A Life of Inches

by Douglas Esper

  I’m already back into deep thought mode when the female, who must be standing just outside the door, speaks again to the little boy making his way to stand next to me. “Make sure to wash your hands.”

  The little boy walks to the urinal next to mine, and there’s no mistaking our charging Erie Express locomotive logo on his cap. Good boy.

  He’s much too short for the urinal he’s trying to use, so I point to the end of the row. “Hey buddy, you might want to use that one. It’s a little shorter.”

  The boy shuffles down to the shorter urinal.

  I ask, “So, how did you enjoy the game?”

  The boy seems too nervous to talk, so I say, “If I could be objectionable, I’d say that was as fun a game to watch as I can remember, but, as a member of the losing team, I’m heartbroken.”

  We both walk toward the sinks. His ball cap seems to cover his whole head and face. Brown curls of hair creep out from its brim. As we finish washing our hands, the boy looks too short to grab a paper towel, so I hold one out to him. He peers up at me to ascertain if I can be trusted. Confusion spreads across my face, as adrenaline shoots through my body at light speed. I drop the towel and startle the boy as the bathroom door opens behind us. Taking a step back, I try to mutter something, but no words come out. This little boy is the same kid that knocked into my father behind the dugout, and now that I see his face up close, I’m furious I hadn’t noticed his recognizable features before.

  I stumble backward into a man entering the bathroom.

  This boy has my eyes. This boy...

  I turn to face the man apologizing for bumping into me only to see recognition beam in his eyes. It’s my father, Michael Kelly, coming to check on his grandson. Understanding dawns inside, as I turn back to look at the boy again.

  I feel my father’s hand on my shoulder. “Ryan, I know it’s been a while, but I’m sure you remember Michael Omar, your son.”

  “Wha, how, wait...” I feel my legs give out from under me.

  I grasp for my father’s arms to steady myself.

  From outside the bathroom, the concerned mother’s voice booms again. “Is he all right in there?”

  I reply without taking my eyes off Moe. “Yes, everything is all right in here, Molly, in fact, everything is perfect.”

  The bathroom door swings open, and Molly charges in, confused. “Ryan, I—”

  I pull her toward me with a desperate kiss and an excited embrace.

  She pulls back and I’m still unsure what to say.

  My father breaks the silence. “Why don’t I take Mikey for a walk and let you two talk.”

  “You mean Moe?”

  Molly’s disapproving gaze shuts me up. Following my father and my son out of the bathroom, I lead Molly to my makeshift office, as my team soaks in the loss in their own ways.

  Just before we enter the office, Steve and I exchange a simple nod.

  My hands shake with excitement and anxiety. Of all the times over the last few years that I had daydreamed of taking my son to the ballpark with me, none had even come close to the true emotions of the moment. Closing the door to my office takes an enormous effort and the stiff wooden chair behind the desk beckons my weary body and mind. Molly’s eyes and her posture betray unease and I can’t blame her. She grabs a Kleenex from her purse as I search for words.

  I settle on, “My God. He is handsome.”

  Molly beams, helping me relax a little.

  I rub my forehead, overwhelmed. “I can’t believe he’s here.”

  “Michael wanted to see his father coach.” She pauses to nibble her lower lip. “And I did to.”

  The words are spoken as a matter of fact, but I hear the slightest tremble as she admits her desire to be here. Any rational man would burst out of his office to find the boy and hug him, kiss him, and talk to him, but right now I am not rational. I’m using all my resources just to process what has transpired and to keep my sanity in check. I’m unsure how successful I’m being.

  “Molly, I’ve made so many mistakes,” I start. She tries to stop me, but I put up my hands and continue. “I’ve wasted so much of my life playing games with you, with Woodie, heck, with myself. Whenever something got in my way, my immediate reaction was to put my head down, push as hard as I could, and keep pushing until my path was free and clear. The problem is I never bothered to take the time to see who I was pushing away and hurting in the process. Looking back, knowing what it cost all of us involved I feel so foolish. I just want, I...”

  The words I want to say begin tripping over each other in an effort to come out first, so I fall silent rather than saying the wrong thing. I know a simple apology could never cover what I’ve put Molly, Moe, and myself through, but I need to make sure Molly knows that I still love her.

  The desire to speak eases as the comfort of silence reigns for a few moments. Molly’s face remains warm, not defensive, which I take as a good sign. If only I knew what she wanted to hear, or what I could do to make things right. If I promise to always cherish her and our son, would she forgive me? If I convince her somehow that I have grown up and that I can be trusted, will she let down her guard enough so that I can be a part of his life?

  “Molly, I love you.”

  Her slap stings my cheek before I register her movement. The shockwaves ripple out and I realize I’ve overstepped my bounds.

  Focusing on Molly, however, it appears she’s as stunned as I am. “You don’t get to stand here on your turf and tell me how you feel. It’s my turn. I’m the one you told off. You’re the one that drove away from a pregnant woman you professed to love.”

  A thick strand of hair covers her left cheek, but I can still see her pleading eye underneath.

