Payton Hidden Away

by Jonathan Korbecki

  “Excuse me?” he says, his wife looking at me with the same shocked expression.

  “Fourth row, fourth seat,” I answer. “It’s reserved.” Then I smile. “For me.”

  “Hon,” Kristie says softly from behind me, but I shake her off.

  “Your seat?” the big guy says with an arrogant smile. “I don’t see your name on it.”

  “Then lift your hairy ass and take a closer look, because it’s there.”

  He frowns, stands and turns around.

  “Triple A,” I say, filling in the blanks. “Stands for Anthony Alexander Abbott. That’s me. You’re in my seat.”

  The big guy isn’t intimidated. “Then maybe you should have gotten here sooner. It’s my seat now.”

  Normally, I’m a patient guy. Normally, I’d be just as content to let him and his flock stay put, but it’s been a weird day, and I’m in a weird mood. I’ve lost any patience I had, and given the state of things between me and Ritchie, me and Joanne, Joanne and Ritchie, me and Kristie, and pretty much everyone else in this rinky dink town for that matter, I’m either in the mood to pick a fight or I’m in the mood to lose one.

  “You don’t want to do this,” I say, baiting the hook.

  “Do what?”

  I smile. “Last chance.”

  We lock eyes, and in those angry browns, I can still see a hint of hesitation. He knows he outweighs me, but that’s why there’s doubt. He’s got to be wondering why I’m so confident if I can’t beat him in a fight. “Are you threatening me?” he asks.

  I smile. “No.” Then I whistle sharp and shrill, and a few faces poke out from the dugout below. Within moments, the entire team emerges. Ritchie leads the way, his eyes fixed on the hairy goon who took my seat. “But they might,” I finish with a grin.

  The big man takes a cautious step back, tripping against the bleacher seat.

  “What’s goin’ on, Triple A?” Ritchie asks, reaching my side.

  “It seems someone sold my seat.”

  Ritchie looks at the big man, then the man’s wife, then the man’s daughter. “You guys can’t scooch down far enough to make room for my two best friends?”

  The man looks at the bleacher row. “It’s pretty full.”

  Ritchie sizes the situation, then nods, his face contorted in thought. “You’re right. I guess that means you and your brood will have to move.”

  “Excuse me?” the man asks.

  “We’re moving,” the man’s wife says, motioning for her daughter to get up and head for the exit. Suddenly I feel bad. The girl looks to be about eight years old. She came to watch a baseball game, not see her parents get bullied. This will be one of the moments she’ll remember for the rest of her life. She won’t remember who wins the game or what I look like, but she’ll remember me, she’ll remember this, and she’ll remember that her dad isn’t invincible the way she thought. But it’s too late to take it back. They’re already wading through a sea of knees to get to the stairs on the other side. I look down at #44, and I realize in a moment of absolute clarity how much I hate it and what it represents. Or maybe I hate myself and what I’ve become.

  The moment will pass. It always does. Kristie and I will sit down, and the game will start, and we’ll get caught up in the drama, and we’ll be treated like royalty. Popcorn will be on the house, and everyone will ask me about Ritchie—how he’s feeling, how his shoulder is, how he does what he does. Then the game will start, and the attention will turn to the big man on the mound.

  The team returns to the dugout while Kristie and I take our seats. On impulse, she leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “I love you.”

  We rise for the National Anthem. Every baseball cap around the park comes off. Every voice goes silent. A little girl, announced as Rhiannon Greene from Miss Garcia’s fourth grade class is standing on home plate, holding a microphone disproportionally large, her voice disproportionally modulated as she belts out a painful rendition of our nation’s anthem. As bad as it is, once she hits the high notes, the crowd starts cheering anyway, and they keep right on cheering until the anthem ends and the little girl takes a bow. Then they quiet down. There are a few flashes, a few murmurs, but mostly silence. We sit, waiting, looking around as though we’re waiting for Jesus Christ himself to suddenly appear.

  “And now,” the PA announcer calls out, his voice rocketing through the park, “the electrical union #491 and the city council of Payton County are pleased to bring you the starting lineup of your Payton Pirates!”

