Out of Control

by Richard Reece

  Wilkins had plenty of experience with that, but he wasn’t about to give me a free pass. He threw over to first a couple of times. I’d dive back, but I kept the long lead.

  I think what happened next was Wilkins trying to get me out by way of the catcher. In any case, he threw a fastball. I broke for second, but it didn’t matter. The fastball was outside, but not far enough. Danny’s a righty, and he stepped into the pitch and parked it over the fence in right. We were two up.

  The Miners got one back in the fourth on two doubles, but our hitters were starting to see the knuckleball a little better. The second time around the order three of us got hits, one of them mine, even though we didn’t score.

  In the eighth they touched Carson. The first two batters singled and were standing on the corners. The third guy then hit a fly to shallow left. I yelled for it and started back, but then I heard Darius yelling, “Get out!” I wasn’t going to make this mistake twice, so I gave way.

  Somehow, though, Darius dropped it. As he was running in, it hit his glove and bounced in front of him, so he booted it towards me. We were lucky in a way. The runners had held up in case it was caught, and the guy on third had only average speed. I barehanded the kick from Darius and gunned it to the plate from the grass in left. The throw was on the money, no hops, and Nick tagged out the runner.

  Dad was again going crazy, slapping Brian on the back and yelling, “Heck of a throw, Trip!” There was a time when Dad’s approval would have meant the world to me. Now it just left me cold.

  CHAPTER 14

  I came to the plate first in the bottom of the eighth with the score 2–1. Maybe Wilkins thought I’d forgotten about the previous times I’d batted. But he tried first-pitch fastball again and this time I nailed it, a long liner to the gap in left center.

  I’m not quite the fastest runner on the team in a straightaway. That would be Darius McKay. On the bases though—well, that’s one of my strengths. By the time the throw came in from the outfield I was standing on third.

  That woke up Wilkins, who struck out our next batter. Then Nick stepped in, called time, stepped out and tapped the bat against his left shoe, like he was knocking dirt off his spikes. What he was really doing was sending a signal: suicide squeeze. I was going to go on the pitch, and Nick was going to bunt.

  The biggest thing that could go wrong was Nick missing the ball. I’d be caught—hence the name “suicide.” And trying to bunt a knuckleball is risky, for obvious reasons. But I guess Coach was feeling frisky, and the Miners were asleep.

  At the second Wilkins passed the point of no return in his windup, I was off. Nick squared away and put down a bunt that was beautiful enough to make you cry: a slow roller that hugged the line so close I skipped over it on my way in to score. There wasn’t even a throw. The Miners knew they’d been had. It was 3–1.

  Coach pinch-hit for Carson, but Dave Teller hit into a double play and the inning was over. All we needed were three outs from Shotaro. But as luck would have it, the first Miner up homered and the second one singled. The next scene was a common one on our team, though. Nick would go out to Shotaro and say some magic words—we never knew what they were—and Sho would settle in. He struck out the next batter and got the one after that to ground into a double play.

  Okay, I was really, really tired of baseball. But even so, a game like this one was a lot of fun. And good times like this are best of all when a bunch of guys is sharing them. It reminded me of the way I used to feel before “my baseball future” became so serious.

  Dad was out in the parking lot with the Yankees’ scouts, grinning and waving me over.

  “Haven’t I been telling you, Trip? You’ve got what it takes! Great game!”

  Brian nodded in agreement. “Nice work, Trip. The way you turned that blooper into an out at home, that was great.”

  “We’re going to be in San Diego at the Beach Blowout later this week,” the other scout said. “We’re looking forward to seeing you play some more.”

  I just said, “Thanks.”

  “I’m taking my friends out for a while,” Dad said, “but I’ll see you at home later, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. But I lied.

  CHAPTER 15

  I drove home, knowing Dad wouldn’t be there, and packed a few things. Then I called Lisa.

  “Hey, Lisa,” I said when she answered, “I need a favor.”

  “Name it,” she said.