  The office we occupy feels like a nightmare setting for the most important conversation we’ve ever had in our lives. It’s decorated with sports memorabilia for the California team that calls this stadium home and reeks of stale sweat and antacids. Every surface in the office is covered in a film of broken dreams and pine tar. The air feels hot, stifling. My cheek burns with regret.

  “Ryan, we’ve pushed and pulled each other along for years now. I chase you. You chase me. That’s how we seem to operate. When you came to Woodie’s that day, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure the baby was yours.”

  I nod.

  “I made one dumb decision. I thought Mitch would provide security and stability for me, but when it turned out that he could, I realized I’d been fooling myself that those were things I even desired anymore.”

  She wipes away a tear. “In the same day that I ended things with Mitch, I got offered the west coast gig, you asked me to marry you, and I discovered I was pregnant. It was too much all at once, so I sought out Woodie, but not for the reasons you thought. I just needed a friend.”

  I rub my scalp. “And I showed up, like a madman and ruined our relationship.”

  “At first, yeah, that’s what I thought, but when I settled out west and had time to think it over, I realized I was just as guilty of pulling away as you. I mean, we were so close and it felt so right, so why was my first reaction to stray?”

  I spread my arms. “Well, we’re here now.”

  Molly’s expression stays neutral as she considers her next words. “Ryan, I can’t be forgiven for forcing you to miss the first years of your son’s life. As much as I would like to, I can’t take that back. I’m not here to ask you to forgive me at all. I just want you to be a part of his life from here on out.”

  Her eyes search the ceiling as I choke on the words in my throat. She’s already told me she wants me to be a part of Moe’s life. That is more than I could ever have hoped for from this conversation, but it’s by no means enough.

  As always, when I feel an obstacle in my way, I push. Inch by inch, I push until I get what I want. After years of pushing and chasing, I can see a finish line and the ultimate goal. She stands right in front of me.

  “From now on, I’m going to be a part of Moe’s life. I’m hi
s father and even though he and I are strangers, I love him.”

  Molly’s face is full of tension lines and flushed cheeks.

  “But, I also want to be a part of your life. I want the three of us to be a family. I don’t want to chase you or push you away. I just want to have you two with me from here on out.”

  The tension melts from her face, making room for hope. “Would you take me back after all that I’ve done? After I stole your child and kept him from you?”

  Well, there it is. Am I ready to go all in with the resolve to make things work?

  I push. “Molly, I can’t promise you roses every morning. I can’t promise you the toilet seat will always be down, the bed will be made, or that I can refrain from drinking straight from the orange juice container, but I can promise that I love you and our son. Somehow, day after day, I can take the field, fight in the gym, and face all sorts of competition, but when it comes to us, I’m tentative and afraid. That ends now. I’m ready to fight for the woman I love and damn anything that gets in our way.”

  We embrace. Having her in my arms feels so natural, and as we kiss she whispers, “I love you.”

  Both of us try and pull away after a time, but then we meld back together and let the moment last just a little longer. This is the woman I love. This is where I belong.

  Molly cups her hands on my cheeks. “Let’s go hug our son.”

  Wiping tears and straightening shirts, we exit my office, and face thirty grown men pretending to be too preoccupied to have heard what just happened. I shake my head and my cheeks flush as they erupt in cheers. Molly’s cheeks redden deeper than the Erie Express jerseys worn by just about everyone in the room.

  The only two people not wearing the jerseys are my father and my son, and they are clapping louder than everyone else. We make our way to them as my players pat me on the back and continue to cheer.

  My father looks down at Moe, and tussles his hair, before returning his gaze to me. “Son, you have one heck of a reason to be a better man than you’ve ever been before.”

  I nod.

  From the back of the locker room, someone asks me a sobering question. “So Coach, are you going to tell the Indians off for picking Woodie?”

  With all the excitement, I haven’t even thought about losing my dream job to the man who always seems to stand between victory and me, and yet compared with having even a chance to love Molly and my son, the job means nothing.

  “Let Woodie head to Cleveland. I have everything I need right here.”

  We erupt together and, for the moment, no one even remembers we lost today. The locker room door opens and in walks Tony Drizzle. The longtime sportscaster takes in the rowdy room, wondering why cheers of joy permeate the losing team’s post-game meeting. “The press is ready for you.”

  “I’ve never been more ready. Let’s go.”

  I walk toward the door and turn back, unenthusiastic to leave Molly, Moe, and my father.

  My father stands, stoic and imposing, like the Cliffs of Moher in his homeland of Ireland. “Go get ‘em, son.”

  I maintain my composure until my son adds, “Go get ‘em, Dad.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A Few Minutes Later

  On the stage, a publicist for the Triple-A World Series introduces me. “Ladies and gentlemen, the manager of the Erie Express, Ryan Kelly.”

  I’m blinded by camera flashes as I cross to the podium.

  Ready to get this over with as soon as possible, I point to a familiar face in the crowd. “Ah, yeah, you with the buzz-cut.”

  Tony Drizzle winks. “Your club came out aggressive in this game seven, which is a very different strategy than what you’re known for. Was this a shift in philosophy, or did you panic under the pressure?”

  His Old Spice smells so strong my eyes water.

