Chapter Twenty-One
One Hour Later
“Woodie, old pal, I’m headed your way. I need some advice. See you in a few minutes.”
Finishing the voicemail, I hang up and speed down the highway. Lucky for me, Woodie’s team faces Akron. The Rubber City stands just forty-five minutes south of Cleveland, so Woodie decided to commute from his house rather than stay in the hotel with his team. I’m glad to have an ear to bend and, if needed, a shoulder to lean on.
Lake Erie stretches beyond the horizon to my left as the city falls behind me on the right. Above me, a mass of seagulls search for crumbs. Along the dock, a few brave souls attempt to pull perch and bass from the choppy waters below.
Now that the dust has settled and the shock of rejection is wearing off, I wonder if I’m just too selfish to give Molly up again. It wasn’t so long ago Woodie was asking me for support in dealing with the same situation. Was Mrs. De Leon right, all of those years ago, when she called us a triangle of fools?
I wave to the security guard as I pull into my best friend’s private neighborhood.
As the evening sun tucks behind Woodie’s house, I recognize Molly’s car in the driveway. In a split second, all self-doubt evaporates and blinding rage takes hold. So, it appears Molly does have someone else she’s stringing along; it’s just not poor Mitch. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence at all that Woodie decided to spend time at home. My headlights alert the silhouette I see through the large bay window of my arrival. Woodie exits his house, squinting in the glare of my headlights. Molly apparently doesn’t care enough to come out and say hello.
Before Woodie can react, I burst out of the car, holding a baseball bat in one hand and an attitude in the other. Woodie’s desire to protect Molly sends me into a frenzy. Does he not realize how ridiculous he looks, considering how many times I’ve been the one protecting Molly from him? Anger gets the best of me and I let the bat fly through the bay window.
“Ryan, what the hell are you doing?” Woodie asks, ducking behind an SUV to avoid the glass shards.
The sun continues to drop as I stand, fists clenched, in Woodie’s driveway. His vintage brick mansion, acquired after signing his last contract, makes my apartment look like a matchbook. Was I foolish to believe Molly would spend the rest of her life with me when she could claim this?
“After all the shit we’ve gone through together,” I say. “You guys are still up to these old tricks.”
Woodie’s expression of rage softens into furrowed brows of confusion. Something dawns on him as the sun sets. My friend holds up his hands in front of him, palms extended in surrender. “Ryan, slow down. Molly’s not here for me.”
“Good thing you can admit that. I guess I’m still just under her spell.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, Molly is sick. She needed help. She’s—”
Woodie cuts off his explanation as a creak from his front door announces Molly decided to grace us with her presence us after all. Half of her face hides in shadow and the other half betrays guilt. She has strung me along long enough, and I won’t let her play me for a fool again tonight. Moments ago, I felt guilty for walking away rather than making a scene, and here she already pushed me aside to advance on Woodie.
“Molly, how on earth can I be surprised to find you here? Our sad little situation just got a whole lot clearer for me.”
Molly says, “Ryan, I—”
I kick the driver’s side mirror on my car, and it cracks halfway off. “Shut up. I can’t listen to any more of your lies. All this time we played lovers was just to bide time until Woodie was available again, eh? That about the size of things?”
Woodie advances, but I stop him with a showing of my clenched fists.
When he makes it clear he’ll stay put, I point at Molly. “Want to hear something crazy? I was actually excited for you when you fed me that bullshit about heading west and needing to be alone. How ridiculous is that? Even as you’re telling me you want to split, I was rooting for your success.”
Woodie tries to interrupt my tirade, but I’m having none of it. “Down the road, when Woodie flies off the handle again, don’t come crawling back to me. When your mom goes out and sleeps with another married woman, don’t call me. When you realize you’re old and lonely and that you’ve pissed away your whole life messing with our heads, don’t even think about using me again, because I’m done with you.”
Yes, I came here to express myself, but I didn’t know just how much I hated these people until right now.
Woodie takes two steps toward me looking like he means to smash me into as many pieces as his shattered bay window broke into. Only two things separate us, a car and decades of friendship, though at this point, I’d put more stock in the car preventing a fight.
Woodie’s cheeks are beat red. “Ryan, you’ve got this all wrong—”
“Screw you, Woodie. I’m not here to break you guys up or even stand in the way. I just want to make it clear that I’m done with this—”
Woodie punches the roof on his own car. “No, screw you, asshole. Molly and I aren’t together. I’m done with that dream. So whatever is going on here, I swear, I have nothing to do with it.”
Molly wraps her arms around her stomach, as if our words have punched her gut and cleared her lungs of air. She’s pleading for both Woodie and I to calm down. Her flashy dress waves in the wind along with her extra curly hair. I remember her shampoo smelling different, earlier in the night. Why would she be changing all of these things if she wasn’t sneaking around with Woodie?
The answer, clear as day, hits home when I add in all of her recent late nights at the gym. “Is it Mitch again?”
Molly sobs. “It was a mistake.”
I roll my eyes and growl as I tense from head to toe. “Stop your sniveling. I can’t tell you how mad I am, because right now, all I feel is relief that I won’t ever be forced to second-guess your love anymore.”
