A Life of Inches

by Douglas Esper

  Driving home, I inform her why she was able to win our race. Of course she’s excited for me, but I can also sense the hesitation she might have to miss me all season as I coach, just as she had Woodie as a player.

  By the time we get home, our flirting refocuses life away from baseball and back on us. Molly pushes me down onto the couch in our living room. Just being able to say “our” anything is a thrill. In fact, with each day, it becomes more of a privilege to share my life with her. So far, she’s let me keep the apartment intact, but I imagine at some point the Dennis Eckersley painting in the bedroom will be coming down, just like when she replaced my Heat movie poster with her painting of flowers.

  She presses her index finger into my chest. “Wait here, I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

  Her playful voice sends a jolt of anticipation through my body. Then she adds, “And babe, why don’t you take that shirt off. You’re getting nacho cheese all over.”

  She giggles and turns toward the bedroom. Forcing myself not to follow her seductive curves, I’m resigned to just enjoying the view. Before I’m able to read Carlton’s business card for the thirtieth time, I hear Molly calling.

  In the bedroom, she stands with her back to me, looking out on the city skyline. Fresh from the shower, Molly wears nothing but a large purple towel. Her hair drips water down her toned body.

  “Ryan, I…”

  I stop, just an arm’s length behind her.

  She tries to continue. “Do you think—?”

  I spin her around and we splash together like tidal waves under a raging storm. My kisses cover her face like light rain as my hands slide up and down her back. As we lock lips, her hair tickles my cheek. We twist and tango around the room until Molly thrusts me down onto the bed and leaps on top of me, one leg to each side. Our fingers intertwine, firm, urgent. Our hips sway to a song no one can hear but us. Molly straightens her back, peering down at me, while my shirt buttons separate under her guiding fingers one by one. My heart beats like thunder as I see the lightning sparkle in her eyes.

  She whispers, “I love you, Ryan,” before coming in for another kiss.

  Point, Game, Set, Match.

  Chapter Eighteen

  August 11, 2006

  Tonight my team, the Medina County Buzzards, faces the Terre Haute Monarchs, and I’m looking forward to an easy win. The Monarchs had most of their top-tier talent called up to double and triple-A to fill in gaps, leaving their roster decimated.

  I flip on the radio and then jump into the shower. With Molly around, the bathroom stays clean and the tub gets lined with several scented soaps, shampoos, and facial cleansers.

  “Tony Drizzle here on WCLE with some breaking news. The Indians just emailed an alert for a press conference to be held in a few minutes to allow Hank ‘Woodie’ Wodyzewski to announce his retirement from baseball.” The radio announcer triggers a sound clip of the Indians play-by-play guy shouting excitedly about a home run Woodie hit earlier in the year. “Sure, he hasn’t panned out as the big bat the Tribe was hoping they acquired with that winter trade a few seasons ago, but he has become an integral part of the team as a veteran leader. I will be sad to see him go. I mean, I’ve been covering this kid since his high school days. If he’s retiring, what does that say about me? When we come back we’ll be going live to the press conference…”

  The roar of my thoughts drowns out the sports talk. As the surrealism of the moment crashes over me, I close my eyes, letting the scalding water wash away my anxiety. As I reopen them a few moments later, I understand, beyond the shadow of a doubt, what I must do.

  Answer my phone.

  Naked and dripping, I tiptoe over my dirty clothes to grab my cell phone. The ringer plays “Centerfield” by John Fogerty, which means this could only be one person calling.

  “Hey, Woodster. From what they’re saying on the radio, you’re going to have plenty of free time coming up.”

  “So you’ve heard the news already.” Woodie’s voice sounds warm, eager. It seems even on the day of his retirement, my friend has chosen to stay positive and professional.

  “Sure did, slugger. Just know that whatever you need, we’ll be here for you. I mean, if there’s one thing I have experience in, it’s life after baseball.”