  I wipe sweat from my brow. “Pressure? A little more pressure from the pitcher on his last slider and the ball winds up an inch further up the bat, causing a ground ball double-play. A little less pressure in the atmosphere and the ball goes flying over the right field wall. I can talk about pressure all day, Tony, but in my dugout, the only pressure we felt was to look good on camera.”

  A few courtesy chuckles overpower the rapid clicking of keyboards, pens, and cellphones, but they’re just biding their time until the winning coach becomes available.

  I point to Tony’s left. “You, in the plaid coat.”

  The reporter’s tie looks a few inches too short and his mutton-chopped sideburns are a few decades late to the party.

  The bulky reporter stands, his shirt coming untucked and his red nose betraying his liquid lunch habit. “Your road to the World Series and the obstacles you’ve faced since your last run at a championship have been well-documented, but could you ever have foreseen that, yet again, it would be your best friend standing in the way of victory?”

  Unsurprisingly, it took only two questions before the press steered the conversation to Woodie. As a former major league player and a future major league manager, Woodie makes for a much sexier story than I do.

  “Danny, I’ve grown so accustomed to winding up on the losing end competing against Mr. Luck, that at this point, I couldn’t have imagined the game playing out any differently. Heck, the guy earned his nickname by making me look foolish all these years. Why mess with a good thing?”

  More chuckles erupt from the peanut gallery.

  A female journalist I recognize from SportsCenter, asks, “Rumors have been swirling that the Cleveland Indians were deciding between you or Woodie to become their next head manager. How do you think this series outcome will affect their decision?”

  They can decide all they want. My mind is made up on where I want to be from here on out.

  I clear my throat. “The Indians front office staff has been fantastic. They recognized the opportunity The Express had to finish this season out, so they’ve allowed us to compete without any distractions. That being said, I’m sure they’re anxious to put a new manager in place. I grew up as a Tribe fan, so I just hope they choose the best man for the job.”

  Cameras click as the post-game adrenaline crash comes over me. On a normal day by this time, I’d be camped out on my couch in front of notes for tomorrow’s game. My head aches, my adrenaline supply ran out by the sixth inning, and my body feels so sore I could swear I played the game, not coached it.

  I point to another journalist, who looks down at his notepad. “Thanks. Daryl Rooter, WNRO. Is this the worse defeat you’ve experienced against Woodie?”

  Daryl is green, and has no idea how much his question stings. I clear my throat and study the young man’s elongated jaw. “That’s still to be determined.”

  Daryl rolls his eyes in response to my non-answer. “We have word that the Indians will be announcing Woodie as their new manager as soon as you’re done. Care to comment?”

  “No.”

  To think that for years my biggest fear was being forced out of the game before I was ready, and now here I am begging to leave with no luck.

  I point. “Next?”

  “Do you think Woodie is ready to manage at the major league level?”

  “He was ready a few years ago. Next?”

  “How would you describe the way Woodie handled his closer melting down in game two?”

  “Does anyone have any questions that don’t involve Woodie?”

  The reporters’ hands fall.

  Glancing to the back of the conference room, I see Molly, my father, and my son encouraging me with thumbs rising.

  A few whispers ripple across the room and swell into a loud tremor, as two figures cross the stage toward me. Woodie and Dallas Huntley shake my hand before sitting down.

  The team President speaks without prompting. “The boys in Cleveland wanted to let you be the first to know, we’ve come to a decision regarding our next head manager.”

  So, do I just sit here like a deer in headlights as they announce Woodie as the next manager of the Indians?<
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  Mr. Huntley continues. “Both candidates are well qualified and would make a great addition to our staff, but we feel that Ryan Kelly is the man for the job. He brings a respect, knowledge, and an attitude to the game that we feel will help shape the identity of this organization.”

  I’m already reaching over to congratulate Woodie when it hits me that Mr. Huntley just announced my name. His lips are saying congratulations, but I’m too excited to process the actual words. The roar of the room comes to a crescendo and a part of me wants this moment to never end, but I also know where my heart lies.

  Grasping the microphone, I say, “Mr. Huntley, I’m so honored that you would pick me for the job. With your support I have no doubt that I could help make the Tribe a winner, but I was just about to announce my intention to retire to make room in my life for the people I care about the most.”

  A few surprised gasps escape and the cameras flash to life as tomorrow’s headlines change again.

  I focus on my family near the back of the room. “I love you Molly. And I’m ready to walk away from baseball for you and our son.”

  I turn to leave, but before I can move an inch, Woodie holds me in place with one hand, while relieving me of the microphone with the other. “Any questions?”

  He points to Molly. “You, with the beautiful green eyes, do you have anything to add?”

  Tony Drizzle, smelling a great story, motions her forward. “All right guys. Make way. Give her a path.”

  She stops a few feet in front of the podium, wrapping her arm around our son. “Do you believe for one second, that I’m going to spend my days bailing out politicians just to come home to your complaining about the Tribe?”

  Everyone looks at me and then back at her trying to assess the seriousness of her words.

  Moe tugs on his mother’s shirt. She lowers the microphone and I notice my son’s brows are furrowed. The microphone covers half of his face. He holds it so close, I’m afraid he might bite the top off. “Take the job, dad!”