Complete Game: The League, Book 1

by Declan Rhodes

  “She’s at St. Anthony’s Hospital. That’s where they did the surgery on the leg. I don’t think it’s far from here.”

  I smiled. “No, not at all. It’s maybe just ten blocks or so. Do you have a cell phone? Why don’t you just give the transport a call and cancel. I’ll get you there in ten minutes or less.”

  He said, “I don’t like being suspicious, but do you have some kind of motive here? I mean, I’m not used to a lot of kindness from strangers.”

  I reached up and made a show of scratching my head and then said, “Umm, you’re my new neighbor, so this seems a good opportunity to get to know each other just a little bit. Also, I saw a lot of bad situations when mom was staying with me. Ultimately, I volunteered to regularly drive three other people back and forth to appointments. I sat in the waiting room and listened to stories. I couldn’t help feeling sympathetic. You might say I’m a fairly decent guy.”

  Blake pulled the cellphone from the pocket of the gym shorts he was wearing. I watched him start to sway again and reflexively reached out to keep him from falling. He grumbled, “Everything is so damned complicated.”

  I said, “Let me hang on here.” I stabilized the crutches and leaned my shoulder into his chest. It was a little bit awkward but he was able to pull up the transport phone number with his left arm resting across my left shoulder. The physical contact felt good. His body was strong, and I concluded that he either was recently an active athlete, or he at least had a serious gym routine.

  Listening to the conversation from my end, I understood that Blake would still have to pay a cancellation fee. I frowned, but I held my position until the conversation was over. As he dropped the phone back into his pocket, I said, “I’m sorry about the cancellation fee, but this will save you a lot of money in the long run.”

  He grumbled, “I’m sure my insurance company will be happy. Fortunately, I’m still a year from getting kicked off my parents’ policy.”

  I said, “Why don’t you just stay right here, and I’ll pull the car around.”

  “Thank you. Again, you don’t have to do this. I’m not helpless.”

  With a nod, I said, “Few people are truly helpless, but we can all use some additional help on occasion.” I looked into his eyes. They were a deep, dark brown almost like polished mahogany. Then I glanced away. “Yes, I’ll be right back with the car.”

  Blake stood at the curb leaning on the crutches and turning his head to scan the neighborhood. I wondered if it was his first time outside since being moved into the house. I backed out of the driveway and then backed about 50 feet along the curb until the car pulled even with Blake. I hopped out and circled the car. Blake’s forehead was damp with droplets of sweat, and he started to move a hand upward to wipe it away but then caught himself with the crutches when he began to sway again.

  I said, “For now, it’s probably going to be easiest for you to just sit in the back seat and then slide your back end clear across so that your leg can rest flat on the seat.”

  Blake nodded. “Yes, that’s how my uncle brought me here.”

  “They just dropped you off?” I asked. “Is this their house?”

  He looked at me and said, “Open the door, please.”

  I frowned. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Yes, I’ll do that.” I opened the door and he sat heavily on the edge of the seat. Then he handed me the crutches and propelled himself backward with his hands. I said, “Forgive me, I’m being a little nosy.”

  When I turned the key, and I pulled away from the curb, I thought I heard a sigh of relief from the back seat. Blake said, “Pardon me for a being a little rude, but this really sucks, you know. I’m not good at just lying around all the time.”

  I pulled up to a four-way stop and then turned right saying, “I can only imagine. Fortunately, nothing like this has ever happened to me. I’ll be nosy one last time and ask what happened.”

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, I could see Blake raise an eyebrow. He asked, “Are you promising this is the last time you will be interrogating me?”

  I said, “I try not to make promises.” Then I drove on, and we were both silent.

  After three more blocks, Blake said, “I smashed up the leg in a minor league baseball game. It killed the rest of the season and maybe the career.”

