Plunking Reggie Jackson

by James Bennett

  “That’s not the way it happened. She dumped him.”

  “The little bitch.” Coley chuckled. “She dumped Kershaw. How long ago?”

  “Can’t say for sure. Not too long ago, though, maybe a couple weeks.”

  “You know why she dumped him?”

  “Nope,” declared Rico. “I told you everything I know. Why do you care?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. There’s somethin’ about her.”

  “What about Gloria?”

  “Gloria’s history; I told you that.”

  “That’s not the way she tells it,” Rico said.

  Coley shook his head. “I think she’s in denial.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re in denial if you refuse to accept something that’s actually true. People do it when someone close to them dies.”

  “Where the hell is this comin’ from?”

  “From Miss Wells. It’s part of human dynamics.”

  “I can’t believe you’d cut Gloria loose for good. She’s such a babe.”

  “She gets to be real boring, bro,” Coley informed him. “But if you’re so impressed, you take her out.”

  “You think I could?”

  “Not if you don’t ask her.”

  It was after ten thirty curfew when somebody discovered Quintero was missing. “Where is he?” asked Nate Spears, one of the two assistant coaches. He was impatient. “I said, does anybody know where the hell Jamie is?”

  Nobody seemed to know, or at least nobody was saying. The party was broken up and most of the team members had returned to their individual rooms, but Coley could see Kershaw and Kuchenberg out on the balcony. It was hard to tell from this distance, but he was nearly certain he saw a smirk on Kershaw’s face.

  “Goddamit!” Coach Spears seemed inclined to swear at anyone in close proximity. “It’s lights out in about an hour. If you know where he’s at, I want to hear about it right now.”

  While Spears interrogated the few individuals still left in the room, Coley went out to the balcony. “Do you know where he’s at?” he asked Kershaw.

  “How the hell would I know?” was the response. Kershaw turned away, but not before Coley smelled the beer on his breath. Kuchenberg turned away too; he was giggling, but trying not to show it.

  Coley pressed Kershaw again, “Just tell me where he’s at if you know. I don’t want him to get in trouble.”

  “Fuck you, Burke. I just told you I don’t know.”

  Coley stood up straight. So he does know. Coley could feel his anger swelling inside. He and Kershaw had been antagonists for years, ever since junior high basketball. As much as he hated the thought of fighting, he didn’t fear it. When he stood up straight, at six feet four inches and 220 pounds of well-defined muscle, the intimidation factor usually made it unnecessary.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Kershaw,” he said evenly. “Just tell me where he is.”

  Kershaw turned to face him. “What’re you, playin’ captain? Piss off.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Kershaw spoke with his arms loose at his sides and his eyes staring straight into Coley’s. Coley could feel the hair standing up along the back of his neck.

  It was apparent that Kuchenberg, too, felt the tension generated by this unexpected face-off. “Hey,” he said. “It’s okay, just tell him.”

  “You can piss off too,” was Kershaw’s quick response. “I asked Burke who the hell he thinks he is.”

  “I think I’m the pitcher who would’ve had a no-hitter today,” Coley replied quietly, “except our third baseman’s such a jackoff he can’t even field a little dribbler.”

  Kershaw’s eyes were flashing. “Fuck you, Burke,” he said again. Kershaw was a tough guy for his size, but there wasn’t enough size for this occasion. He knew it and Coley knew it. His string of epithets was simply the proof.

  Kershaw turned away to lean on the balcony again. He draped his arms loosely over the iron railing.

  “Just tell him,” said Kuchenberg again.

  “I’ll tell him shit,” said Kershaw, still staring toward the gulf.

  “If you don’t tell me, you tell Coach,” said Coley. “That means you probably sit out the rest of the trip. You’ll get to watch us play though.”

  But it was Kuchenberg’s discomfort that finally defused the potentially volatile situation. He said, “This is too much. This is goin’ too far.”

  “So where is he?” Coley followed up.

