-mm! Sweee-eet!”

  “Yes, you’re right. I noticed that. But Heidi, there’s a rule against fraternizing, isn’t there? They made this big point to us in the orientation.”

  “I never said I was gonna jump him. I’m a married woman!” she said, feigning shock.

  I laughed. “Just checking!” We were having a good time, the two of us. And the balls were flying around left, right, and center field. I decided I’d seen enough. Everything was going swimmingly. “How about that dinner?” I said, and Heidi didn’t need to be told twice.

  “Moe’s Grill,” she said. “Free food with two drinks each!”

  “Twist my rubber arm,” I said, knowing that this was like a red cape in front of a bull. I was not going to be feeling great in the morning, I guessed. But that was still something worth trying.

  Chapter 6

  HARRISON

  IN THE BULLPEN, I just threw as hard as I dared, trying to get my arm back. I felt the shoulder muscles individually. They were torn but they were still working. I felt like a car driving on its rims. All wobbly and unsteady, but still making it forward. Barely. I threw. It went okay. I was okay for the game. I wanted to go to the dressing room, but I heard Oscar yelling for me.

  “Brett!” he called again. I looked out at the field, and Clay seemed to be doing fine. I was confused.

  “What?”

  “Batting practice is for you too,” he said.

  “Coming!” I hollered. I jogged to home plate and faced down Clay. I had the correct stance, and I knew it. One of the few things they always said to me was that I look good. I look liked that baseball player in the Norman Rockwell painting, the Cardinals one signing the autograph. Yay for me.

  I swung. Jimmy, behind me, whispered something.

  “Huh?”

  “Watch his ass,” he said. “He’s trying to find your blind spot. He thinks that’s it. Bottom left.”

  “Gotcha,” I said, through gritted teeth.

  The ball came at me. And I mean at me. Cripes, this was not supposed to be happening. I was thinking fast. I was watching the ball. It was not coming at my outer bottom — it was coming at my shoulder. I think my way to move back, but it was too late. It hit my shoulder. Fast, too. This guy was trying to finish me.

  I let it bounce off me and back to him. I didn’t say a word.

  “Sorry, braw,” he said. I didn’t touch my burning shoulder. Just went back to my stance to see what happened.

  “He did that on purpose, you know,” whispered Jimmy.

  “M-hm,” I said.

  “Just be on your guard.”

  “Agreed,” I said, looking at the ball in Clay’s hand. I had a strong sense he’d try it again.

  He wound up, very slowly, like reeling in a fish. Then it just whipped back, as if it was on an elastic band, and, boom! it was comin’ at me. Fast. But I was faster, and I hit it. Contact.

  The sound of leather on ash was something I remembered from the first ballgame I ever attended when I was four. I think it was a three-run homer by Flyman. Not sure anymore. But I remember it because I was behind the plate, a little off to the right. My dad was there, but he was drinking, talking to people, ignoring me. I was one with the ball and the player. For some reason I was relating more to the ball as it made its way back and forth. I forget what team was playing them — Texas Rangers, maybe? — but their pitcher was killing us until
Flyman got up. I heard his name called — Harrison Flyman. The announcer said my name. Like he was introducing us. Harrison — Flyman. Flyman — Harrison.

  I later found out his first name was also Harrison, but at that moment, that sudden baseball diamond epiphany had me hooked. I was no longer on earth. I was in whatever baseball heaven was. And he swatted it. Just swatted it. Beautifully and hard. The crack of the bat was something I felt in my four-year-old stomach. I was gonna be a baseball player.

  I remember after the game, my dad found me wandering around the stands and grabbed me. “Daddy, I’m gonna be a baseball player when I’m older!” I announced to him.

  “Yeah, sure you are, kid. Listen, you think you just sign up? Those guys work for decades to get their skills. Give it up, Harrison,” said my father. Encouraging as always.

  “No, I really wanna be a baseball player, Daddy!”

  “Now listen, champ, and listen good. You look out there and see what we got. Get me? You can manage those guys, but you can never be one. So, clam up!” His meaning was clear even to me.