  My mouth fell open, and I wasn’t sure exactly why. There were so many possible reasons. I had a real minor league baseball player in my back seat, but his career was possibly over. He sustained the injury in the heat of the game, and he trusted me enough to share the story. Silence hung again in the air, and I realized it was my turn to respond. I said, “I’m really really sorry. You won’t be able to play next year?”

  His shoulders shrugged as he said, “The doc says I might be recovered enough to get out on the field, but the minors are tough, and I sorta think the team might have already passed me by. I need a lot of luck to get back in the game.”

  I said, “Well, if that really turned out to be the case, I know it’s not the same as baseball, but I’m part of a softball league.”

  Blake replied, “I don’t know. I might just be done with anything involving gloves, bats, or balls. I really don’t like to think much about it.”

  Before I could stop myself, I blurted out the question, “So…what happened? In the game?” I asked.

  He said, “You weren’t nosy for exactly a minute and thirty seconds.”

  “Oh, give me a break. This is only the next logical question to ask, Blake.”

  He said, “It’s a good thing I think you really are a good guy…and not so bad to look at either.”

  His next few words were lost to my ears, as I tried to parse that last comment. Was he complimenting my appearance? Does he like guys? I said, “Hang on, I think I missed something.”

  Blake spoke deliberately and slowly as he repeated himself. “I said, I was distracted just for a moment by my thoughts, and I stepped wrong on first base. My ankle twisted, and I went down. When I tried to pop back up, I just went down in a heap, and the pain was excruciating. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

  I bit my lip to stop myself from asking what thought distracted him. I was approaching the front circle drive outside of the hospital anyway. Instead of continuing my interrogation, I asked, “Do you want me to come inside? I can do that, or I can just pull up a wheelchair, and you can climb in and take it from there yourself.”

  He said, “If you just get me the wheelchair, I think I’ll be fine. Then give me your number, and I’ll text when the doc is finished.”

  Retrieving the wheelchair and helping Black pull himself out of the backseat was an easy process. I gave him my number and then waved as he glanced back briefly before propelling himself through the sliding glass doors of the hospital entry. I didn’t realize it was the last time I would see him for over six months.

  I drove back home daydreaming of all the ways I could help take care of my new handsome neighbor. Rewinding the compliment in my head, I also realized he might be my new gay neighbor. That thought set off a chain reaction of other ideas like cooking together and binge watching TV. We could relax on my back patio, and I could grill out. I had the perfect friendship planned.

  Then it came crashing down. Blake called from the hospital instead of sending a text message. In a cheerful voice, I asked, “Did it all go well.”

  He said, “It went fine, but I have almost three months to come without weight on it which means crutches and wheelchairs.”

  I sighed and said, “That really does suck, but don’t worry, I’ll help you manage.”

  He continued, “Oh, that’s the main reason I called instead of sending a text. I got a call from my aunt, and, apparently, my aunt and uncle started to feel a little bit guilty. They are going to pick me up and then have me live with them in their house. It’s across the city on the south side. I just wanted to thank you for all of your help, Ian. I really appreciate it.”

  I started to whine, “So I won’t…,” and then I caught mysel
f. Instead, I tried to be as positive as possible and said, “That’s a good thing. I’m glad the relatives came to their senses. Be well, Blake, and I wish you all the best.”

  Blake said, “You, too, Ian. And good luck with the league.”

  2

  Ian

  “I’m telling you that he’s just a figment of your imagination, Ian.” My best friend Reggie Wolf dug another scoop-shaped chip into the homemade salsa and swallowed it down following a deliberate crunch.

  I smashed the avocado against the side of the bowl with a fork and growled, “Blake wasn’t a figment of my imagination, but I guess he might as well have been. He’s gone now.” I reached out and slapped at Reggie’s hand. “And don’t eat all of that yet. I’ve got guacamole and tacos on the way, and I want a little salsa too before you down it all.”

  Reggie said, “I just eat what you put in front of me. That’s the advantage to having a serious cook as a friend. If you don’t want me to eat it, take it away.”

