Casey's Home

by Jessica Minier

  Now was freedom, now was conscience-less and guiltless and sweet like honey. Fuck the hearing and the Board and the stiff-assed members of the University. Nothing they said could tear him down to be less than he already was, just as he couldn’t build himself up in their eyes. What did he need with praise? He wasn’t Billy, shouting and strutting and cock-sure of everything but himself. Ben had found a certain self-surety, not sudden but suddenly realized, and he was filled with it, caressed by it, awakened.

  He only wished he’d found it twenty years ago. God, but that would have helped.

  Casey wasn’t wearing black, bless her. She had on a sensible, long, blue skirt and a matching skin-soft little sweater that made him want to put his face between her breasts and just rub. And he had done that, though not with any sweater between them. That was a wondrous thing, to touch her shoulder as he opened the car door for her and know he had been with her. His life, despite what others might think of it, still contained moments of pure joy and he knew this.

  She smiled at the sound of Roger Daltrey and soon began to sing along, her voice rusty and soft but on-key. Perhaps it was infectious, this endless freedom, he thought as he watched her surreptitiously. He wondered briefly if he could spread it around him like a sweet disease. What would the gray heads of the University Board do if they were to suddenly discover the pleasure of being alive at forty-four, with a future no more sure than a weather forecast?

  What was he going to do?

  He was going to enjoy whatever the hell it was, that was the certain thing. That was the freedom.

  “Ben McDunnough, thank you for coming in today.”

  Beatrice Russell was a nice woman, and an old girlfriend of Billy’s. She was younger than most of the Board, with a wealthy husband and a desire to be philanthropic. If Beatrice Russell wanted to be on a Board, she was. Shaking his hand, she smiled at him and he noticed for the first time that her teeth were slightly crooked. Ten years, and he’d never noticed her teeth.

  “Right, Bea, shall we move forward here?”

  She nodded, not quite looking in his eyes, and led him to a seat behind one of those temporary tables usually reserved for bake sales and pledge drives. He wasn’t sure if he felt more like Anita Hill or someone facing Senator McCarthy. In the end, he figured, either analogy placed far too much importance on his small corner of the world. Casey sat behind him in one of the ascending chairs in the old lecture hall. A few concerned students and parents were scattered in the seats behind him. Ringed in front of the blackboard, the members of the Board stared, stern and disapproving. Except for Bea, who was smiling at him, or at least in his general direction.

  Two seats back and four seats away sat Jake Munsey and Lee, who was wearing black. Jake smiled warily at Ben and Ben could find no reason not to return the gesture. There was nothing to hate in Jake, just because he wanted this job. If he were Jake, he’d want it too.

  “Shall we get started?”

  Ben nodded and took a small sip of the tepid water someone had left on the table for him.

  “The members of the University Board have convened this hearing in light of your long record of service to this University, Mr. McDunnough. This isn’t a forum for decision, rather an opportunity for you to argue on your behalf, to convince us that your reputation as a coach precedes your lack of experience in the major leagues. The board has given you this opportunity because you asked us for a chance to be heard. We do not guarantee that anything said here today will affect our decision making process.”

  Well, there it was. He could talk all he wanted, but they weren’t going to guarantee they were listening. Was he supposed to feel guilty because, in the end, his body had failed him on the field, whereas Billy’s hadn’t? Should he apologize for being singularly normal instead of wildly… whatever Billy was? With a deep breath of the stale, air-conditioned air, he began.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the board, I’m well aware that I am not Billy Wells. Billy had the sort of illustrious career I dreamed about when I was a kid, worked for when I was a rookie, and admired as an adult. He was a fantastic pitcher and a great coach. He was also my best friend. I know he drew talent from around the nation to this school because even if they didn’t know his program, they knew his name. He was, in my mind, the greatest pitcher ever to play the game. And I… well, I wasn’t. Maybe, if my arm had held, if I’d played twenty years later and had access to today’s doctors, maybe then I would have proved myself to be as good as Billy always thought I was. But the truth is that I never had the opportunity to prove myself on the field. My arm cost me my career as a baseball player, and I have no name to use to draw the best players here.”

  The stony glares of the board seemed set to petrifaction. Ben plowed on. It wasn’t rehearsed exactly, not in the formal sense. But he had awakened knowing he would say something like this, and here he was, with words rolling out and spilling around him and they felt right, correct.

  “I know that you say you are interested in how well I coached this team, in how much time I spent with them, in how much I did versus how much Billy did,” Ben continued, “but the problem is that that’s not really why we’re here. You say you need a good coach. You say you need someone with experience. You’re absolutely right. You need someone who understands the boys of this team, who has seen them through several Series and several years where, frankly, they stank. All of that, I can offer this institution in spades. I’ve given you seventeen years of my undivided loyalty and hard work and I think it shows, both in the quality of the boys we attract to this team and in the number of titles they’ve brought home to this university.

