Something about his voice renders me unable to stop smiling at the ridiculousness of it all. He holds up his index finger. “First, on the count of three I want Ryan, Molly, and Woodie to reveal their peanuts. Understood?”
I nod.
He counts. “One, two, three.”
My choice is revealed as your average shell with two peanuts. Molly also chose a standard two-peanut shell. Where mine is thin, however, her shell is much wider and bulkier.
Molly asks, “Is mine good or bad? I have no idea what’s going on.”
I shrug. “Neither do I.”
Of course, as luck would have it, Woodie reveals a massive shell that encases three peanuts.
Omar announces, “We have a winner. Woodie, you have chosen the longest peanut, and what a beauty she is. You have just won…that peanut shell, and the chance to stay here eating it while one of your good friends trudges up the stairs under a hot summer sun and fetches us drinks. Molly, you place second, as your shell is much thicker than Ryan’s, but I’m sorry to say only the grand prize winner gets to keep their peanut.”
Resigned in defeat, I stand to get the sodas, but I’m motioned to sit back down.
“No, friends, the excitement isn’t over yet,” Omar continues. “Oh, no indeed. Now comes the bonus round. The rest of us will now compare our shells, and the smallest picked must pay for all of the drinks. So, are we ready?”
Though he’s speaking to the other two adults in our group, at least three onlookers also chime in. “Ready.”
Here it is, three men competing over a $25 charge any of them can easily afford, and having a good time doing it.
“One…two…three.”
Fists open and folks look on in earnest. When they observe the size of the shells, each spectator looks puzzled. My dad has an average peanut, and Henry Wodyzewski’s is bigger. What catches people’s attention is the half-shell resting in Omar’s hand, sporting only one peanut. Mr. De Leon sabotaged himself in his own contest.
Henry slaps the amateur game-show host on the back and chuckles. “You planned on paying all along, you goof.”
“All right. I owe you one, Omar.” My dad turns back toward me. “Hey, you better get moving. Looks like Hallowell is done warming up, and I don’t like being thirsty when the game’s on the line.”
His jab encourages a few more comments, “make sure there isn’t too much foam in my cup” and “what pop would you pair with my bratwurst?”—which I suppose you can say literally come from the peanut gallery.
Grabbing the money, I squeeze past the others and exit our row. As I jump up stairs, three at a time, an unmistakable crack resounds around the stadium. I turn just in time to track a foul ball heading this way. Leaping back down a few steps, I grab onto the railing as a quick sense of vertigo throws my balance off. Another few steps bring me even with the row I was just sitting in. The ball arches down to my right. It finds a landing spot about five seats down. Woodie looks natural catching the ball in his bare hands.
My friend showcases his prize high in the air as the crowd gives him a loud cheer. Moving to congratulate him, I glance up at the jumbotron. There, on the big screen, I watch Woodie hand the ball to Molly—the ultimate macho move, and then he kisses her on the cheek.
I tip my cap as my own cheeks burn with jealousy. “Nice catch, Woodie.”
Omar waves to someone behind me. “Sir, can we get some drinks over here, please?”
At the end of our row, a vendor with long, light brown hair and an unbuttoned polo revealing a well-worn Led Zeppelin T-shirt underneath, holds a tray of ice-cold beverages. I can’t help but wonder where this guy was two minutes ago, when I was barreling up the stairs instead of standing right where the foul ball just landed.
Eric, the vender, raises a can in each hand. “Dudes, need some sodas?”
Chapter Three
June 1, 1992
“All right, Ryan,” Coach Marv yells from our dugout. His voice hoarse from spewing a constant stream of colorful yet well-intentioned insults aimed at his players. “You want a chance to prove yourself? Go out there and do what no one else on this pathetic pitching staff can do. Win this game, right here.”
Last year, my father moved us into a new home across town. So instead of teaming up with Woodie to win our second baseball state championship in a row, I now have to face him in the ninth inning for the victory.
I cover my mouth with my glove as I take the mound. “Fastballs right down the middle of the plate.”
Unsure if I’m joking, my team’s all-state catcher eyes me with suspicion.