Molly’s whole body shakes as she screams, “Ryan, you don’t understand. Things have changed.”
I shoot her an incredulous expression. “Since dinner?”
It’s scary to think just how off her rocker she must be at this point, to think a few words from her mean I’ll just crumble back into her arms.
I back toward my car. “No honey, not this time.”
Tonight I’m severing all ties, burning all bridges, and making a clean break from my “friends.” So, without a second thought, I say one of those things that you just don’t say to people you care about. “Molly, I left it all on the line just for a chance to love you, and you rewarded me by sleeping around. Maybe it’s good your dad isn’t here to see you grow into the whore you’ve become.”
There’s more I could say, but her stunned silence and the absolute hate billowing to the surface of her expression lets me know I’ve made my point.
I turn away.
Woodie calls out, “You ass, that’s over the line.”
Heavy footfalls announce his advance. My friend’s exasperation reflects off of my car’s driver side window as I open the door.
“Ryan, you dick, wait. Molly is pregnant.” Woodie snaps as I rev the engine.
My stomach launches into my throat as my breath escapes my lungs quicker than when my father punched me in the gut. I press the brake down to the floor and glance at Molly, still sobbing. She looks so fragile and all of the warning signs: the sickness, the fatigue, the emotional rollercoaster begin to make sense.
Woodie places his hands on the roof of my car and leans in. “Look man, she showed up about fifteen minutes before you got here. She was a wreck and said she needed to use my bathroom. I guess it took your fight at the restaurant to finally clue her in as to what was happening to her lately.”
I grab onto my keys, pause, and then drop my hand back to my clutch. “Well, good thing she has Mitch to take care of her.”
I peel down Woodie’s long, winding driveway. The latest gathering of the triangle of fools ends on
an ugly note. Molly is crying, Woodie is screaming, and I’m headed to the bar to end my sobriety.
Chapter Twenty-Two
June 16, 2010
Leaving the bar, the toughest decision to make revolves around whether I’m sober enough walk to the hotel or if I should call a cab. My watch reads only noon, but in my defense, baseball teams get very few days off during the season.
As the Indians remain mired in slump after slump of disappointment, my life seems to mirror their every move. While they are busy losing over a hundred games per season, I’ve been busy spending over a hundred bucks a day on my bad habits. Yes, habits, plural.
Whether it’s the pain pills for my body aches, alcohol for the numbness, or the coke to keep my edge, day in and day out, I’ve been doing it, and in large doses. It all started to go downhill after Molly left me. Or I left her, however you want to call it. I miss her and Woodie more than I ever thought possible. For now, I find solace in my drugs and my loneliness.
From an outsider’s point of view, my life couldn’t be better. Here I am, manager of the pinnacle of the Triple-A level, The Erie Express, one step away from the Big Leagues. Yet I’m too numb to appreciate good news.
I’m relevant in the baseball world for the first time in years, maybe the first time since my shoulder popped, and it feels damn good. But once I step off that diamond, it all comes crashing down. I am a mess.
Raising my hand and stepping toward the street, I call, “Taxi.”
“Where to, Mac?”
I wave my arm. “To the city.”
The dreadlocked cab driver looks at me in his rearview mirror. “You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific.”
“I’m staying at the Hotel Diablo.”
Half an hour later, I drop into a reclining chair, flip on the TV, and snuggle in for a nap when a very familiar voice invades my buzz.
“And that’s why I trust no other airline when I travel overseas.”
With my eyes still closed, and feeling the first strains of a headache begin to take root, I laugh as Woodie’s voice booms from the television. I’ve seen this commercial about three hundred times this season. I wish I was on better speaking terms with him just so I could make fun of him for it.
It’s a series of goofy commercials he filmed for Geneva Airlines years ago. The TV spots were supposed to air overseas only, but Geneva made a huge deal last year to purchase an American company to gain a foothold in the states.
He continues, “Fine dining, great entertainment, and first-class flight attendants throughout the whole plane. So, when you’re flying the team overseas for vacation home runs, think of Geneva Airlines: Enter Station Geneva.”
Now, with the commercial over and the realization that the TV is tuned to CNN, I know it’s the optimum moment to pass out. I desire nothing more than to let this waste of a day fly by while I recover. With luck, my buzz and subsequent hangover will dissipate enough to allow me to report to the ballpark before the rooster sounds.
Before I pass out, however, I see a cute reporter worth keeping my eyes open for. “We are going to go live to Columbus, where another major scandal story is breaking. It appears one of the most popular and powerful senators in the country will be answering questions at a press conference just announced a few moments ago.”
Politics. I ease back onto the scratchy couch cushion and reclose my eyes. Let the talking heads rip each other apart while I dream.
“We are getting mixed reports that...wait, here comes a woman to the podium now.”
The reporter’s voice fades as anticipation grows and the warmth of a thousand camera flashes burst into life.
“Thank you all for coming. My name is Molly De Leon. I’ll read a brief statement before answering questions.”
