by Kim Oclon
Man Up
Copyright © 2020 by Kim Oclon
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Man Up / Oclon, Kim
ISBN 978-0-9993886-3-1
Ebook ISBN 978-0-9993886-6-2
[1. LGBTQ – Fiction. 2. Baseball – Fiction. 3. Self Esteem – Fiction. 4. Friendship – Fiction. 5. Bullying – Fiction.] I. Title.
Trism Books, Deerfield, IL, USA
www.trismbooks.com
To Virginia
You make me so very happy
PROLOGUE
I came out to my dad at the hottest part of the day in the middle of last summer. Standing at the grill, he turned to ask me how I wanted my burger done.
“I’m gay. Medium well is fine.” The sun’s rays beat down on my baseball cap as my arms and legs were sticky with sweat.
My dad’s neck and back twitched. He didn’t say anything, just angled the spatula and flipped two burgers. The top half of my body tried to go back inside, but the bottom half was super-glued to the patio. Dad didn’t turn around after the last flip. He just stood in front of the grill, letting smoke get into his eyes.
I had to ump a Little League game later so when we were all seated at the table, I wolfed my food down in less than five minutes. My mom said something about staying hydrated since it was still so hot and I knew she had this tight smile on her face, wondering why everyone was being so weird. Well, Robert, my little brother, wasn’t being weird. He went on and on about this homerun derby fundraiser thing for his travel team.
Dad managed to avoid me for two days. Even though it seemed impossible for us to not see each other in our small two-bedroom house, it was actually pretty easy. He got up early to get some work in before the sun began to broil him while he measured boards for a deck he was building for a neighbor’s friend. And maybe I left a little early for the games I had to ump. When I got home, my mom claimed Dad was already asleep, the door to their bedroom closed. Being outside in the heat all day must have made him tired.
Or maybe he couldn’t even look at me because he fucking hated me. I actually thought that.
On the third day, I came home to find Dad sitting on the front step, sipping a beer, wearing his reliable after-work uniform, shorts and an old White Sox T-shirt from their unbelievable World Series run. I turned off the car, forgetting to put it in park. It heaved forward like it was about to throw up, reminding me to shift gears. My dad continued to sit, elbows resting on his knees like he was still waiting for me to come home.
My hand froze on the door handle. Maybe he wasn’t even going to let me back in the house.
When I finally got out of the car, we didn’t say anything to one another for a few moments. I just stood there, slightly off to the side of the porch, aware of the mosquitos swarming around my legs.
Dad leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees. He looked at weeds growing through a crack in the pavement. “When I told your mom what you told me… she was relieved.”
I wrinkled my eyebrows, asking a question without having to say anything.
“She said that with the way I was acting, she thought I was going to tell her that you were sick. Like you had cancer or something like that.” Dad spoke slowly, still avoiding eye contact with me. Now, he focused on setting his beer down on a ring of condensation that was already on the porch.
“I’m not sick,” I said, feeling like I had to peel the words from my mouth.
“Are you still going to play ball in the spring?” Dad finally looked up at me with one eye.
“Yeah,” I said, surprised by the question. “Why wouldn’t I?” The summer night drone of insects and birds seemed to get louder.
Dad picked up his beer and moved over so he sat on the condensation ring. He gestured for me to sit down with his eyes. Baseball was a good subject for us. I sat next to him.
“I didn’t know if you would want to or if you had some other plans,” Dad shrugged. “You know, because you’re…”
“Gay.” Dad needed me to finish the sentence but not because he hated me. How long had it taken me to say a little three-letter word? I could see him hearing the word and absorbing it.
I put a hand on my dad’s sweaty shoulder. “I’ll always play baseball, Dad. Being gay has nothing to do with it.”
The outline of his head nodded in the orange glow of the lights on the front of the house. “I don’t know how this works, David.” He patted my grass-stained knee.
“Me either.” It was true. I had no idea. But for now, I didn’t have to. So we just sat on the porch together, my dad with his beer and me with a sports drink, until the mosquitos threatened to eat us alive and my mom called us inside.
CHAPTER 1
DAVID
Something invisible hovered over me on the first day of Open Gym. It pushed down, preventing me from lifting the bench press bar that wavered above my shaking elbows. There was no need to be nervous about making the team or playing time. I made varsity my sophomore year and started all of junior year. My spot was guaranteed providing I didn’t lose a leg or arm in a freak accident. But no matter how much I grunted or sharply inhaled, the bench press bar didn’t move. I only tasted the sweat, steel, and rubber that always hung in the weight room’s air. The cement walls somehow absorbed the stench because it even smelled that way over the summer when no one used it.
“Come on, David! Come on, David!” Mike, my best friend, yelled. He put his hands under the bar, ready to guide it back to the original slots.
I arched my back, breathed in again, and managed to straighten my arms. The bar settled in with a loud clang of steel on steel.
“I think you were able to lift that with one arm last season,” Mike razzed me as I sat up on the bench, swinging my arms to loosen them up.