  I dropped the fork and pulled the bowl of salsa away from Reggie placing it to my left far away from his searching chips. “That’s taken care of.”

  He frowned, but picked up his beer bottle instead. After a quick swig, he said, “Of course if you really did see him, and he was…what did you say? A minor league baseball player?”

  I nodded as I turned my attention back to finishing up the guacamole with some chopped cilantro and another dash of lime juice. “He said the smashed up leg was likely to end his career, but I bet that it could be fixed up well enough that he could still play softball.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said Reggie. “Is he a gay guy?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know for sure on that. He made a sort of cryptic comment about how I looked. Straight guys don’t normally do that.”

  “Cryptic?” Reggie swallowed another mouthful of the beer.

  “Okay, he complimented me. He said I looked nice.”

  Reggie reached a hand up and ran it through the wiry, curly dark hair on his head. “Well, you do. You have that kind of boyish charm, Ian. Just don’t let it go to your head.”

  I turned around and took a longer look at Reggie. We dated two years earlier after meeting on the softball field. It didn’t work out after about two months of fireworks both in and out of the bedroom. As soon as we decided a romantic relationship wasn’t in the cards, a solid friendship between Reggie and me flowered. I said, “Well, thank you, and I know you’re not just saying that. You told Rachel the same thing.”

  Reggie sighed. “Is nothing kept quiet anymore?” He said, “Well, it’s too bad your imaginary neighbor didn’t stick around. On the team we can use all the help we can get. I’m not looking forward to another year in the league’s basement.”

  I cringed but said, “You know it’s all just for fun.” I was parroting the league principles, but losing all but one or two games wasn’t a lot of fun by the end of the season.

  With a laugh, Reggie said, “I’ll remind you of that when we’re pulling up the rear one more time. We’ve clinched last place this season. If we don’t bring in a ringer in the off-season, we’ll get it again next season, too.”

  * * *

  Blake didn’t reappear, but no one moved into the house next door either. The “For Rent” sign didn’t show up. Instead, the house just sat empty and someone hired neighborhood kids to keep up with mowing and snow shoveling. By late winter, the house started to take on that difficult to describe forlorn look of a building that has remained uninhabited for months.

  I was tempted to call Blake’s number. It was still on my cell phone. I didn’t delete it, but I didn’t know exactly what to say. We didn’t spend enough time together to be friends, and as the winter wore on, I started to wonder if Reggie was right after all. Maybe Blake really had been a figment of my imagination.

  The next spring came early. The weather felt like early June by the first of March. In the last week of March, I took a calculated risk and planted cool-weather flowers and vegetables. A late frost could sabotage all of my efforts, but I was eager to dig my hands into the dirt and add color to my yard as early in the spring as possible.

  My grandmother was a dedicated gardener. Her talent skipped a generation, but I was determined to pick up the family legacy. I remembered sitting at her knee as a young boy while she flipped through pages of a photo album she kept showing each year’s flower and vegetable gardens. Some years there was a riot of orange and red while other years were dominated by cooler blues and pinks. She taught me that perennials were the backbone, but annuals made all the difference in the overall color scheme.

  As a twenty-seven-year-old man, I knew how lucky I was to own my own house. I saved up half of the down payment from my own earnings as an accountant, and my parents loaned me the other half. I bought my house when I was only twenty-four. Each year I made significant changes to the garden adding a few perennials as well as shrubs and small ornamental trees, but the biggest job was filling it all out with brightly colored annuals. My current round of purple and orange pansies were my first step in the new growing season.

  I started early on a Saturday morning planting the pansies in free-form clusters along the edge of my front porch. Then I spent two hours cleaning up brush and trimming back perennials in the back. Tiny nubs pushed up out of the ground giving me the promise of another outstanding gardening season.

  After lunch, I returned to the front yard pulling out weeds before they got a chance to take hold. The earlier they were pulled, the easier the work was overall. I refused to use any chemicals at all on my gardens. The entire process was organic and utilized plenty of physical labor on my part. If a job was too big for just one person, I usually called on Reggie for assistance. He helped me dig out a particularly difficult shrub the previous fall.