  I choke up, visualizing my best friend’s last hurrah as a baseball player. And to think, I’ve spent years focused on the times he bested me while ignoring all the times he’s been there for me.

  Woodie sighs. “I can’t tell you how good it is to hear you say that.”

  I wait a moment longer, expecting more, but when the silence lingers I decide to move the conversation along. “Maybe I can help you avoid some of the mistakes I made on the path to becoming a regular guy. Well, I guess–”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Slow down. I’m happy to hear that you’re here for me, man, really I am, but I don’t think you heard the news. That is, I mean, the real news.”

  He has my attention.

  “Listen, I’ve known you for such a long time, and you’ve always been there—with me, against me, it didn’t matter. I’ve felt like we’ve always been best friends, even when we didn’t speak for long stretches. For years, I’ve gone through the same motions to get through every day, and as each season has come and gone, I’ve felt like my life needed more. Yes, the major leagues have been a challenge, and yes, baseball has allowed me to live an amazing life, but in the end…what if that isn’t enough?”

  His words started with laughter, but now his tone sounds introspective. “I still feel great, considering the beating I’ve endured all these years, but if I’m not 100% committed it’s just no use. So, yeah, I went into Slim’s office late last night and told him I’m hanging up my cleats.”

  “Hey man, if you’re leaving the game on your terms, consider yourself lucky.”

  He agrees with a grunt.

  I put down my bar of soap and rinse my hand. “If you’re up for it, why don’t you do your press conference, and then come with me to my ballpark? We could relax, talk some shop, and you could see the game from a different point of view. What do ya say?” I’m sure spending his first day of freedom around a baseball diamond falls low on his wish list, but at least he knows the offer stands. At least he knows he has a friend.

  “That’s sorta why I called. As I left Slim’s office and started to say some goodbyes, he called me back and handed me his phone. He’d informed the General Manager of the Cleveland Indians of my decision. The GM told Slim to grab me before I left. It seems an opening for minor league manager has just come up, and he wants me to consider taking the job. I wanted to talk to you and get some advice.”

  “Woah, congrats. Shoot away.”

  “So, I see you’re playing The Monarchs tonight. What does your scouting report say for facing their slugger, Tim Wiest? I hear he’s a beast.”

  Growing up, we always studied the game of baseball. I can recall countless days watching the Tribe on the tiny nineteen inch TV at my parents’ old house and breaking down each pitch.

  “Well, it’s a weird time to talk shop, but if you’re that curious, I can tell you. The word around the league is, he loves the high heat, just cannot get enough. If he learns to lay off it, he could draw enough walks to rocket his on-base percentage up into the .380 to .400 range.”

  Someone on the other end of the line says something to Woodie in the background. “Hey, listen, we’re about to get started, but we’ll talk soon, okay?”

  “Good luck,” I say, wishing I could be there for my friend. Then again, I’m still wet and naked, not appropriate attire for a press conference. I flip the radio back on and step back into the shower. With Molly at a televised pep rally in Detroit and Woodie live on the radio, I’m the odd man out of the media blitz.

  “Hey. Tony Drizzle here. I guess Woodie has taken a deep breath, and is now ready to go through with the press conference after all. Let’s go out to our man on the scene. Patrick, what’s happening on your end?”

  Pa
trick clears his throat. “Well, Tony, the press conference started in very dramatic fashion as the Indians’ head manager, ‘Slim’ Svitak, gave the press a quick hello, and then he motioned for ‘Mr. Luck’ to come out. After that, nothing happened, Tony. Rumor percolated around the facility that Woodie was reconsidering his decision to retire. It seemed to all of us gathered here that those rumors must have some legs to them, because…”

  “P, did we lose you?”

  “No, Tony, sorry. Here comes Woodie to the podium, where we expect him to make a short speech, and then open it up for some questions.”

  The reporter falls silent. Shuffling feet, a chair sliding, and someone clears their throat as Woodie takes his place in front of the microphone. I grab the soap as the sound of shuffling and creaking seats can be heard through the radio.