  “He’s down on the beach,” Kuchenberg replied with his eyes down. “Down by that tiki bar where we went wadin’. If you want me to go with you, I will.”

  “What’s he doin’ at the beach?”

  “We pantsed him down there so he couldn’t come back to the hotel.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I’ll go with you if you want.”

  “Kuchenberg, I oughta smack you one.”

  “Make sure you listen to the captain,” Kershaw was saying. “Don’t even think about crossin’ the captain.”

  Coley was past the anger. Anything Kershaw might have to say could only be another feeble effort to save face.

  Coach Spears went with him to the beach, but he was good and pissed. Coley was carrying a pair of sweats and his pitcher’s warm-up jacket. “Where at the beach?” Spears was asking.

  They were walking fast. “I don’t know,” Coley replied.

  “It’s a big beach. Where do you plan to look?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “How did you find about about this? Who told you?”

  “Look, Coach, I just found out, okay?”

  “But who told you? Who left Quintero down here?”

  “Can we just go find him and take him back to the hotel? Can you cut me some slack here?”

  They found Jamie in waist-deep water, some sixty feet from the shore. Because he was naked, he was afraid to come out of the water. Coley could barely make him out because the lights from shore were faint at this distance.

  “Jesus Christ,” said the coach.

  Coley was wearing his running shorts, but when he waded on out, the cold water rose above his waist. The chill night air had turned Jamie’s lips blue and pebbled him with chicken skin. His teeth were chattering. He was hugging his own chest to try to stop the shivering.

  Coley thrust the warm-up jacket at him. “Put this on.”

  “It’ll get all wet,” Jamie protested.

  “Who cares? Just put it on.”

  Quintero slipped into the jacket, which was far too large but provided the advantage of covering his groin area when he moved to the shore. He squirmed into the fleece sweatpants, although they resisted stubbornly against the wet skin of his legs. The light was stronger here, while farther up the beach hotel guests were yukking it up at outdoor bars.

  “Are you okay?” Coley asked him.

  “I’m okay.” Jamie shivered. Through his chattering teeth he added, “I’m gonna kill the motherfucker though.”

  Coley almost had to laugh, looking at Jamie’s wiry but adolescent form nearly drowning in the huge clothes that engulfed him.

  Coach Spears was close at hand. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay, Coach.”

  “Are you warm enough?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Now, just who is it you’re gonna kill? Tell me that.”

  “Never mind. I’ll take care of it myself.”

  This time Coley did have to laugh. As small as he was, Quintero was spunky enough to take Kershaw on. He would get the crap beat out of him, but he would be willing anyway, just to get in a punch or two before he went down.

  “Coley won’t give him up either,” said the coach.

  Jamie was using the inside lining of Coley’s jacket to wipe the water from his face and neck. “I said I’ll take care of it, and I will,” he repeated.

  “What you’ll take care of,” countered the coac
h immediately, “is getting warm and dry.”

  “That’ll be the first thing,” Jamie murmured.

  “And the second thing is you’ll go to bed and get some sleep. And the third thing is you’ll get yourself ready to pitch tomorrow. We want you to go at least five innings.”

  “You mean it?” Jamie was smiling.

  “I mean it,” confirmed Spears. “Would I lie about a thing like that?”

  Coley was still smiling at him. He thought briefly about the earlier conversation he’d had with his parents. He was still pissed at Kershaw and Kuchenberg, and he felt sorry for Jamie, what they put him through. But it was so much better feeling like a man than like a child. “Since I didn’t beat him up,” he said to Jamie, “you have to give him a break too. You gotta pitch tomorrow.”

  As soon as he went to sleep that night, Coley dreamed of Bree Madison.

  The following day they lost two games to Central High in Clearwater. The scores were 11-3 and 8-3. Coley played left field both games but didn’t have to face any defensive challenges. The only balls hit his way were high, routine flies. At the plate he was always dangerous, of course, because of his athletic talent and his strength. But he never practiced hitting, because pitching was always the priority. He had one hit in the first game, a single, and walked twice. In the second game he got into a couple of the Central pitcher’s lazy curves, but both times he got the ball slightly underneath. The results were majestic fly balls clear to the warning track, but they were both outs.