“He’s a junk ball hitter, so I’m not going to nibble. I’ll gun it as fast as I can, and hope it’s you catching the ball rather than the head of his bat.” Patting his chest with my glove, I turn to end the conference.
With corned beef heavy on his breath, my catcher says, “Hey, don’t look now, but that Molly girl is sitting first row down the third baseline.”
Like I hadn’t noticed.
“What’s the deal with you two, anyway? Is she here to see you or Woodie?”
Behind us, the home plate ump is trudging over, barking for us to keep the game rolling.
I say, “It’s complicated.”
“Not if you win the game for us.”
“Just be ready.”
Patting my glove into the catcher’s chest, a little harder than intended, I glance in Molly’s direction. She’s wearing her hair in a thick braid to combat the wind. I promised my team I’d introduce them to Molly’s crew after we win. It looks like she brought enough friends along to fill her whole section so keeping to my word should be easy. I also recognize her dad sitting a few rows back. I hate to disappoint Omar, but I’m about to defeat his daughter’s school.
Just outside the batter’s box, Woodie takes a few practice swings. The standing-room-only crowd’s yelling and jeering reaches an impressive level, but I’m too focused on my next pitch to understand what they’re saying.
Shaking off the first signal from the catcher, an off-speed pitch, we settle on the pre-planned fastball. I visualize where I want the ball to end up, just above the lithographed Sandy Alomar signature in the heel of the catcher’s mitt.
I hold my pose and let breath fill my body as Woodie awaits the pitch. I peek at my friend standing 720 inches away with his bat ready and a calm expression. We’ve danced this dance before.
My right knee lifts as roaring nerves fade away to the smallest of whispers. This feels right. Like a well-oiled piston engine making a consistent fluid motion, my body winds up and momentum handles the rest.
I release the ball.
Woodie sizes up my pitch, but doesn’t lift his bat off his shoulders.
Strike one.
Everyone watches as my second pitch also screams past Woodie into the catcher’s mitt.
Strike two.
Behind my friend, the catcher takes his hand out of his mitt and shakes it. Good, my fastball must still have a little kick. I temper my excitement armed with the knowledge that Woodie probably never planned on swinging anyway. He spent the first pitches picking up the spin on my ball.
The jeers have stopped, Coach Marv’s sharp tongue has gone quiet, and I relish the flash of doubt visible in Woodie’s eyes. Of course, as the baseball Gods say, the last strike is the toughest. With Molly watching, the building pressure wages a war within my stomach.
My catcher flashes me the fastball sign, but sending the ball to the same place three times in a row would be suicide against a hitter like Woodie. I shake my head and await the next sign. Curveball, no. Slider, yes.
I come set and let the ball fly. Woodie, sitting dead-red on the fastball, unleashes a mammoth swing. Watching his bat cross his chest, catching nothing but air, fuels a wave of dopamine through my veins. Before I can celebrate, however, the runner at third sprints toward home. Confused, I redirect my attention to our typically sure-handed catcher, who failed to field the ball. It bounces toward the backstop, retaining the er
ratic slide, making its trajectory hard to predict.
Miraculously, the catcher retrieves the ball mid-bounce. I dash toward home plate, raising my glove to accept the throw. Just as I sneak a peek at the advancing runner, my feet fail me. I trip, flailing for balance like a kid using roller-skates for the first time, and then drop headfirst with my glove hand raised too far to break my fall.
I don’t waste time trying to stop the blood now pouring from my nose, because I have bigger issues. The ball ticked off my glove and rolled toward the pitcher’s mound. I flinch away from the advancing player as he steps on the bag, winning the game. From my prone position, I can just make out Molly and her friends cheering and laughing in the stands. Wishing I could be anywhere else but here, I bury my face into the chalky white sand marking the batter’s box.
Once again, even when I think I’ve beaten Woodie, he wins.
Half an hour later, still wearing our uniforms for dramatic effect, Woodie and I rush out of our locker rooms for some post-game pizza.