  My dad’s casual racism was something I was not yet aware of, but I never forgot what he said to me. “You can never be one.” And so, I worked. I worked my ass off in Little League, I worked my way up, against my father’s wishes, and made it to the big leagues. And I think he thought it was me giving him the finger, like if Warren Buffett’s kid wanted to be a janitor. Only less extreme.

  And I never had that racism. I respected the Hispanic and Black players — they had it so much harder than I ever did. And even the goobers — not that I had one on this team, other than Clay, and he was a snake.

  But I digress. There I was, swatting his ball out to the stratosphere, and the pain shot through my shoulder with the force of a neutron bomb. I was literally blinded by pain for a second, but I was not going to show anyone. I just tossed the bat — tossed, not flipped — and made my way to the dressing room. A couple of guys patted me on the back. Nice.

  I got ice, and started to treat my shoulder. I was never going to make it through the day. That was a deliberate shot! I was now pretty much convinced Clay was trying to sabotage me.

  The ice did the trick. It brought down the inflammation quickly. I had my doubts it would be enough, but we’d see. I had the ice on the shoulder, sitting astride the bench in the locker room, my eyes closed. And I heard a voice. A female voice.

  “Shoulder givin’ you trouble?”

  Here was the weird part. I was picturing Scarlet Ravenwood in my mind’s eye, and when I opened my eyes, there she was. In the dressing room. Where naked guys walk around. For some reason that was all I was thinking.

  “Are you supposed to be here?”

  “Yes Mr. Brett, I am,” she said, condescendingly. “I work here. I was watching practice and thought you might need a bit of relief.”

  So that pretty face had an acid tongue. She consistently made me feel like I was a hater. A male chauvinist pig. “Yeah, I suppose. It’s just…” Shut up, Brett! I screamed in my own brain.

  She put her hand on my shoulder and began to massage it softly. Right on the welt from the ball Clay lobbed at me. Too softly for my taste. I was about to say something when suddenly it started to work.

  “Shiatsu,” she said.

  That was the first time I had heard that word. It was like “shazam!” like a superpower. And shiatsu was working wonders.

  “Oh my gosh,” I said.

  “Right spot?”

  “Yeah. Did you see what happened out there?”

  “I did. And I’m well aware of the rivalry between you and Clay Carter.”

  “That makes one of you,” I said. “I have no rivalry against anyone on my own team. The way baseball works is you have a rivalry with the other team. Perhaps that nuance has not yet been made clear to you, as a new employee of the Toledo Spark Plugs.”

  Her grip on my shoulder tightened because, I assumed, my wit was getting to her. However, I soon realized she was just not my kind of person. She wasn’t being vindictive, hurting me. She was actually getting to the problem. The ball of energy — or whatever, holding me back — loosened with her shiatsu grip, and I was suddenly good.

  “Sorry about the snarky response. I get testy when I’m in pain.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” she said.

  She was well aware of that? For real?

  “I see,” I said. I never had any idea what to say to her. She was interesting looking. So confident, so kind of centered. She had a kind of exotic look. Her beautiful shimmering black hair that hung forward of her shoulders was almost like water. There used to be an ad about some shampoo that made your hair look like this. It was a computer-enhanced image, but it stuck in my head, and now this woman had that hair. She wasn’t model-pretty, but she had a very calm inner peace.

  “I don’t want to jinx your game, but I think it’s going to be a slog for you. Tonight’s game might be a mess, but I don’t want you to lose hope. Keep at it, and pace yourself. You should come to yoga.”

  “Yeah, I will.” I said it with absolutely no confidence, and I knew she knew it. It was annoying how much she knew about me. She never asked me much about myself, but still, she had my number. Pretty clearly.

  I got up and headed to the showers.