  “I need a place to hang out for awhile. Do you have a spare room?”

  “Sure, you can use the guest room. What’s up?”

  “Same old. Baseball. My dad. I’ll tell you more when I get there.”

  Lisa’s place wasn’t a villa, but it was nice. Her mom was Pop Mancini’s youngest daughter who, like most of the family, went into the family business. But Lisa’s mom had also gone to medical school and wound up as a psychiatrist. Being a psychiatrist in Vegas is like being a blanket salesperson in Alaska. There’s a need.

  Lisa came to the door when I rang and welcomed me in. “Is this okay with your parents?” I asked.

  “They’re out of town till next weekend,” she said, “but they’d be cool. I’ll show you your room.”

  After I got settled we sat down in the rec room and played some video games. Lisa didn’t ask any questions; she knew I’d talk when I was ready. And I did, after an hour or so. I told her about my argument with Dad, his blackmailing me and the team, the Yankee scouts—everything.

  “I just want to get away,” I said. “From him and his expectations.”

  Lisa was quiet for a minute. “So,” she asked, “is it really baseball you hate, or is it the way it’s turned into something about your dad?”

  “Wow,” I said, and smiled at her. “How soon until you join your mom’s practice?”

  She laughed. “Really, Trip, maybe it’s not baseball you want to get away from after all. Maybe your dad is just too involved for it to be fun anymore.”

  I thought about today’s game and how great I’d felt when we’d won. Lisa was right. It wasn’t the sport. When I thought about quitting, I was really thinking about how great it would be to not have to measure up to anyone’s dreams but mine.

  Lisa went on. “What’s your plan? I mean, you can’t really change your name and work construction in Canada. Sooner or later your dad will come looking for you. You’ll have to go back.”

  “You’re right, Li. I don’t have a plan. I think I just need some oxygen for a while.”

  “We have oxygen here,” she laughed. “Stay as long as you like. I do have another guest tonight, though.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “It’s all right. The more the merrier. Plus you’ve met her.”

  That’s how, later that night, I came to be sharing pizza and ice cream and movies with Lisa and Zoey. Dad had started calling around six, but I turned off my phone. And he wouldn’t find me here; he didn’t know anything about Lisa.

  . . .

  It was great. For four or five hours, past midnight, no one said the word baseball. And Zoey turned out to be almost as funny as Lisa. I laughed a lot that night. At some point we said good night—Zoey was sharing Lisa’s room—and I went to the guest room for the best sleep I could remember.

  The next morning I went out to their pool and swam some laps. We had a practice scheduled for that day, but I had no plans to go. After swimming, I cleaned up and wandered out to the kitchen, where Lisa and Zoey were cooking bacon and eggs and giggling.

  “Hey, Trip,” Lisa said. “Zoey dreamed about you.”

  The sixteen-year-old blushed and punched her friend in the arm. “Lisa!”

  Lisa laughed hard. “Tell him about it.”

  Zoey rolled her eyes. “Actually,” she was talking to me now, “it was kind of weird. You were singing that song your dad wrote—the one you sang at my party?—and then your dad came up and started singing too.”

  “I’ll bet we made beautiful music,” I said kind of sarcastically
.

  “No! You had different styles and you sounded terrible together. And you kept looking at each other like ‘Stop already!’ And you said, ‘I was singing first,’ and he said, ‘I wrote the song.’ I thought you were going to fight.”

  “What happened?”

  “Dunno. I woke up.”

  Lisa was smirking. “Zoey, I think you may be a psychic. You are definitely in touch with the energy around here.”

  We ate breakfast. I checked my phone. There were lots of missed calls from Dad. I didn’t want him to have a heart attack worrying, so I texted him. Spent the night with friends. I’m fine.

  OK, he texted back, see you at practice.

  I didn’t answer.

  . . .

  Lisa and Zoey were planning to go to the mall that morning. I passed on their invitation. I thought I’d just chill by the pool, play games, whatever. I felt like I was on vacation—a vacation I’d needed for a couple of years.