I pop a mint in my mouth as I approach the group of girls from my former high school. “Thanks for coming.”
Molly introduces her friends. I remember a couple of them, but don’t recall their names. Nor do I care enough to relearn them. My attention is on Molly alone. Her red hair glistens in the sunlight, casting shadows down her sky blue top, and even from several feet away I’m enchanted by her flower-tinged perfume.
She steps forward and jabs a supportive punch to my shoulder. “Good job out there.” Her tone is warm, without any hint of humor or sarcasm. Sure, over the years I’ve grown a thick enough shell to withstand some ribbing, but for some reason it just wouldn’t be the same coming from Molly as it is from my teammates or Woodie.
“No joke,” Woodie agrees. “I’m amazed at how fast your pitches are developing. I totally guessed wrong on that last one.”
I shoot my friend a grin of appreciation for helping me look good in front of the group. Woodie winks.
From behind me a voice dripping with sarcastic humor and ego cuts in. “I agree.”
Delvin Crowe, the previous record holder for a dozen hitting categories at my old high school joins us, uninvited as usual. Woodie surpassed every single one of Delvin’s records.
Delvin lights up a cigarette. “Forget your slider, Ryan. What I’m dying to know is, who taught you that fancy footwork? MTV?”
I roll my eyes, and the girls titter as a matter of principal, but Woodie, besides tightening his jaw, remains neutral.
Though both of my high school coaches hold Delvin in the highest regard, the only thing Woodie and I find cool about the failed minor leaguer is that he’s buddy-buddy with the Indian’s second baseman and Rookie of the Year candidate, Jeremy Wilder.
I puff out my chest. “So, didn’t you graduate like six years ago? Shouldn’t you be at work or something?”
Delvin’s cold stare deflates my confidence. “Watch your manners, little boy. I have no time for amateurs like you.” Turning toward my teammates, he asks, “You boys ready to celebrate? Mitch is letting us use one of his facilities all night long.”
Around Cleveland, everyone knows Mitch from the goofy commercials advertising his chain of gyms.
Delvin looks over my shoulder. “So, Woodie, you in or out?”
Woodie tenses, his body language betrays discomfort and indecision. Sure, I’d love some alone time with Molly, but I can’t believe Woodie would abandon us for this loser.
“No,” Woodie says, filling me with relief. “I’m good, man. Maybe next time. Tell Jeremy great game for me, okay?”
“Suit yourself, Champ.” As he turns away, pulling out a pair of Aviator sunglasses, I notice a look of frustrated disappointment spreading on Delvin’s heavily freckled face.
One of Molly’s friends twirls a finger in her hair. “Hey, if you’re not going, do you think Delvin will let me ride with him? I wanna rock Jeremy Wilder’s world.”
Woodie holds out his hands, palms up. “Knock yourself out. He said he wanted to make us better baseball players. Maybe he can give you a few pointers.”
The girl’s eyebrows explode upward. “Really?”
Rolling her eyes, Molly hooks her arm around mine and leads me toward the parking lot. “Pizza is on me tonight, boys.”
Chapter Four
August 25, 1992
Molly’s sneering lips widen. “You gonna shoot the ball or do you need an invitation?”
Woodie piles on. “Go easy. Ryan’s worried he might be an H-O-R after all.”
Molly’s sneer falls into a mock frown. “Awww, is wittle Wyan afwaid of losing to a wittle girl?”
I applaud her effort to mess with my focus, though Molly should know by now that her mere presence qualifies as enough distraction. I’d be less intimidated hanging out on the set of Baywatch in my boxers.
“Yeah, tough words coming from such an H-O like yourself,” I jaw back. “When I’m done beating you this game, I can give you some private lessons if you’d like. Then maybe you can at least compete at Woodie’s grade-school level.”
Molly’s eyes are two emeralds at the bottom of a coalmine, and I can’t keep a straight face as she giggles. Without taking my focus off her, I raise my hands and shoot the ball.
The three of us know every crack in the pavement, the bend in the rims, the best angles to avoid sun glare, and since we’re using my ball, I even know just how much it will bounce. Maybe that seems petty, but I’ll do whatever it takes to impress Molly—and beat Woodie.