  In the shower, I felt the water pour over me, and I couldn’t help myself — I imagined what it would be like if she suddenly stepped in here with me. I tried to keep the image out, but it was persistent. She wanted me. I felt it. And as I looked at her perfect breasts in my mind, I smiled, and felt something stirring inside. And this was significant, because I hadn’t felt that in a long time. Since before the operation and perhaps before my marriage broke down. There was a feeling in the deepest recesses of my brain, illogical and irrational, that told me that when they cut into me, my mojo escaped. I hadn’t felt like having sex in months. But all of a sudden, I wanted her. Badly. I knew the rules, but this was a fantasy, and, last time I checked, they couldn’t legislate fantasy. Or could they?

  I was feeling weirdly horny, and I was as hard as a rock. Thank God these showers were private. I reached down and gingerly touched my erect cock. I disgusted myself. I was horrible. I was ridiculous. I was definitely not her type. I stopped and bent over in the shower and held my knees. The world was swimming before me, and I need to get out, sit down, clear my head.

  I turned off the water, disgusted with myself, and dressed in my uniform.

  Chapter 7

  SCARLET

  TURNS OUT, Heidi knew how to drink! And damn! We had a good time. Back at Moe’s Grill again a week later, tequila was flowing like water. We’d had such a good time the first time that we went back. The place was awash with folks in their twenties or thirties, just itching for a hook-up. Heidi kept me focused. On Harrison Brett.

  “You know he’s a billionaire?” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Well, technically, his father is the billionaire and he’s a baseball player. He is very down to earth.”

  I could tell we were attracting the attention of the people around us, because Heidi kept mentioning Harrison Brett — his first and last name — and it kept making heads turn.

  “I heard he just got a divorce!” said one girl sitting near us. “I’d like to get my claws into him.”

  Heidi high-fived the girl. “You and me both, sister. Tag team!” They dissolved into gales of laughter, and I realized he was not so much a person as a personality. It was like they were talking about Keanu Reeves or George Clooney. As if there was no possible way to actually get with him in a real way. It was weird being around these girls. They were mostly married and openly lusting after the new pretty boy baseball player. And a Minor Leaguer, no less. I had to admit, it made me do two things — drink faster and think more about him.

  After a couple of margaritas, I was feeling the buzz. It was starting to make me loose-lipped too, and that was not something I really wanted in my life. “Hey Heidi,” I shouted above the din. �
�Shouldn’t we be getting to the game?”

  “No rush, hun,” she said. “It don’t start until seven.”

  “But it’s already nearly seven now!” I said.

  “Lord love a duck,” she said in a panic. She seemed to be that kind of cool, married, civic-minded woman who was the backbone of America.

  I laughed, kind of loving her for her outlook on life.

  “I’m ready when you are, Heidi. Nice to meet you all, ladies,” I said as I got up.

  “Give ‘em hell, Spark Plugs!” was the universal cheer as we left Moe’s.

  “That was so much fun,” I said.

  “Always!”

  We hailed an Uber and made incredible time. We were back at the parking lot by seven-thirty, and we walked arm in arm, Laverne and Shirley style, into the stands.

  The game had already begun, and the good guys were already down by six runs. I looked out to the mound. It was Harrison. My heart skipped a beat, after all the gushing I’d heard about him, and I smiled.

  Chapter 8

  HARRISON

  I PREDICTED THAT I would stink up the game. I was not feeling my best. Don’t get me wrong, I could work through pain, but there was a point when pain causes you to jolt, to kind of involuntarily move, and pitching was a super specific skill — you needed to be absolutely certain where you were aiming.

  I thought of it like those scientists with the tiny, tiny instruments, trying to put something into a cell. One micron to the left or right could mean the difference between life and death. Same with pitching — where I was standing on the mound, the precision needed was similar to being able to throw a tiny needle into the center of a molecule that was, like, ten yards away. There was a sort of cone-shaped area, and I was at the smallest part, so when I threw a pitch, it went to the biggest part, the circle around the batter, around home plate. I had the math behind it nailed — I knew what to do.

  This was my mindset as I walked to the mound before the first inning. I was designated starting pitcher — I wasn’t a starting pitcher, for the record, but this was the Minors, so you did what needed to be done. The crowd was decent — again, not Major League, but adequate.