  “Thanks for being here, all of you,” Woodie says. “As most of you have guessed, I’m not here to announce my candidacy for president.”

  Laughter permeates the room.

  “I’ve had the honor and privilege of making a career of playing baseball for many years now. From my earliest memories, I can recall dreaming of suiting up for my hometown team, and during these past few years I’ve fulfilled that dream. I’d be lying if I said the childhood dream ended without a World Series ring on my finger, but to be honest, I think Cleveland is making the right moves to be really good, really fast and I might just be in the way on the field. I was never the fastest player, the strongest player, or the most well-known player, so I relied on my understanding of the game to stay in the league—”

  A reporter calls out, “Not to mention that lucky streak of yours.”

  The crowd laughs.

  Woodie chuckles as well, and then continues, “These past few years I’ve spent more and more time in the dugout, teaching, coaching, and picking the brain of our great manager. So, even though most of you already have your articles written, I’ll make it official. I’m retiring from the Cleveland Indians today and assuming the role of manager for the Terre Haute Monarchs.”

  Caught off guard by the news, I slip on the slick bathtub floor, but avoid a complete fall with the aid of the shower curtain and the soap dish. I gape at my radio in disbelief as a familiar wave of adrenaline surges inside.

  So tonight, I will once again go head-to-head with Woodie on the baseball field. Regardless of anything that has happened, I vow that starting right now my luck will change.

  I grab a towel and forget the shower, instead focusing on tonight’s game.

  Woodie continues giving his statement. “That’s about all I had planned. If there’re any questions I’ll field them now, but make it quick. I have a baseball team to whip into shape for tonight’s game.”

  Applause broadcasts over the radio from the typically tedious midweek press conferences, a testament to Woodie’s likeability and relationship with the local media.

  “Yes, sir, you in the striped suit. Patrick, is it?”

  “Thanks Woodie.” The reporter for WCLE seems calm to the point of boredom. “Regardless of whether you have playing experience, managing a team with no prep time sounds daunting. How will you prepare for tonight’s game?”

  “Well, it’s going to be a very big adjustment. After years of grinding it out each day on the field, I need to adjust to grinding it out while watching video, reading scouting reports, and assessing how my players are doing. In fact, one player I want to reevaluate is our stud, Tim Wiest. He’s a beauty at the plate, but I’ve noticed that he can’t seem to lay off the high heat. My theory is that if he can learn a little patience, he can draw some walks and raise his on-base percentage into the .380 to .400 range…”

  I stand in my lilac scented bathroom, shaking my head in shame. The guy has been managing for a total of three seconds and he has already out-coached me.

  One thing is for sure. Somehow, some way, this time Woodie is going down.

  Chapter Nineteen

  November 18, 2006

  Molly stands in front of a mirror, assuring every strand of her hair looks perfect. “What do you mean you don’t know how to tie a tie?”

  Though this comment sounds lighthearted, I know she sometimes wonders about my choice of lifestyle. We’re readying ourselves to attend an annual charity dinner at a German Heritage Hall. Molly calls the event a celebrity date auction, but in my experience, it’s just another excuse for rich older women to get a few cheap thrills with the most eligible bachelors in the city. Tonight, I’m confident that, no matter how high the bids get, Molly is spoken for.

  Struggling with my cufflink, I deadpan, “Well dear, as shocking as it may seem, there aren’t many occasions for a minor league baseball manager to get dressed up and hobnob with the movers and shakers of the world.”

  “Oh, I forgot, your whole life is baseball and nothing else. No time for culture, politics, and world events that don’t occur by throwing, catching, or hitting a ball.” Molly moves behind me, adjusting my orange and silver tie a couple inches, and then folds it into something respectable. “You look handsome.”

  The tie tied, we tie tongues next.

  As part of her political publicist duties, Molly co-hosts the event, and it didn’t escape my attention that Woodie made the list of bachelors up for grabs. I can’t say I blame Molly for recruiting him. He’s young, handsome, and he enjoyed a solid career as a professional ballplayer here in town. I better check myself, or I might just bid on him too.