Clank.
The ball bounces off the rim, right back at me, forcing me to break our stare. No matter how much I want to deny it, I am an H-O-R now.
“All right, hotshot.” I gun the ball toward Woodie. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Molly jogs out of the way as Woodie dribbles across the court, and says, “Ryan, I didn’t want to do this to you, but I think you’ve talked your way out of this game. If you guys want to concede victory after this, I won’t hold it against you one bit.”
His tone is full of good natured-humor, but his body language is all business.
“Big talk from a man in the midst of a, what, six-game losing streak? Maybe you should keep that steam engine of a mouth clamped until after you make a shot or two.” Normally I’m not much of a trash-talker, but being on a winning streak feels good, and with Woodie and Molly around it doesn’t happen often.
“Molly, come over here.” Woodie directs our female companion a few feet in front of the basket. “No, face me. Yeah, that’s good. Um, take one big step back. Not that big. Come forward, a few inches. Perfect.”
As he backs away, Woodie points to a crack in the cement just under the rusted basket. “Ryan, I need you to stand by the hoop and be ready.”
“For what?”
“Well, if all goes well, you won’t have to be ready for anything. I’m going to dribble the ball at break-neck speed, jump over Molly, and slam this baby left-handed.”
All of a sudden, my winning streak looks to be in jeopardy. “Real brave of you to risk Molly sustaining injuries, just to win a stupid game.”
The concern in my voice is as much about losing as it is for Molly’s safety.
Molly crosses her arms and stares at Woodie.
“Hey,” he says, “if you don’t feel comfortable, I can jump over Ryan. If he kneels down, that is.” On the surface, it’s a gentlemanly offer, but Woodie knows there’s no way in hell Molly would ever back down from a challenge. The three of us are pretty predictable this way; if you want us to do something, just tell us we can’t do it.
With Woodie standing out beyond the arc, I cup a hand next to my mouth to block the wind. “No chance, hotshot. This will be the best seat in the house to laugh as you fall on your ass.”
Woodie nods. “Okay then. Ryan, old buddy, if I miss, you’re there to save the day. I don’t want your nice clean ball taking a swim in that toxic waste they call a brook.”
Woodie dribbles between his legs to re
ady himself.
Without warning, Molly and I are staring into the face of a star, a winner. Woodie’s brown eyes are concentrated on the rim, already calculating his leap, as he begins to dash forward. Molly’s shoulders flinch, but she holds steady from the waist down.
In a few seconds he crosses the distance between himself and Molly. He plants his feet and launches.
The laws of physics give way, just a little, as Woodie clears his second leg over Molly, and raises his arms toward the rim. The whole park stops to watch this display of athleticism. There are no birds arrogant enough to sing about love or worms. No squirrels squawking over acorns. The brook that runs just beyond the basketball court has tempered its endless babbling and the mosquitoes of the park have called a cease-fire in the war for blood.
Woodie slams the ball down right on top of the poor, defenseless orange rim, but not through it. He grasps the rim to slow his momentum as the ball springs straight up into the air. The move works, but his head still has enough momentum to smack right into the edge of the backboard. His neck snaps back from the impact. He releases his grip on the hoop and loses his battle with gravity.
I pivot forward, keeping my eye on the ball, ready to help if necessary. One flip, two flips, three flips. A mosquito buzzes, an acorn is dropped, and the brook overturns a pebble in its path as the ball falls back to Earth.
Swoosh.
Woodie’s left foot plants. His outstretched arms struggle for balance as his knee buckles, but somehow the lucky son of a biscuit doesn’t fall.
Molly yells for him and rushes forward.
Full of admiration and disbelief, I grab the ball as it bounces toward the water. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of fast and furious motion coupled with a scream so intense from Woodie I duck.
I turn in time to witness his arms lash out in an exaggerated sign of frustration. Fury and adrenaline fuel his fist backward, connecting with Molly’s jaw just as she reaches to wrap him in a caring embrace.
A Life of Inches Page 2