“You barely got the bar up when you tried.” I sat on the bench for a moment so the blood could drain from my head and settle back into place. “Good thing I was spotting you.” As the pressure slowly faded, the gymnastics team glided into the weight room and began a regimen of push-ups and sit ups.
“Something’s about to come up.” Mike raised his eyebrows, pointing his eyes at the leotards and leggings. “Right?”
Forcing out a laugh, I fixed my focus on the free weights and rolled my shoulders forward and backward a few times. “Come on. Bi’s and tri’s.” I grabbed a fifteen-pound weight and my muscles burned after three quick reps of curls.
Mike let his weight fall and it bounced off the rubber floor that sucked up the smell of wet dirt and sand from the various playing fields. The gymnastics team added chalk and hairspray to the mix.
I took off the Lincoln High School baseball cap I’d gotten freshmen year and reshaped the beak. Almost four years of use changed the bright red to something that looked kind of pink. Sweat stains darkened the inside along the brim. I switched arms and took a deep breath, preparing for the next set of reps.
Mike lingered on the girls’ tight ponytails and pointed toes, as they slowly lowered themselves into a center split. The more flexible ones easily slid into position and bounced a little against the floor as if that would help them stretch even lower. “Jesus Christ, David, relax. It’s not like we’re going to the World Series tomorrow,” Mike said. “Fucking hot, right…right?”
I followed Mike’s gaze to the girls who were facing each other in a full center split and holding hands so they could pull one anothe
r into a deeper stretch. My shoulders tensed as I forced a tight smile and said, “Yep.” I looked away and put all of my attention into holding the weight above my head and bending my elbow, quickly feeling the burn in my triceps.
There were a bunch of times when I almost told Mike. Almost blurting it out but swallowing the words. He’d ask, “Want to go to the batting cages?”
I wanted to say, “Sure. By the way, I’m gay.”
Or maybe when we were being lazy in his basement, sprawled out on this huge couch, Mike would suggest we play video games. “What do you want to play?”
“MLB MVP, of course. I’m gay.”
Or, it should have been easy when he thought it would be a good idea for me to go out with one of his girlfriend’s, Carrie’s, friends. “She’s really cute and I heard she kind of likes you.”
“Well, I don’t like her. I’m gay.”
I had already gone on a double date with Mike and Carrie two times. I spent the whole time at the movies eating the biggest popcorn they had so I could keep my hands busy. The whole two hours. At one point, she settled for trying to put her head on my shoulder, but I got up to go to the bathroom at that moment. There was no second date.
“Dude, take a break,” Mike said, breaking my trance. I must have done a double rep because my arm really burned. “We don’t have anything to worry about this year.”
I switched arms, staring at the cinderblock wall in front of me. Eventually, the little craters embedded in it came into focus. “Keep sitting there and Coach will take that “C” off your jersey.” I smiled a real smile so Mike knew I was joking.
“Wouldn’t Kevin and his crazy-ass dad love that?” Mike took his eyes off the girls and began to work his triceps. “No more of this co-captain shit.”
I slowly pulled my elbow behind my head, feeling the tension begin to subside. As I stretched my other arm, the heavy door to the weight room scraped the floor and banged against the wall. The gymnastics team nearly fell out of their wall-sit. Kevin Kaminski, the other captain and ace pitcher, snaked through the bench presses, free weights, and machines, taking a detour to strut past the girls. Most ignored him, as their legs began to shake, but a couple managed to toss their ponytails and flash him a smile.
God dammit.
Kevin, wearing long basketball shorts and T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, sat near us on a crate used for box squats. “Hey faggots, just getting started?”
I turned my face, reminding myself that was the way Kevin greeted everyone. Most of the guys knew Kevin was an asshole but tolerated him because he started throwing a killer curveball in Little League. Private pitching lessons have that effect on a young player.
“We were just finishing.” Mike rolled his eyes. “Nice of you to join us.”
“Talk to me when you sign a letter of intent to a D-1 school.” Kevin folded his arms with this stupid smile on his face, probably giving himself a mental high-five and a pat on the back.
“Really? Where?” I asked, trying to hide my jealousy even though I knew for a while that a bunch of colleges were interested in Kevin and his curveball.
“U of I.”
Mike looked as if he suddenly caught a whiff of one of the football player’s armpits. “I thought you had to be smart to go there.”
Kevin jumped off the box. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Mike stood up too. “It means not everyone who applies gets into that school so back off.”
“My cousin was in the top ten percent of her class and she didn’t get in,” I said, glad I could back up Mike.
“Well, there you go,” Kevin said as if it was obvious. “She.”
“Yeah, because we all know girls don’t go to college.” Mike rolled his eyes again.
“Not to play baseball they don’t.”
“You got me there.” Mike threw up his hands as if defeated in a battle of insults.
“Yeah, well where are you going to play?” Kevin moved the pin in a weight machine down a couple notches and sat down to do a leg press. “Hope to be a walk-on at Sinni like Patrick?” He looked at me, shoving his legs forward with a grunt. The College of Northeastern Illinois was dubbed Sinni by everyone who went there, probably even the teachers.
