Plunking Reggie Jackson

by James Bennett

  David Huff was the best at the game. He was a huge tackle on the football team who spent most of his spare time pumping iron. He already had a full ride to Notre Dame. He tossed Brooke Womack ten feet into the air the last time down. She made a mammoth splash when she smacked the water’s surface. It was the final straw; the guards roped off the staircase and started identifying culprits. By the time they finished, Coley was kicked out, along with four others, including Kershaw and Huff.

  Laughing madly, they made their way to the pool, where they stretched out in some vinyl loungers.

  Coley turned to David Huff and asked, “Where’d you get the beer?”

  “Brought it with.” Huff was drinking his beer from a can, but the can was disguised by a wraparound Styrofoam Pepsi-Cola container. Bobby Lovell was using the same disguise.

  “You got any more? I wouldn’t mind havin’ one today.”

  “In the bus, not here.”

  “Which bus?”

  “Number three,” Huff informed him. “There’s a cooler under the third or fourth seat on the left side.”

  “You mind if I get one?”

  “Go for it.”

  Coley made his way to the parking lot, where he found the bus and the cooler. There were four cans of Keystone left in gritty water swimming with puny ice cubes. The beer was cool, but not cold. He put the can in one of the soft-drink wraps before he headed back across the parking lot.

  Now that he was alone and the ruckus was over, he found himself slipping into the brooding mode. He began scrolling the same issues that seemed to torment him every day: What if I’m not eligible for the play-offs? Is it really true that Bree’s stepfather beats her? But why would she lie about something like that? Is there anything actually wrong with my ankle or is it all in my head? You can have phantom pain from an injury. That’s called psychosomatic, according to human dynamics class. Combat veterans even have phantom pains in limbs that have been amputated. It’s the memory of it in their subconscious mind.

  He was hungry. He made his way through the crowd until he found the concession area. There were inside tables located beneath ceiling fans; a jukebox was playing old pop hits. Outside there was a small pond nearby, surrounded by a shady grove of picnic tables. Ruthie Roth was sitting there, by herself.

  Coley approached her. “What’s up, R.R.?”

  “Are you lost? Your cool friends are over by the water slides and the pool.”

  “I got kicked out.” He took a seat next to her on the bench.

  “I heard.”

  Coley took a long pull on the beer. He wished it was colder. “Why are you by yourself?”

  “I vant … to be … alone,” she camped.

  “Save it for the theater.”

  “What a dump!”

  “You heard me,” he said. “You won’t have any fun all by yourself.”

  “Why do people like you have such a hard time understanding that being alone isn’t a form of punishment? But if you have to know, I only came on the trip because I thought Mrs. Alvarez was going to be here. I thought she was one of the chaperones; I was wrong.”

  “You got a problem or something?”

  “No, I don’t have a problem.” Her exasperation was evident. “Yes, I’ve got a problem. More than one. Who doesn’t? That’s not the point, though. I enjoy talking to her.”

  “You mean you like talkin’ to her just for fun?”

  “That’s what I mean.” Ruthie was staring straight at him. “Why is that such a stretch for you?”

  “Don’t start the smart-ass stuff, okay? Come on—I’ll buy you some lunch.”

  “You’re going to buy me lunch.” It was a question.

  “Sure,” Coley replied. This will probably make it a date in Bree’s mind, he couldn’t help thinking. “Why not? My cat is rich and my dog is good-lookin’.”

  “Funny, funny boy. There might actually be some hope for you yet.”

  Ruthie insisted on eating at one of the tables in the grove. “My skin can’t stand much sun,” she said.

  Looking at the mottled, pale flesh of her arms, Coley assumed she was telling the truth. “A little sun would do you good,” he said. “You put that theater makeup all over your skin, what’s wrong with a little sun? At least the sun is natural.”

  “Theater makeup washes right off,” she replied. “A sunburn doesn’t.”

  “Okay, okay. What’re you havin’?” he asked her.

  “Okay, then. I’d like a plain hot dog and a Pepsi. Make that a Diet Pepsi.”

  For himself Coley bought three chili dogs and the Big Barrel Pepsi, the thirty-two ouncer. He got a lid from a cardboard box so he could carry all the food down the incline to the picnic table. He wolfed down one of the dogs before Ruthie had a chance to ask, “What are we going to talk about?”

  “I need help with a book report for Grissom,” he replied.

  “So that’s the catch.”

  “It’s not a catch. If you don’t want to talk about it, fine.”

  “You did that report on The Old Man and the Sea. What happened to that?”

  “Grissom didn’t like it. She says I missed all the symbolic stuff.”

  “Yeah?” Ruthie took a bite of her hot dog.

  Coley had so much food in his mouth he had to jam it to the side in order to speak. “She’s all bent out of shape on some symbols of Jesus Christ. She was all over my case. She wants me to reread the parts about the old fisherman carrying the mast from his boat up the hill to his house.”

  Ruthie wasn’t very sympathetic. She wanted Coley to try to see it Mrs. Grissom’s way.

  “What is this ‘her way’ that you want me to see?”

