A Life of Inches

by Douglas Esper

  Speedy, my team’s catcher, and I high-five with our mitts still on as we head to the visiting team’s locker room. “Hey, Rook, you had some decent stuff tonight.”

  Holding my head up higher than just a moment ago, I say, “Thanks. I’m just taking things one pitch at a time—”

  Speedy chuckles and raises his hand, open-palmed, “Save that talk for the press conference, pal. You’re still giving away too much on the mound with your movement and expressions.”

  I stop at my locker. “Any tips?”

  Speedy unbuttons his jersey. “Yeah, come with me and the guys down to the bar, buy the first round. The drunker I get, the better my advice becomes.”

  I grin, though by his expression, Speedy appears dead serious. We pack our gear, including Speedy’s custom painted catcher’s mask, drop it on the team bus and collect our measly per diem. As we exit, we’re joined by a couple of the offensive guys. Thus far, the other pitchers haven’t warmed up to me.

  Chubbs, our fast-talking, long-haired third baseman, says, “All right. The rook is coming out to party.” His voice sounds different, until I realize this is the first time I’ve heard him talk without a mouthful of sunflower seeds.

  Our shortstop, Juan “J-rod” Rodriguez is the skinniest man alive, but the word on the field is that he can pound drinks like no other. “Can you hang with the big boys?”

  The veterans intimidate me, but I don’t want to seem out of place, so I say, “Big boys? I didn’t realize the Cardinals were in town tonight. Will they be meeting us at the bar?”

  Silence.

  Juan looks at Speedy; Speedy looks at Chubbs, Chubbs glances at Danny, our over the hill second baseman, who’s fighting a losing battle against oncoming laughter while watching the shock dawn on J-rod’s face as if he got slapped. Another moment of silence permeates the air until the guys guffaw along with my cheap shot. Tension I didn’t even realize had built up fizzles.

  Chubb’s laughter is a chunky, awkward series of noises like you’d expect to hear in an overcrowded barn lit on fire, so I am glad when he stops long enough to talk. “Awww man, rookie’s got some balls.”

  I slap a few high fives as we head down the street toward another dive bar in another dive town. A few townsfolk who attended the game join us along the way. When we reach our destination it appears to be a plantation style home with a porch wrapped around its entirety. Inside the various rooms have all been modified to act as separate pub chambers with different décor depending on where you’re sitting. We, of course, just happened to have been seated in a room covered floor to ceiling with posters, hats, signed bats, and anything else that helped the bar proclaim its love for the team that has just mopped the field with us during a double-header today. Though the hunting trophy chamber appeared to be empty, the hostess had bypassed it, and at least for the night we accepted our only choice: to allow our most recent loss to be rubbed in our faces. Then again, given the rapid pace with which we’re racking up losses, this seems par for the course rather than a special occasion.

  I drain my second beer, and a shot of whiskey, as Juan saunters off with not one, but two local girls into another part of the bar. For a guy playing at the lowest levels of semi-pro baseball, he seems to have some big league game with women.

  A townie sporting a white beard and a sweat-stained undershirt grabs his mug and eyes me from across the table. “Son, you have some nasty stuff on the mound, but if you don’t mind my asking, uh…”

  Always happy to talk shop, I ask, “What’s on your mind?”

  “Well, I guess my question is, what the hell was it you were doing at the plate? Your swing is all over the place. I mean no disrespect, I swear. I just haven’t seen a swing like that before.”

  The man obviously sees the embarrassment ripple across my face, and mercifully stops talking. Though even if he were to continue, I wouldn’t be able to hear him over the knuckleheads at my table bursting into laughter so loud the whole bar turns to see what the fuss is about.

  “Sir, you’re correct,” Chubbs says through bouts of high-pitched giggles. “We’ve never seen a swing like his, either.”

  Before I can defend my undefendable offense, a waitress delivers me another beer and a shot. She winks at me before addressing the rest of the table. “Y’all got to lay off this cute one here, okay?”

  She makes eye contact with each person as if expecting a confirmation on her order.

  Danny stands and walks off with his drink. “S’funny, I think I know that guy over there.”