  “But I don’t think that’s enough, anymore. You want something that I can’t give you. Something I lost any chance of having, years before you hired me. What the people of this university want, what the students and the parents and the benefactors and you, sitting on the board, are looking for, is glory. That’s why you had Billy, that’s what he gave you. It wasn’t hard work, or dedication, or trust or belief, because in the end, I gave you all of that, just as much as Billy did and sometimes more. If that was all you wanted, you’d already have hired me. And let’s face it, you’re not going to do that.”

  For a moment he saw Beatrice open her mouth, but then she closed it again. Screw this hearing being about determining competence. He knew he was competent. This was about something more. It was about him.

  “I’m no fool. I know I won’t bring in the kind of players this school needs. Not because of what I briefly did twenty-two years ago, but because of what I didn’t do. I didn’t win two World Series. I didn’t win three Cy Youngs. I didn’t throw a perfect game, or twenty K’s. I was a damn good pitcher, for a little while, and an even better coach. But I’m never going to be Billy Wells, no matter what I do. So I’m not going to argue that you should keep me here, because I don’t believe that arrangement would suit any of us. I need to be somewhere where I’m appreciated for who I am, not somewhere where all they can see is who I’m not. So let’s not waste any more of these good folks’ time. You’ve made your decision, and I’d like to hear it.”

  In the silence that followed his declaration, Ben was certain he could hear Billy laughing. That’s showing them, he would have said. Tell those fucking assholes how you really feel.

  Oh, Billy, he thought, staring at the blank expressions quickly being rearranged in front of him, that’s not telling them a thing about how I feel. That’s telling them the truth. The real truth, not the one Casey thinks they should know. I may not have been a great pitcher, he told the old ghost of his friend, but I’m a better man than you ever were.

  The funny thing was, he knew the ghost agreed. He always had.

  Beatrice rose at last, smiling slightly at him. She was far too young for this sort of thing, he thought. No one under the age of fifty should be on the board of any institution.

  “Well, Ben, that was... well, I think you’ve rendered us speechless. If nothing else, I’m sure the student
body owes you its thanks for that small miracle.”

  Someone in the audience chuckled. Ben knew why Billy had liked this woman, even if he hadn’t liked her enough to marry her until after she’d picked someone else.

  “I would like to be able to tell you that you’re wrong, of course,” she continued, “but I can’t. You are absolutely correct. The decision was made this morning, over the objections of several of the members who felt you were owed this opportunity. You haven’t proven us wrong in that regard, not at all. I’m glad you took this chance to express what you were feeling. I’m only sorry it won’t make the difference that perhaps it should have.”

  Another member of the board directed a dark look in her direction and Beatrice shifted tactics gracefully.

  “We have made a selection, but before we go ahead with our announcement, we would like you to know that the person we have selected for this position is someone who apparently thinks more highly of your worth than you do. He has requested that we extend to you the continuation of your current position here at the university, with an increase in pay and benefits to be discussed once the coaching position has been finalized. It is my sincere hope, Ben, that you will accept this offer. We would be fools to lose you.”

  Ben smiled at his old friend and then shifted his seat to face Jake. As he had suspected, the big man was bright red and met Ben’s gaze with a reluctance that made Ben feel slightly small. He had trusted the board to make a decision based on fame, not on ability. It hadn’t occurred to him that there might be someone out there who had both.

  Beatrice nodded and said: “We are very pleased to announce that Jake Munsey has accepted our offer of the position of Head Coach, beginning in October of this year. Would you like to say a few words, Jake?”

  Jake stood and made his way to stand beside the table, towering over it. Ben could practically hear Billy choking.

  “Ben, my contract holds me to the team, even with my injury. I would be honored if you would hold down the fort until I’m able to take charge, and then I’d really like it if you’d stay on.”

  Well, it wasn’t exactly gracious, but it was heartfelt. It was so tempting to say “no”; to be bitter, just a little bit. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Casey, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, watching him. How easy it would be to just walk away into that shadowed future. But with a little planning, with a little time spent, he might have something more substantial to walk toward.

  “I’d be delighted to stay through October,” he said, standing and shaking Jake’s meaty hand firmly. “We’ll see from there.”

  There was a round of polite clapping, as if the hearing were a play or a musical act, and then Beatrice spoke again.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, Ben, have you already made plans for next year?”

  He turned from Jake, who dropped his hand and stepped away, clearing his throat madly. Ben had never known another player as soft as Jake. It may have infuriated Billy, but Ben liked him for it. There was bravery in accepting your own weakness.

  Beatrice waited, pearls circling her throat, a ten-karat diamond on her left hand. How easy some people have it, he thought. Strangely, he felt no envy. Behind him, he heard people begin to rise. He looked back to catch Casey’s eye, to hold her there a moment longer. She nodded and began to make her way to the table.

  “To be honest, Bea,” he said at last, “I’ve got all these options I never dreamed I would have. I guess I’ll be working on finding a way to fit it all together.”

  Beatrice nodded and smiled at Casey, who was looking at her as if she should know who she was, but didn’t.