  The girls had been gone for just half an hour when the front doorbell rang. I looked out through a window and the old sick feeling started again. It was Pop Mancini.

  CHAPTER 16

  I opened the door, and once again the world of baseball entered my life.

  “Trip!” Pop said when he saw me. He seemed surprised, but friendly. I explained that I’d been visiting Lisa, and that she and Zoey had gone shopping.

  “You were wise to stay home,” he laughed. “They’ll be hours.”

  He looked at me for a minute and said, “Sit with me by the pool. I think there’s some lemonade in the fridge . . . Yep. Grab a couple of glasses.”

  So we headed out to the patio. It was a gorgeous morning, cool for the summer. We didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Then he said, “Great game against the Miners.”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  “I meant you. You played great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Scott Harris told me you’re sort of tired of the game lately. That he wanted to give you a rest.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Apparently not what your dad had in mind.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, he talked to some of us about it. Said he’d pull his money out of the team if Scott didn’t put you in the lineup.”

  “I heard that, sir.”

  “Call me Pop. You know, we kind of laughed at him. I mean he’s very generous, but several of us have means.”

  “So the season wouldn’t end if he . . .”

  “Oh no. I think Scott was worried about that for a while. But we’re all interested in keeping the Runners going.” He looked at me. “And in taking care of our players.” He paused a few seconds.

  “Anyway, I talked to Coach this morning and told him to do what he thinks is best.”

  “Dad will freak if I don’t play.”

  “Trip, I know you’re the one who has to deal with him, but his ‘freaking’ won’t affect the Roadrunners. And the Roadrunners do need you—you’re a great player. But we need you healthy. Anyway, your dad won’t know until Coach actually benches you. Right now he’s assuming he’s won, that you’ll be in the lineup.”

  His cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and then, “Yeah, it’s not locked. Come on in.”

  A minute later the door to the patio opened and in came Wash.

  “Hey Trip!” Wash said. “Thought we’d have little chat about your situation.”

  I looked at Pop. “You knew I was here?”

  He smiled. “A friend of yours told me.”

  Lisa!

  Wash tells stories, and of course he had one relating to my predicament.

  “Trip, I played on a team with a guy—fantastic, could have made the MLB. And he loved baseball when he played. Who doesn’t love doing something they’re terrific at? But he had different plans for his life. He went to law school, and now he’s in St. Louis defending people who can’t afford a lawyer. He’s happy with the past and happy with the present because he did the job he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. Once it was baseball. Now it’s law. But he’s the same guy, loving to do something he’s good at.”

  I nodded. But Pop and Wash coming over to talk to me sort of blew me away. I couldn’t get a word out of my mouth.

  “Come to practice today, okay?” Wash said. “Have fun. If we get to San Diego and you feel like sitting, that’s fine. We just want you with us.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Pop said, “Do you need anything? I’ll be at the practice.”

  “No, thanks, Pop. I’ll pick up my stuff at home.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Trip,” Pop said. “There’s still your dad. He’s very proud of you, you know?

  “He thinks that pushing you is his duty. Heck,” Pop laughed, “he thinks that pushing everyone is his duty. But you’re growing up into your own person. Julio’s going to have some trouble with that. I did. I was not happy with idea of my youngest daughter—who was a very talented softball player, by the way—I was not happy with her deciding she wanted to be a shrink. Today I’m very proud of her.”

  All in time, maybe. But right now the idea of seeing Dad at practice, with his current Yankee obsession, made me a little sick. If I had known what would happen in a few hours, I would have felt even worse.

  CHAPTER 17

  I drove home and got my stuff, then drove to the field. I was hardly out of the car when I heard Dad’s voice calling me from across the lot. He was all smiles.

  “This is going to be a tough practice,” he said. “You’ll all need to be at the top of your game in San Diego.”