  I use the moment of distraction to read her name tag, Ruby, as she rests a hand on my shoulder. “Listen hon, if you take a look around this bar you’ll see that half the bums in here have played for either Lincoln or Omaha, and they’re just jealous you’re still out there playing and they aren’t. Keep your head up.”

  Her voice rises so everyone in the place hears, and I realize everyone is listening. Of course they would be paying attention, she’s the best-looking gal here, and by ‘here’ I mean the whole city. Maybe tonight’s the right time to make a move beyond Molly.

  “Thanks, uh, darling,” I spurt out, instantly feeling stupid and self-conscious. “It’s good to know my guardian angel is still looking over my shoulder, helping me out.”

  My words escape as smooth as the roads in downtown Cleveland after a long winter.

  “Aw, thanks, honey, that’s sweet.” As she speaks, Ruby leans close to me, alerting the other patrons that the show is over. Even still, with the rest of the drinkers quiet, you can hear a pin drop across the room.

  “So what’s my guardian angel doing working tables in this dive? Can I return the favor of rescue by taking you out after your shift?”

  Just as her smile builds my confidence, her attention shifts to one of the townies at our table as he screeches his chair on the floor and stands up. His previously friendly expression is growing dark under his basket-woven straw hat.

  Ruby shakes her head. “Daddy, no, just sit down.”

  As if we practiced it, my teammates and I ask, “Daddy?” at the same time as we look between the two.

  Chubbs slurs, “You just hit on the waitress in front of her dad. You have the worst luck, bro.” His long hair whips around wildly, dropping into various drinks at the table as his guffaws echo around the bar.

  Next to me, Speedy is falling out of his seat, bellowing like a hyena. “I…can’t…I can’t believe it.”

  I wish I could slide right under the table to avoid the cold stare I’m receiving from Ruby’s father. Though he’s much older than me, age has not diminished his large frame.

  I remove my ball cap and stand, hoping to reason with the man and avoid insulting him further. “I, uh, sir, I apologize. I, you see, what I meant was just that, um, she is, well, your daughter, she’s very, um…”

  I notice his cheeks get redder by the millisecond.

  All I can do is keep talking. “She’s a pretty gal, uh, lady. Yes, a pretty and respectable lady, and I meant nothing, um, I think I better be going.”

  He’s having none of it. “Sit down.”

  His voice sounds half calm, at least. The other half, however, might be all he needs to make his point clear. His right hand rests on a thick, dark brown belt, and having seen far too many Westerns, I pray there isn’t a gun holstered behind it where I can’t see.

  Ruby giggles, hiding half her face behind her tray. As I sit back down, she mouths, “Sorry” and heads back toward the bar. I scold myself for still allowing my eyes to dance down her curvy frame even with her father gearing up to tear my head off.

  Chubbs cuts into the tense silence. “Man, I need to hit the bathroom before I lose control of my bladder.”

  “Uh,” Speedy says, “be right back, Ryan. I wanna pop a few quarters in the jukebox.”

  As their laughter fades, it leaves my newest friend and me alone at the table.

  “Listen boy.” His oversized, bleached white teeth, shine from under a bushy, black mustache. “N
ow, I can tolerate a lot of things, such as conversing with players from the opposing team and having people say sweet things to the hired help, but no one, and I mean no one, comes in here and calls it a dive.”

  The last sentence comes out slow and loud.

  “No, sir, what I meant was, you know, uh…” I trail off, wordless but desperate to calm this guy down. At this point, I’ll say or do anything to defuse this situation.

  He points a finger into my chest. “You’re wrong, I don’t know. I don’t know how you can come in, call this place a dive, hit on my daughter, and still have the nerve to try and explain why I am in the wrong.”

  From behind the angry father, the white-bearded townie says, “Son, right now I think you’ve got bigger problems than that swing of yours.”

  I grab a shot glass full of brown liquor and down its contents. “Ayup.”

  The combed-over townie next to me grabs the glass as I set it down. “Hey, that was my drink.”