  “Good luck,” Bea said as the board rose to congratulate Jake publicly. “I sincerely hope you manage to make it all fall into place.”

  “So do I,” Ben replied, grinning as someone opened the doors to the street and the bright, hot air rushed in. “So do I.”

  Shifting

  2000

  Ben has one hand on my knee, the other holds a plastic cup of soda, and he is trying not to laugh at the misfortune of others. We are watching as the Mariners get creamed again. They’re in a streak and it’s not a good one. Behind us sit the still-terrible members of the Pacific Northwest Community College baseball team, who are supposed to be learning something about playing ball today. I think we picked the wrong team as an example. But maybe it’s a good thing to learn that everyone loses, and sometimes it’s when you most want to win.

  Ben slips his fingers over mine, passing me the shared soda as an excuse. One of the boys points to a fielding mistake that any Little Leaguer would recognize and says: “That’s an error, right?”

  The day is beautiful, a perfect slice of late-summer in the new stadium. The fans are restless around us, willing the team to snap out of this slump. Individual voices rise in the still air, bubbling over us and out to the players, crouching on the field. Across the stands and past the cranes that mark where the Kingdome used to stand, the sun slips across a pale blue sky, lighting the mountains with crests of gold and orange. The islands shimmer in the smooth water of the bay like showgirls, dancing with the fat white ferries and the broad bulks of cargo ships.

  Ben shakes his head and turns to the boy behind him. “Yeah, but it won’t count as an error,” he says patiently. “The runner was too slow to make it to the base, even if the throw had been right on target.”

  Ben could tell these boys the essential secret to being him, to holding the sport within your body and knowing it like a part of yourself, and they’d still point to the ball dribbling from a fielder’s mitt and say: “That’s an error, right?” These are not baseball players. They’re engineering majors and math students and kids who don’t know where they’ll end up but are pretty sure it isn’t on the new-grown grass below us. They love him unconditionally, with the fervor of fans who have no hope of getting to the majors.

  “I’m going to go get some ice cream,” I tell Ben and the boys. I can’t believe I actually slept with someone their age, and it feels so long ago. Maybe I was like a collapsed star then, smaller and far denser than I am now. This is what I tell myself, anyway. “Anyone coming with?” No one volunteers, though Ben expresses an interest in rocky road, should I manage to locate some. It doesn’t matter; he’ll eat the mint chip I end up with, grumbling as he scoops out yet another spoonful. And then he’ll grin at me when I call him on it and I’ll forget exactly why I was pissed off. Love is an astonishing thing.

  The food courts are confusing, but I know where the ice cream is from bitter experience, having once walked a complete circle of the stadium before finding the booth tucked behind another stand just a few hundred feet from our seats. We come here a lot, Ben and I. When things grow quiet between us, when we start to forget what it was that made our blood race, we come here and it’s regeneration. Redemption through mutual affection. Nothing makes me hotter than watching Ben watch baseball. Hence the ice cream. They have mint chip, as always, but no rocky road. They never do, but Ben is always hopeful. I pay extra and get two bowls. Familiarity breeds what? Experience?

  When I get back to the stands, I have to walk down several rows to reach our group. They are a solid bank of boys in matching T-shirts and baseball caps, and they look like a team. At least that’s something, especially if they feel like one, too. Negotiating children wearing puffy hands and the harried adults following behind them, I pause when I hear my name.

  “... Casey going to get married, or what?” one of the boys says, pushing Ben’s shoulder with good-natured concern.

  “I can’t even get her to move in with me,” he laughs and something in my chest tightens briefly.

  When I sit down beside him, I hand Ben his ice cream and lean over to kiss him, straight on the lips, which provokes a giggle or two behind us. I would like to love this man forever, and while I’m not sure this is really possible, I’m all for being cautiously optimistic.

  Ben’s old team, the boys at Florida State, have slid down a rung or two
since Jake took over. It’s not that he’s a bad coach, exactly, but he’s had to learn what makes a great team, as opposed to what makes a great player. The necessary shift from individual to group. Lee keeps me updated through email, which she has recently discovered. I get short missives decorated with rings of ivy or blinking Christmas lights or jack-o-lanterns that take forever to load, filled with facts and no emotion, but hell, at least we’re communicating. This is an improvement on the days when my father called only when he was about to visit, as if heralding his own arrival. Do not be afraid, my child, he comes in peace.

  I would be a liar if I were to say I don’t still harbor some serious resentment. Ben keeps telling me to forget about the past, as if that were possible for any of us. I spent too much of my life trying to block out what made me, what shaped me, until I could no longer see who I was. I would like to remember now, even if it stings. Last year, Andy Richter, the other starting pitcher for the Atlantics in the ’76 Series, died of cancer. I kept waiting for some death-bed confession, something that felt like justice. Ben didn’t even notice until I pointed the death out. He lives without resentment, without regret. I believe this is a first for him, though he’d never admit it. Do I have something to do with that? Probably, in the concrete sense, but in the abstract, I believe that Ben has simply decided to live well. We make love a lot.