  He was right about that. The Beach Blowout was an invitational, and the best teams from the United States, Mexico, and the Caribbean would be there. Just to be included was special.

  We ran a few laps, stretched, and started our various warm-ups. We usually had a few spectators at our workouts. Some were parents of team members. Sometimes there were college scouts. And always there were a few kids or old people with time on their hands who just wanted to see some good players. Hardcore guys like Dad and Pop Mancini came whenever they could.

  When my brothers and I were little, Dad actually helped coach some of our teams. Unfortunately, as we grew up, he never completely kicked the habit. It was pretty common for him to wander down on the field and ask the coaches questions—or even offer advice. Mostly Coach and Wash humored him; he did know baseball, and he cared about the team’s success.

  I was waiting my turn for batting practice when I noticed him jawing with Wash down by the dugout. He had on a glove, and he was demonstrating something with it while Wash nodded his head and smiled tolerantly.

  Shotaro was throwing B.P. when my turn came. I started slow, trying to get down my timing. When I started hitting line drives I picked up the power a little. We always had a little fun seeing who could hit the farthest or put the most pitches over fence. The little kids would hang out on the other side with their gloves, shagging the balls that left the park.

  I was just about at the end of my turn, so I thought I’d try to rip one really hard. That’s something any batting coach from Pee Wees up will tell you is counterproductive. But I didn’t care. I jumped on Shotaro’s pitch way too soon and hooked a screaming liner right at the third-base dugout. I heard a shout and turned just in time to see the ball hit Dad in the head right above his left eye.

  He dropped straight to the ground as Wash tried to break his fall. People, including me, came running from all directions. Somebody was yelling, “Call 911!”

  The next twenty minutes seemed like hours. Dad was on his back, completely unconscious. He was breathing, you could see that, but blood was coming from a nasty gash on his temple and his face was starting to swell. Wash knelt beside him with a damp towel and wiped away some of the blood. I got down next to him and said, “Dad! Can you hear me?” But he didn’t move.

  At some point I began hearing sirens in the distance, and before long paramedics were bent over him, attaching wi
res and pushing open his eyelids to check his pupils.

  “I’m his son,” I said to one of the medics. “How is he?”

  “His heart and breathing are good,” he said. “He’s got a head injury, pretty obviously. No telling how serious. We need to get him to the hospital.”

  “I’ll follow you,” I said.

  “I’ll go with you,” someone said. I looked around. It was Pop Mancini.

  “Me too,” Nellie said.

  They put Dad on a gurney and wheeled him out to the ambulance in the parking lot. With their siren screaming, they pulled out into traffic with the three of us right behind.

  “I can’t believe this,” I said. “What if I killed him?”

  “Don’t start down that road, Trip,” Pop said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yeah,” Nellie chimed in, “it was an accident. It could have hit anyone. Or no one.”

  I pulled into the emergency room entrance behind the ambulance. “You can get out here,” Pop said. “We’ll park the car and find you.”

  I jumped out and almost ran into a blonde woman with a microphone. Behind her was a guy with a video camera. “KLAS Channel 8,” she said. “Is Julio Costas in that ambulance? What happened? Is it true he’s in a coma?”

  They were wheeling Dad into the hospital when the KTNV truck pulled up. I just followed the gurney, ignoring voices behind calling, “Mr. Costas! Wait!”

  Wait is what I would do for the next six hours.

  CHAPTER 18

  Pop and Nellie caught up with me in the waiting room.

  “So this is what it’s like to be a celebrity!” Nellie said. “There were cops at the door to keep the TV guys from crashing the hospital.”

  A half hour later Lisa came through the doors. “Hey, Trip,” she said and gave me a hug. “How are you doing?”

  “I guess the question is ‘How is he doing?’” I said.

  “Not to me,” Lisa shot back and put an arm on my shoulder.

  We had probably been there about two hours when a guy in blue scrubs with blood all over them came out of the ER. His nametag said Chris Williams, M.D., and underneath that Neurosurgery.