  “Hemingway is using symbolism. He means for old Santiago to be a Christ figure.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, ‘a Christ figure’?” Coley demanded.

  “It means Hemingway is using the old man as a symbol of Christ. The Passion, the Resurrection, the whole bit.”

  “I can see him guttin’ it out. I can see courage. But not this other stuff.”

  “‘This other stuff,’ as you call it, is what makes literature,” said Ruthie. She was being pleasant, but Coley had to wonder how soon she would run out of patience and break out the sarcasm. This is what makes literature? Coley finished the last of the beer before he began swilling down the Pepsi.

  “Let’s change the subject,” he said.

  “Okay, what’s the new topic?”

  “I need help with another book report.”

  “That’s changing the subject?”

  “Sort of, it is, yeah.”

  “Why don’t you just do the revision like Grissom wants you to?”

  “I can’t get into that heavy stuff, I really can’t,” he said glumly. “I think it’d be easier to start over with another book.”

  Ruthie Roth sighed and took a long swallow of her Pepsi. “Okay,” she said. “What kind of help this time?”

  “Well, to start with, I need a book to report on.”

  “You want me to choose a book for you. After that, shall I just go ahead and read it for you and write your outline?”

  “Don’t start the sarcasm, Ruthie. I told you I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  The conversation went in fits and starts because they were trying to talk with their mouths full. “What about that questionnaire for human dynamics we worked on?” she wanted to know.

  “It’s not done yet.”

  “It’s not done yet?”

  “I’m still workin’ on it.”

  “How much have you finished?”

  “Never mind that, I need a book to report on.”

  Before Ruthie continued, she finished her hot dog and washed it down with some of her soft drink. “Have you ever read Mice and Men?”

  “Mice and Men? Didn’t they make a movie of that?”

  “Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck. Have you read it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, then, that’s m
y recommendation.”

  “How long is it?” Coley wanted to know.

  “It’s very short. It’s practically nothing more than a long short story.”

  “Because I need a book that’s short with large print.”

  She was bobbing her head up and down before he’d finished the sentence. “I’m way ahead of you on this, you can trust me.”

  Coley was halfway done with the third chili dog. “So what’s it about?”

  “Of Mice and Men?”

  “Are we talkin’ about some other book here? Tell me what it’s about.”

  “It’s about a guy with brains and a guy with brawn. Come to think of it,” said Ruthie, “it could be about you and me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Me neither. It was just a thought.”

  For a few minutes Coley was silent. Of Mice and Men might have been one of the books Mrs. Alvarez had given him that day. “You better not be makin’ fun of me.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “I’ll take you over to the water slide and throw you down it.”

  She was laughing. “I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

  “That’ll be your problem. I’ll toss you big time.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Coley had never seen her laugh this much before. He was glad she was enjoying herself, but he wasn’t done with the questions quite yet. “Is it out on video?” he asked her.

  “Is what on video?”

  “Of Mice and Men. Can I get it at Blockbuster?”

  “Oh, how would I know? Don’t start with the dumbing down, it’s not really you. If you want to watch it on video, at least you should read it first.”

  “Now you sound like Mrs. Alvarez,” he declared.

  “You could do worse.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Supper was grilled hot dogs and hamburgers on the deck. Coley was throwing halfheartedly in the bull pen, testing the ankle. He never knew when there would be pain. Sometimes never, sometimes immediately. Sometimes only a minor, nagging twinge, but other times a pain so sharp it shocked him.

  His father came to watch, cradling his third martini. He asked Coley if he was going to pitch against Jacksonville.

  “I don’t know. Coach wants me to.”

  “If he wants you to, why don’t you know?”

  “I just don’t know, that’s all.” He grunted as he threw a good-velocity fastball that whistled under the elbow of Reggie Jackson’s closed stance.

  “Do you feel okay?” his father asked him.

  “Yeah, I’m all right.” It was the easiest answer, always the easiest.

  “Then you need to pitch. You’re not going to impress any major-league scouts if you’re sitting on the bench and watching the game like some cheerleader.”

  “It’s the ankle,” said Coley, realizing how lame it sounded even as the words came out.

  “What about the ankle?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t trust it yet.”

  “You can’t trust it. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I never know when there will be pain. When I throw, I can’t just cut it loose. I can only throw tentative.”

  “It won’t work if you throw tentative.”

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to say. I’m afraid I’ll hurt my arm. Dr. Nugent said there’s nothin’ worse than a sore arm for a pitcher.”

  “Do we need Dr. Nugent to tell us this? It should be as plain as the nose on your face. Dr. Nugent also told you that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with your ankle at this point. Even the last X rays show no damage whatsoever.”

  “X rays are one thing, but real life is another thing.”

  “Real life,” his father repeated the words with contempt. He took a couple of swallows of the cocktail before he continued, “I’ll tell you about real life. The fact is there’s nothing wrong with your ankle. It’s all in your head. You can see that, can’t you?”

  It had occurred to him more than once, which was the confusing part. “It might be,” he said honestly. “It happens sometimes with rehab. Sometimes the mental part is harder to get over than the physical part.”