  When I’ve attended events like this in the past, my goal has always been to embarrass myself as little as possible. Tonight, however, my goal is to charm the crowd, Molly’s friends, and even her mother. I squeeze the lucky pendant around my neck, hidden behind my freshly ironed shirt.

  I help her load the car with props and forms for the event and we head South on the back roads.

  Molly twirls a finger in her hair, a nervous tick. “So, can you go one night without rubbing it in Woodie’s face that your team made the playoffs and his didn’t?”

  “Oh, I don’t need to remind him.”

  Molly gives me her stock glare of skepticism.

  “I texted him the final standings a few minutes ago, just so I knew he knew.”

  She shakes her head, releasing an unfamiliar scent around the SUV.

  “New shampoo?”

  She sniffs her hair. “Yeah. I’m surprised you noticed.”

  “Guess I’m just used to the usual fruity stuff. What’s this new one?”

  “I worked out earlier, and all I had was a travel bottle I swiped from a hotel during my Arizona trip.”

  The Arizona trip. Jesus. There’s nothing more stressful than your girlfriend heading right into the thick of things just after some psycho started shooting at the very same politicians she’s sent to aid.

  She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “You’re cute.”

  “Why?”

  “Your face.”

  “No, your face.”

  She giggles. “Whenever I talk about Arizona, you get this stressed-out look, like the expression Wilder would give me every time I left the house. It’s cute that you care enough that me going still causes discomfort to you, even after a month.”

  “I’m an open book to you, darling.”

  “Then why are you hiding your phone?”

  My cellphone’s browser displays a page full of stats, so I can research waiver wire player pick-up possibilities for our fantasy football league.

  I raise the heat a few degrees on the passenger side of the car. “There’s no way I can allow last year’s champion any advantages.”

  This time it’s me doing the hand squeezing.

  As we enter the event hall, with its walls covered in large murals of farmers and village-folk from the old country, I see Woodie standing with Molly’s mother. I enjoy forcing Mrs. De Leon to watch as I parade her daughter around the room before we make our way to her.

  I shake Woodie’s hand. “I have thirty bucks and I’m saving it for you, stud.”

&
nbsp; “If thirty bucks lands a date with me, I think breast cancer will be the real winner. Come on cheapskate, last year the high bid was eight hundred.”

  I blink and shake my head. It looks like I’ll have to be content to go home with just Molly tonight. I kiss her high on her cheek, before she rushes off to play politics with some high-ranking VIPs.

  Might be small of me, but I take pleasure in Woodie watching her go.

  He sips his green drink. “Wow, she looks beautiful tonight.”

  Now it’s time for Molly’s mother to be shocked and offended. “What are you trying to say? My Molly is beautiful every night.”

  She laughs, just a little louder than necessary, making sure to glance around to see who pays her any attention. Having had my fill of the senator, I excuse myself to locate the bar for a soda. Ever since I left Stubby’s, with the aid of Stubby and two of Cleveland’s finest paramedics, I’ve steered clear of the strong stuff. Sure, the reason I couldn’t walk out on my own was due to my father’s fists and not the scotch, but if I had been sober, I might’ve been able to fend him off and my nose wouldn’t be so crooked.

  A very recognizable man, walking with Molly, intercepts me before I can order a drink.

  “How’re you holding up?” Carlton Massey slaps me on the back.

  My jaw clenches like a boxer anticipating an uppercut. Last week, I sat in an office with Mr. Massey, now a freelance agent, and three other men interviewing for a bench coach position with the Triple-A Lincoln Sweet Corn team. They chew through managers like a dog with a new bone.

  I point at Woodie. “Ask me again after my best friend has been paraded on stage for these ladies and bought for more money than I’ll make in a month.”

  He chuckles.

  Molly curtsies. “If you gentleman will excuse me, I believe we are close to starting up, so I’m headed backstage.”