  One clear thought develops and then reverberates through my head. It seems like the most brilliant plan ever conceived: get out of here, really fast.

  I hold my hands out in a surrendering gesture. “Well, I think my friends and I are going to shove off, so I’m headed to the bar to pay for my drinks here and leave, okay? No harm done, and I do apologize for disrespecting your daughter, you, and the bar.”

  Everyone watches for my next idiotic blunder as I backpedal toward the door. I don’t turn around until I feel the solid oak bar at my back. The bartender, an enormous figure, looms over me wearing a lumberjack flannel and a shit-eating grin. If this turns ugly and this guy gets involved, it’ll be more than just my shoulder that I’ll need to ice on the team bus.

  I slap a twenty on the bar. “Hey there, I have a tab for Ryan that I’d like to close out.”

  The bartender’s nametag unsurprisingly reads, “Brutus.” I curse my luck and hold out hope that the offended father is calming down behind me. I’ve lost track of the beauty who started this whole scuffle, and realize I won’t have time to send her off with a flirty goodbye before I run out of this place with my tail firmly tucked between my legs.

  Brutus grabs a slip of paper, and when I push the twenty across the bar, he looks at me like I just announced my candidacy for president. He drops the bill in front of me and crosses his arms. “I don’t think that’s going to cover it.”

  I read the tab. “Eighty-eight dollars. What’s this all about? I just had a couple drinks.” My tone of voice betrays my state: frightened, tired, and more than anxious.

  “It’s about paying your tab,” Brutus says, jabbing a meaty finger into my chest. “I was told you were paying for that table. Here you are, and here’s your bill.”

  “Who told you…?”

  Realization dawns as I look around the bar.

  No sign of Chubbs coming out of the bathroom, Speedy isn’t picking songs at the jukebox, Danny disappeared, and now I can see that Juan didn’t retreat to a corner of the bar at all. He and the ladies just walked out the back door.

  Under my breath, I mutter, “The sons of bitches are going to pull a rookie prank like this? Of all the lowdown dirty things to do...I’ll be washing dishes all week to pay this off.”

  I size up the bartender and weigh the options of fight or flight, realizing quickly I don’t stand a chance either way.

  “Look, Brutus, I might be a tad bit shy on the money. Is there any way I might appeal to your good-humored nature to allow me to find an alternate way to pay off this tab tonight?”

  With stern eyes glowering me back a step, the large bartender wipes a beer mug with an old rag and answers in a slow, measured tone. “I’m sure something can be arranged, but I’m not the guy to talk to. You want Mister Coughlin, the owner.”

  I knock my knuckles on the bar, excited at my first ray of hope. “Thanks, my good man. Can you point me in the direction of his office?”

  Brutus points behind me. “No need. He’s sitting right ova dare.”

  I turn around to confirm my worst fear. Ruby’s father raises a glass and winks. Seriously, how much worse can this night get? Woodie, I need you and your luck here like I never thought possible.

  Chapter Seven

  August 29, 1998

  Pushing with all of my strength, I extend my arms another inch as I think of Molly, of Woodie, and about pitching a baseball. Another surge of effort, another inch, but the thoughts fueling my workout remain the same. I think of her. I think of him. I think about baseball.

  Ho Ban, my team’s trainer, says, “A little faster, now.”

  Separating myself from the stench of the padded floor, I push as I kiss Molly. Another push and I strike out Woodie.

  I push.

  I grunt, attempting to ignore the dull ache in my arm growing sharper with each rep, but I don’t allow any sign of self-doubt to show on my face. I’m not going to let anything stand between myself and the Triple-A Championship tonight.

  “Keep your back straight. I don’t want to see you favoring your right side anymore.” Ho, a former baseball star from South Korea, constitutes one-third of the people in the organization aware of my shoulder issue from college.

  “Embrace the pain, Ryan,” he says. “Embrace the pain and rise above it.”

  I push.

  I push.

  I think about Molly, and I push faster.

  The sweat feels good, the warmth of motion feels good, and, to be honest, even the pain feels good. Woodie, here I come.

  Ho says, “Good. Good. That’s better.”