As she continues to speak, one of my hands reaches for my cell phone and the other for my flask. Sure, common sense says that even if she wanted to answer the phone in the middle of a press conference, she couldn’t, but right now I just need to hear her voice and make sure she hears mine.
The phone rings once, twice, three times. “Come on, come on.” I say, and take a pull from my flask.
When I hear a click, I assume the voicemail picked up, but when a different female voice says, “Hello” I sit up and stumble out a greeting.
A loud, annoyed groan communicates perfectly that the woman knows who I am. “Ryan, I presume.” I can hear the strain and exhaustion working in her vocal chords.
I grin, hoping my good-natured tone puts her at ease. “Claire, what a surprise.”
Over the past few years she and I have shared several phone conversations like this one.
“Yeah, wish I could say the same. Ryan, you can’t just call every time you see Molly on TV. Do you expect her to come off the podium so she can hear you slur your words and make empty promises? You do realize she’s involved in the biggest story of the year, right?”
I ask, “Listen, can’t I just talk to her when she’s done?”
The request seems reasonable to me.
“No, Ryan, no you can’t. You know you can’t. You know you don’t deserve to, and you know all the reasons why.”
With the added confidence awarded by the liquor, I press my luck. “Why?”
“Are you being serious?” Her voice cracks, exasperated. “How many times have you called just this month? How many times have you sent her e-mails, flowers, and, what was it last month, a bottle of some perfume? What is that even about?”
“It’s her favorite,” I answer, but to be honest I don’t even recall sending the perfume.
“Yes, she told me it was her favorite–when she was fifteen. That’s the only way we knew it was from you. Look, Molly loves you and she always will, but right now you have to back off. When the right time comes and things calm down, she’ll call you. Right now, though, she has a zillion things going on. You have said some awful things to her and that doesn’t just go away because you feel bad.”
I take it in stride, knowing I deserve to hear this. I’ve been an ass. My eyes drift toward the flask in my hand. I am an ass.
“Ryan?”
I let Claire wait in silence as I fight a losing battle against tears. This won’t be the first time Claire hears me cry over the phone, in fact, any hesitations I, as a grown man, might have about crying on the phone to the coworker of the woman I love disappeared years ago.
Claire lets her stern attitude flush away as she hears the first of many sobs escape my lips. Just as fast, the small layer of control I have over my emotions rips free like a dead leaf in a strong fall wind.
“Ok, Ryan, let’s not do this right now. This is so not a good time. I need to be there for Molly, and—”
I interrupt with a renewed strength and aggravation dripping in like morphine through a needle. “I want to see my son.”
A long, dead exhale of defeat exits Claire’s lips. “Ryan, for the first year of your son’s life, I helped arrange all three meetings between you, Molly, and Mikey. Each one ended worse than the last, and I promised myself to not allow you to scare him or his mother anymore.”
There’s no denying I’m the one who screws up each meeting with my son, but I want to be a part of his life, even if Molly wants nothing to do with me. If she didn’t ever want me to see him, why would she have named him after my dad?
“Call him Moe.”
“No one else calls him that.”
“Michael Omar. The name honors both our fathers and his nickname should too.”
“Clean up your act, Ryan,” Claire says, unwilling to spare with me. “Molly wants you to know your son, too. It has killed her to watch you spiral out of control like this. When the right time comes, I promise, you will be allowed around him again.”
I throw my flask across the room and it smashes into a pot of fake flowers. “When?”
Claire sighs. “Ryan, someone much smarter than I said that if you want to move a mountain, start with the small stones. I don’t expect to hear from you until you
’re moving the large ones again.”
I stay quiet, trying to process her words.
“Ryan.”
I don’t know if people actually understand when they’ve hit rock bottom or not, but I can feel a bed of stones underneath me, and the walls of life are closing in. If this is indeed the worse life can get, then the only place to go from here is up.
“Ryan, look, Molly needs me right now.”
I picture my old trainer, Ho Ban standing over me and telling me I’m not giving it my all. Back then; all I had to do was grip a little tighter, breathe a little deeper and push, just a little harder.
So, I push. “You’re right.”
I’m lying down, drunk, the sun shining right into my bloodshot eyes. God, I need some coffee. Rubbing my hand through my unkempt stubble, I take the hardest step, the first step, back toward respectability.
I push harder. “Claire, I’m going to take your words at face value and make a promise. Until I’m ready to be a decent man to Molly and a positive influence on my son, I won’t call. I won’t e-mail. I won’t be a bother.”
“It’s good to hear you say that, Ryan. I just hope, for everyone involved, you mean it.”
Assuming the conversation has ended, I stand.
“And Ryan, good luck.”
I exhale sharply. “Thanks Claire.”
With my first vote of confidence, I hang up the phone. Feeling a new sense of urgency, I change and head to the fitness room.
I push.
I think of Molly and I push.
I think of my son and I push.
I push with all of my strength, fighting the effects of the alcohol, as I think about Woodie.
I push as I think about my father.
I push faster, but this time when I think about my life and the game I love, I turn to the side and puke.
Chapter Twenty-Three
August 31, 2015
I cup my phone against my ear, too scared to breathe so as not to miss anything.
A Life of Inches Page 15