  I was on my knees leaning forward and digging into the still damp spring soil with a trowel to remove the roots of a particularly stubborn weed, when I heard soft footsteps on the sidewalk behind me.

  Before I could turn, I heard a familiar voice call, “It looks great Ian, and I think you are the first on the block.”

  He was back out of the blue like he fell from the sky. I turned to see Blake Powell standing on the sidewalk, hands stuffed into the pockets of a pair of crisp, deep blue jeans. He was slowly swaying slightly forward and back with a huge smile replacing the pinched look of his face when I last saw him.

  In a slightly bewildered tone, I asked, “Blake? How are you?” I turned as I slowly rose to my feet and brushed at the soil caked on to the knees of my own jeans, worn and stained with years of garden work.

  He swiftly climbed the concrete steps from street level to the edge of my porch. There was no hesitation. His leg was healed. He said, “I’m doing pretty well. I thought I would ask if you were interested in a new neighbor. It’s for real this time.”

  I held out my hand to shake his. I was still in a state of shock that I was actually seeing him again. I hadn’t yet begun to process the idea of him moving in next door. I asked, “Are you taking the house for the long term this time?”

  Blake gripped my hand. His shake was firm, but I didn’t feel as if the bones of my fingers were being crushed. It was more a sensation of my hand being embraced than squeezed. The tone of his voice was light and good-natured when he said, “The physical therapist released me, and I did some checking with the minor league brass. I was given the old, ‘Well you can try,’ while one of the coaches I trust said, ‘Honestly, Blake, it’s over. Go on and live your real life now.’ I still have a little nest egg from my parents, and my uncle suggested that it’s time to be on my own. To quote him exactly, he said, ‘You’re twenty-five Blake. You’re not a child any more. It’s time to be a man.’”

  I stared back into his deep brown eyes and said, “Well, welcome to the neighborhood.” I gestured toward the porch and said, “As you can see, I do like to garden. It’s a good neighborhood. Mrs. Riley down the street is house-bound, but the advantage is
she watches and sees everything on our block. She doesn’t hesitate to call the cops if there is anything out of order. The Parkers across the street have two adorable little kids. Like I said, it’s a good neighborhood, Blake.”

  He wrapped his arms over his broad chest and said, “I’m sure I’ll be able to settle in before long, but I did have another question for you, Ian.”

  I furrowed my brow. “A question, for me?”

  Blake said, “I want to know more about the softball league.”

  3

  Blake

  They were a ragtag group to put it mildly. I had my first clues when Ian introduced me to his best friend and teammate, Reggie. He was not the type of person I would peg instantly as an athlete, even a weekend one. He was attractive enough. His wiry, Brillo-pad hair framed a face that was almost angelic in its innocent appearance. I knew instantly that the truth was anything but innocence. His body was not horribly out of shape, but he was beginning to put on a few pounds around the middle. He wore hiking shoes instead of sneakers and was dressed in tight-fitting jeans instead of anything remotely athletic.

  As Reggie shook my hand, he said, “So this is the imaginary guy that turned out to be real.”

  I cocked my head at Ian. He said, “Oh, after I met you last fall, it was such a brief encounter that Reggie and I both wondered if you were truly real.”

  I rolled my eyes and said, “Somebody could have dialed the phone if they had questions.”

  Ian shrugged and said, “I guess the same could be said of you.” As we piled into Ian’s car, he asked, “Have you ever played slow-pitch softball, Blake?”

  I said, “In high school gym class. Since then it’s been baseball exclusively.”

  Reggie said, “You might be just what we need. Ian warned you that we’re perennial basement dwellers in the city league?”

  I pounded my right fist into the glove on my left hand saying, “Yes, he did mention that. I’ll have to admit that I don’t particularly like to lose. So it might be a long season.”