  It’s still early in the day, yet I’ve been training for over an hour to prepare for tonight’s big game. Quickening my pace, my arms grow weak and a little shaky.

  Ho says, “Okay, that’s enough.”

  I ignore him and keep pushing.

  “Ryan, enough.”

  Ho claps his hands, the sound echoing around the empty gym. “Ryan, we get it. You’re capable of a massive amount of very fast push-ups, but you’re not going to win us the game at 7 in the morning.”

  Making baseball a career requires a knack for swinging a stick of wood and hitting the ball screaming toward you at high speed, but keeping a routine can prove just as important a skill. The ability to grind it out day after day, night after night, small-town city after small-town city is what separates the successful players from the ones you’ve never heard about. That’s why there are so many baseball players following weird rituals. Getting two hits on the day you forgot to shave can lead to growing a massive beard for rest of the season. I’m not the most superstitious guy on the team, but I have been wearing the same pair of red and blue striped socks since I threw a three-hit complete game shutout against the New Castle Coinmonsters three weeks ago.

  Tonight, I’ll be facing off against my oldest rival, Hank “Woodie” Wodyzewski.

  I push.

  I push.

  I push, and I ache.

  One last push, and I visualize the ball flying right past Woodie for a game-ending strike. I let out a satisfied yell as I stand, ready for the next exercise Ho has prepared for me.

  Pointing toward the cooler, Ho says, “Go get yourself some water. I need to talk to a few of the other guys and get them started. You’re looking good, man. Relax and let the game come to you tonight. You are ready.”

  After wiping my face free of sweat, I nod in appreciation. Tonight my team, the Toledo Torpedoes, face the heavily favored Buffalo Barbarians with the Triple-A World Series championship on the line.

  Leaning on the water cooler, Speedy looks like he needs a few more days to recover from a collision at the plate the night before. In the history of baseball, ‘Speedy’ Steve might be the slowest player to ever occupy a spot on the diamond.

  He flips me a baseball. “You ready to take down your arch nemesis?”

  Over the years, he’s witnessed Woodie and I square off, and I’ve told him about dozens of previous competitions between me and my best friend, including the bike race that introduc
ed us to Molly in the first place.

  Speaking through a mouthful of granola, our first baseman, Dean, asks, “Who’s your arch-nemesis?”

  Dean, Steve, and the others gathering around are ready to hear all about Woodie, but Ho Ban is just as ready to get the morning workouts started. Like an ump sauntering toward the mound to break up a meeting gone on too long, Ho heads our way, looking stern.

  He twirls his fingers. “Let’s go, ladies.”

  We spread around the outdated gym to begin game-day preparations in earnest. Before long, I’m stretching my legs with my sweaty back pressed against a wall covered with posters declaring sports clichés.

  I push against gravity as I think about Molly. I think about Woodie. Only this time, instead of baseball, I picture wolfing down breakfast.

  Kenny, our centerfielder, pumps twice as many push-ups as I had earlier without breaking a sweat, and says, “Ryan, so, last night before the game I talked shop with your father. The guy seems to know baseball and all, but, like, were you adopted or something?”

  Not only am I not shocked he asked, I’m surprised it didn’t come up as soon as my parents got to the ballpark at the start of the championship series. “No,” I begin, shaking my head. “That’s my pale as a ghost dad all right. He was a pretty well-known boxer back in the day. Get this, he met my mother playing in a charity softball game while preparing for a fight in Mumbai. Luckily I get most of my looks from her.”

  Dean, raises his eyebrows. “Boxer, eh. Yeah, that explains his missing tooth, I guess.”

  Steve and I chuckle along with Kenny.

  Ho Ban instructs us from the front of the room. “Switch and hold, ladies.”

  As we flip our poses, Kenny focuses the conversation back on the game. “So, what can you tell us about Woodie’s strategy at the plate?”

  “Everything.”

  When even Speedy’s clicking knee falls silent, I know I have everyone’s attention.

  “I’m dead serious. We could have three weeks to talk and I wouldn’t be able to finish telling you all the times that lucky son of a gun has bested me—”