  “Don’t lecture me about sports injuries and rehab!” Ben Burke sputtered. “Remember who you’re talking to here—do you think there’s anything about baseball you’ve thought of that I haven’t?”

  “Oh, hell no.”

  “Why don’t we just put the cards on the table here, Coley? The thing standing in your way is your head, not your ankle.”

  “Maybe that’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you. Sometimes the physical part of an injury heals faster than the mental part. I won’t be ready to pitch—not really pitch—until I have confidence in it.”

  “In your case that means the lack of mental toughness. It’s always been your problem; you have all the talent in the world, but you lack the killer instinct.”

  “I’ve heard it all before, okay?” He lobbed a puny change-up toward the plate.

  “This time it’s the ankle. It’s turning into an excuse to fail. You don’t have an injury anymore, you had an injury.”

  Coley felt the confusion contracting his insides. The worst part was he was afraid his old man was right; at least he couldn’t think of a way to dispute what he was saying. He vented his frustration by unleashing a pain-free, fearless 93 mph heater, which caught the statue right along the ribcage and sounded a fortissimo gong that reverberated through the neighborhood.

  He tossed the glove to the ground and headed toward the house. “The next thing you’ll be reminding me about is how tough Patrick was.”

  “You could do a lot worse. Patrick was a bulldog when it came to mental toughness. Why do you think he was on a major-league roster by age twenty?”

  Coley continued toward the house, and his father followed a few paces behind. “I’m not Patrick,” said Coley.

  His father ignored the remark and replied, “You can find any hiding place you want, but I’m asking you why you might not pitch on Monday and you haven’t got an answer.”

  “You can get off my case any time. Maybe I want to win. What if I told you I want us to win the state?”

  “Somebody has to win the state, it might as well be you. What’s the point?”

  “The point is,” Coley replied as he eased back into one of the vinyl strap loungers on the deck, “if I’m one hundred percent, we have a better chance of winnin’ the play-offs. If I’m only fifty percent, we’re just like most of the other teams.”

  But Ben Burke was shaking his head aggressively even as he found his way into a nearby deck chair. “No, no, no. This isn’t about winning high school play-off games. It’s about your future.”

  Coley’s mother brought some tossed salad to the table and said, “Maybe we can shelve this argument now. It’s almost time to eat.” She returned to the kitchen to fetch plates and silverware.

  “You probably think I don’t know you batted right-handed down in Florida,” said Ben.

  Coley’s surprise lasted scarcely a millisecond. “I doubted if it would get past you,” he replied.

  “I suppose that was for God and country too, huh? Stupid. It was stupid.”

  “The guys want to win. They’re winnin’ without me, most of the time. They don’t need me to get past the regionals. But if I’m one hundred percent for the sectionals and the state, we could go all the way.”

  “Tell me whose idea this is.”

  “It’s mine. It’s Rico’s. It’s Coach Mason’s. The guys want to win. I want to win.”

  There was a pitcher of premixed martinis on the table. Ben Burke freshened his drink before he said, “Major-league scouts don’t give a damn who wins or loses high school play-off games. Nobody does.”

  “We do. We give a damn.”

  “Don’t interrupt. Five years from now nobody will even remember who was in the play-offs or who won. But five years from now your future may be carved out. That has
to be your priority, not who wins the regional tournament.”

  His mother returned to set plates on the table. “I thought I told you it was time to put this argument to rest. I’d like to have a pleasant supper together, if that’s possible.” She began forking wieners into buns. Coley could see the muscles of her jaw working.

  “I’m just trying to explain something to him about his future,” said his father.

  “I know,” said Mom. “I’ve been listening, in spite of my best intentions.”

  “Then maybe you could help out here.”

  “I doubt it. I don’t think you’d want to hear what I think. Hot dog or hamburger?” she asked him.

  “Jesus Christ! Do you think we could cut to the chase here?”

  That’s when Coley knew the old man was getting drunk: When his mother sent out these kinds of warning signals, you’d better pay attention, unless you wanted the shit to hit the fan. His dad knew it as well as he did.

  “Ketchup and mustard?”

  “Tell him to think about his future first. That’s all I’m askin’ here—is that so hard?”

  “Let me ask you something,” she said to Ben. Before she asked, she took a seat and began tonging tomato wedges onto her bed of chopped iceberg. “Isn’t playing on a team supposed to teach you to subordinate your own individual needs to the good of the group?”

  “That’s a different subject.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. It seems to be Coley’s subject. He seems to be saying he feels bonded to his teammates. He’s concerned about their success as well as his own.”

  “If this is all you’ve got to contribute, why don’t you just drop out of the discussion?”

  “I warned you, didn’t I?” His mother’s eyes were flashing. “I told you to leave me out of this altogether, but you chose not to listen. Your son wants to share in the team experience, but you can’t see any value in it.”

  As rapidly as he could, Coley prepared himself three hot dogs and squeezed on the ketchup and mustard. If this was going to be a knock-down-drag-out, he wasn’t sure he could stand to be in the vicinity.