“Patrick’s going there?” I asked, recalling the catcher’s slightly massive body blocking the plate for a close play at home. I shrugged like I was the one who had just signed a letter of intent. “Good for him.”
Kevin snorted. “It’s not like any other place else is going to take him.” He bent his knees to lower the weights and then glanced at Mike.
What about you? Maybe some shitty D-3 school?”
“Maybe,” Mike said even though I knew the schools on his wish list. He could get into and play for any of them.
Kevin grunted his legs forward again, scoffing at me. “You’re going to be a charity case.” He closed his eyes and stuck out his hand, holding an imaginary paper cup. “For the poor, for the poor.”
My face felt hot and something in the pit of my stomach went from simmering to boiling.
“Stop being an asshole,” Mike said, stepping in front of me. He finished stretching his arms and followed me to the weight room’s exit.
“Stop being a fag,” I heard Kevin say as we left.
“You’ve still got that school in Minnesota, right?” Mike asked me as we walked across the field house. “Not exactly as awesome as U of I, but not shitty D-3 or Sinni either.”
“I’ll take any school that will give me a scholarship,” I said. Mike already knew that. When Coach Kelly told my parents I was good enough to play in college, they told me baseball was the only way I would get to go. Four years ago, my dad lost his job at the construction company where he had worked for fifteen years. We’d barely been getting by on my mom’s part-time salary and the side jobs Dad sometimes found. Right now, he was in the middle of installing, sanding, and refinishing hardwood floors for a neighbor. “I mean you’re still waiting too.”
Mike and I paused at the edge of the indoor track so we wouldn’t get run over by approaching members of the track team. “Yeah. Kansas. Missouri. I got in touch with South Carolina for the hell of it.”
A small pack of runners glided by in perfect unison, as if their legs belonged to the same body. Tyler jogged in front, leading the pack with his natural stride that made running look effortless. He waved to catch my attention and for a moment all the crap about college was forgotten. “I’ll meet you outside after the cool down.”
I waved back to show I heard him, my stomach doing a little flip at the same time.
“I didn’t know you hung out with Tyler,” Mike said.
I shrugged. “He lives by me. Sometimes I give him a ride home.”
“He’s gay, isn’t he?” Mike followed the pack approach the next curve as if something in their running would give him the answer to his question.
I started to cross the field house. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t know. We’ve never talked about it.” I did a couple of quick shoulder rolls to shake the tension and tightness that returned to my muscles.
I waited for Tyler in my car, hoping the heat would kick in soon. It was an old car, practically the size of a small boat, the color of muddy pond water, and paid for after a summer of umping Little League games. Despite its appearance, the car worked well. It was worth every yell about a close play and every stare I got after a game when a parent felt their child was somehow wronged in the world of Park District Little League.
Rubbing my hands together, I put them in front of one of the vents even though it still blew icy air. It stung the way a foul ball would when it hit the bat during the season’s early games. Just as the air was warming, I saw Tyler approaching through the foggy window.
“Nice hat,” I said as Tyler plopped into the passenger seat.
“Thanks. I got it over the weekend.” Tyler shook his head so that the little puffball attached to the top of his striped knit hat bobbled from side to side. “Along with
a pile of running gear.”
As I waited to make a left turn out of the parking lot, Kevin sped into the lane next to me in the SUV his dad handed down to him when he bought a new one. He managed to hit a huge puddle of slush and spray my car. Tyler ducked and covered his head as if the tidal wave of muck would crash through the window.
Kevin’s car lurched and the brake lights glowed bright red. He stuck his head out of the window. Hey David, I knew your car was a shitbox, not a homo-bile!” He skidded off, a half a second before another car came rushing by.
“What a dick,” I muttered, turning on the windshield wipers at high speed.
“I’ve heard worse,” Tyler said, settling back into the seat.
I double-checked the road before making my turn. “Can you believe he’s going to play ball for U of I?”
Tyler sighed. “Figures. I’ll still have to deal with him.” He had gotten in his applications early and knew where he was going since November. “At least it’s a big school.”
I decided to slow at the yellow light rather than race through. A drop on the windshield slid in a curved path as if it needed a special map to get to the bottom of the window. The road and the light went out of focus and the drop came into clear view.
“Screw him. There’s a team looking for a sexy second baseman. They just haven’t found you yet,” Tyler said as he placed his hand, palm-up, on my knee.
I smiled at Tyler’s hand. As I laced my fingers through his and squeezed, I felt how smooth his hands were while mine were rough with callouses from the hours spent in the batting cage over the years.
“UW-Parkside offered something, but it was only for half of the tuition,” I said, remembering the hollowness I felt after reading the news. Not wanting to release Tyler’s hand, I flicked the turn signal with my driving hand, letting the car steer itself for a half second. “There’s still Mankato. This D-2 school in Minnesota.” Coach Kelly had also reached out to Mankato on my behalf, telling the coaching staff about the speedy second baseman that could leg out a well-placed bunt and stop any ball hit his way.