  As promised, Jamie Quintero was the starting pitcher for the second game. He worked two good innings, but then he got wild and started walking people. A couple of errors and a long home run, and he was on the bench before he’d gotten anybody out in the fifth inning.

  Coley watched the wiry freshman slump to the end of the bench, where he hung a wet towel over his head. Coach Mason let Kershaw pitch in relief. He wasn’t too bad, but the score was 7-1 by the time the inning was over.

  When they came in after the sixth, Coley went to the end of the bench to take a seat next to Quintero. “Don’t feel too bad, Jamie.”

  “Easy for you to say.” The muffled reply came from beneath the towel, but Coley could still discern the words.

  “Yeah, I know. But don’t feel too bad. You have to keep your head up.”

  Jamie removed the towel and sat up straight. He looked Coley in the eye. “Okay, my head’s up.”

  “I mean mentally. I’m talkin’ about your emotions. It’s your first varsity game, and we’re down here in Florida where these guys are way ahead of us.”

  “How many did I walk? Five? Six?”

  “I wasn’t countin’. The point is, you have to learn what you can do to get better.”

  “Now you sound like Coach.”

  Coley shrugged before he answered. “Well, maybe he’s right.”

  “It’s all easy for you to say, ’cause whenever you pitch, you just blow people away.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but not when I was your age. Not when I was a freshman. What you need to concentrate on is usin’ your legs.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, you can’t just pitch with your arm. Even when you drop down sidearm, you can’t just throw with your arm. That’s when you start walkin’ people, because you get tired.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Quintero lowered his head again while his elbows were planted on his knees. He held Coley in such high esteem he nearly deified him, so the advice wouldn’t be wasted. Not in the long run. But Coley knew the little guy was too bummed at the moment to appreciate it. He dropped the subject.

  They lost two games the next day as well, to another Clearwater team, Madison High. Coach Mason kept them after the second game to deliver a pep talk. He reminded them for the umpteenth time that the teams from the Sunshine State, having played competitive games for six weeks or so, were bound to be ahead of them in development. Therefore, their mission here was to work on fundamentals and developmental elements. Winning or losing would take care of itself. And later in the season there would be a payoff.

  The guys were listening, more or less. But they didn’t like losing five games in a row, never mind the particular conditions, and anyway, they were thinking ahead to beach time and another pizza party back at the hotel.

  The next day they would be back in Tampa for another twin bill. On the way to the bus Coach Mason asked Coley if he wanted to pitch the first game or the second.

  “I don’t care. Why?”

  “I got a call from a couple of White Sox scouts. They want to come out.”

  Coley shrugged. Pitching in front of major-league scouts was nothing new to him. “I don’t care, Coach. Whatever you say.”

  “Okay, then, I want you to go in the first game again. Maybe we can get a mental edge, which’ll help Kuchenberg in the second one. You think you’re ready to go the distance?”

  “You want me to pitch all seven innings?”

  “If you think you’re ready, I do.”

  “I’m ready. I’ll be ready.”

  Coley pitched seven scoreless innings against Gulf Coast West. They won the game 3-0, to bring their record on the trip to 2-5. He felt strong and loose and grooved in the 88-degree sun. Gulf Coast had two hits, one a solid single through the hole, and the other a pop-up to short left, which Louie Stallings lost in the sun.

  Coley struck out sixteen batters and walked two. In a word, he was overpowering. As soon as the game was over, the Gulf Coast coach came over to talk to him. “You’re as good as advertised, kid. You’re a helluva pitcher.”

  “Thanks.” Coley was toweling the sweat from his face and neck, but hot had never felt better. Coley didn’t know the man’s name, but the Gulf Coast coach was a dumpy guy with a big wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek. He needed a shave. Brown dribbles ran down his chin among the gray stubble.

  “You just blew us away. You picked a good day to do it too.”

  “What d’you mean?” Coley asked.

  “Easterbrook and O’Connel were here from the White Sox. Sittin’ right over there behind third base.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Coley didn’t know the O’Connel name, but he remembered from lots of correspondence that Easterbrook was director of player personnel for the Chicago team. It would be something he could tell the old man when he got home, something that would occupy his mind. In the meantime, he needed to get away from this coach; the guy was gross.

  They had to pack their things early the next morning. They were playing two games against another high school in Clearwater, but their flight home was early in the evening, which meant they would be squeezed for time.

  Coley hit a home run in the first game, but they lost anyway, 10-2. The homer came in the fourth inning, and he got all of it. The ball elevated quickly, then sailed on out over the Cyclone fence and the row of palm trees, eventually landing in a 7-Eleven parking lot. It traveled at least 420 feet. One of the Clearwater coaches said it was the longest homer he’d ever witnessed on this field. Coley didn’t get much of a rush from it; the team was still losing.

  The Clearwater team pitched a left-hander in the second game, so he had to sit out. One of his father’s rules, and one in which Coach Mason was thoroughly schooled, was that Coley was not allowed to bat right-handed under any circumstances. As a right-handed batter he was nearly as good as he was from the left side, but it exposed his left arm.

  Quintero got another chance on the mound. Because he had worked three strong innings, the game was tied 1-1 heading into the fourth. “He’s gonna be a helluva pitcher one day,” said Coach Spears.

  Coley, who was squirming on the bench nearby, agreed. “Oh, yeah. For sure.”

  But the fourth inning was a rocky one for the freshman. A couple of walks, a wild pitch, an error, a solid double down the line, and they were behind 5-1. Quintero slammed his glove in the dugout after the third out. He commenced some angry pacing and a lot of cursing under his breath so Coach wouldn’t hear. When he finally took his seat on the b
ench, it was next to Coley.

  “When there’s runners on and you come to the set position,” Coley said, “you’re pitchin’ too quick.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. You’re gonna get called for a balk. Hold the set position at least one more count. Say ‘a thousand one’ to yourself, then take a deep breath in and out.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’ll freeze the runner all the way, and it’ll put you in a comfort zone before you throw.”

  “Okay, Coley.”

  In the fifth, Kershaw doubled to left, and so did Kuchenberg. It was Kershaw’s third hit and Kuchenberg’s second. “We’re startin’ to hit,” said Coach Mason. “We’re startin’ to get comfortable at the plate.”

  It was true, but Coley knew it was also a sales pitch. Don’t worry about winning and losing. We came to Florida because it’s an opportunity to get better, and that’s what’s happening. “We’re still losin’,” said Coley quietly, without looking in the coach’s direction.

  “All of this will pay off later in the spring.”

  “Right.”

  Lovell and Ingram were finding the groove as well. They both homered in the sixth, Lovell’s coming with a man on. Suddenly the game was tied 6-6 with one inning to go. Spirits soared in the dugout, where Lovell and Ingram were getting pounded on the back. There was a lot of indiscriminate chest thumping, and Coley found himself on board all the way. The game was still tied in the top of the seventh when he talked Coach Mason into letting him bat. It wasn’t easy. “This guy’s a left-hander, Coley. If I let you bat right-handed, your dad would skin me alive.”

  “He doesn’t have to know about it.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “We’ve got runners on second and third and only one out, Coach; all I have to do is hit a long fly.”

  “You think I’m blind here? Maybe you’d like to explain the infield-fly rule to me in words of two syllables or less.”

  “Sorry.”

  “If you bat right-handed, it exposes your pitching arm.”

  “But this guy’s got nothin’, Coach. Especially now that he’s tired. I’ve gotta hit. Please let me hit.”

  “Let him hit, Coach,” said Quintero. “All we need is one run.”