  The local faithful clap, but it’s more of a polite applause. It’s not the response I’m sure the PA guy was expecting. We’re sitting, waiting, engaged in conversation, spilling drinks, looking for cameras. We’re holding back—waiting.

  For him.

  The PA guy calls out the scorecard, name, number, position, and the player being announced walks out from the dugout, tips his hat and waves to the crowd. There a few claps, a few whistles, a few laughs. We’re holding back—waiting.

  For him.

  Then the music kicks in.

  It’s a low rumble at first, kind of a preamble just so everyone knows that the time has finally come. Butts come off the bleachers, and everyone stands. Then the lights start spinning, followed by the ear-piercing opening chords to Welcome to the Jungle. It’s loud, it’s in your face, and I swear the bleachers are rocking. All the lights, the blistering noise, the music, the fans. I don’t know much about what happens outside of Payton, but what happens on this field is something special, and it all has to do with the big guy who’s just now emerging from the dugout and beginning the slow walk toward the mound, his head bowed, his ball cap hiding his eyes. The place goes ballistic, a slew of fireworks lighting the evening sky.

  “Starting at pitcher,” the PA blares, his voice drowning beneath the cheers. “Number 44…” The crowd has become so loud that I have to cover my ears. “Your very own…Ritchieeeeeeeee Hudsoooooooooooooooooon!”

  I look over at the visiting dugout, and in a way, I sort of feel bad for them. After all it’s a bit unfair. Playtime is over. Ritchie’s on the mound.

  This is Pirate country.

  Welcome to the jungle, bitches.

  Part III

  Ritchie doesn’t acknowledge the crowd. He just settles into his warm-ups, the music deafening as Guns ‘n’ Roses bleeds over the loudspeakers, energizing the crowd. There isn’t a single soul sitting. We’re all standing, clapping, stomping, cheering. The Rockford Rams (or the ‘Rockford Retards’ as we like to call them) swept us in a double-header a few weeks back. Ritchie had just pitched the night before, and despite begging and pleading with the skipper, he was ordered to sit. Ritchie can’t remember his multiplication tables, but he remembers losing two in a row, so tonight is important to him. Fuck the playoffs. Tonight is personal.

  “Here we goooooooooooooo!” the PA hollers, and it’s stomping feet, pumping fists and Styrofoam fingers waving in chaos. It’s cheers and screams. It’s flashing lights and loud music, and even though this isn’t a big-league ballpark, the local townsfolk have done their best to make it look like one. Everyone is here. Everyone.

  First pitch; right down the middle for strike-one, and while there are likely 200 more pitches to go before all is said and done, it sounds as though we just scored the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. I can’t help but admire my friend. His is so cool.

  Ritchie reaches back and hurls another bullet.

  “Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerike!” the ump shouts, pointing.

  So cool. My friend. My best friend.

  Part IV

  1-2-3. Rockford goes down, and Ritchie receives a standing ovation as he approaches the dugout. He never looks up. He just stares at the ground, those familiar stains spreading under his arms. I keep wishing he’d look up, scan the crowd until he finds the fourth row, fourth seat. He’d smile and nod my way the way he does when things are going okay. But he doesn’t, so maybe they’re not. It makes me wonder if he’s still angry or if he’s just
so locked in that he can’t think of anything other than getting back out there. Then he’s gone, having disappeared into the dugout and out of view until the top of the next inning.

  And now Joanne and Travis are making their way through the lineup of knees toward us. Joanne’s grinning as she waves with one hand, the other hand locked in his. Kristie stands and the two embrace as though they haven’t seen each other in years. Jo sits next to Kristie, and Travis sits at the end. Personally, I have nothing against him. He seems a decent enough guy—a guy’s guy, but he’s not thinking. Neither is Joanne. This is a bad move. I nudge Kristie, lean in and whisper. “It’s probably not a great idea that she sits here.”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “I get that, but—”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the problem?’

  “There’s no problem. And I’m not arguing,” I say it only loud enough for her to hear. “But still, Ritchie will eventually notice.”

  “We’re not talking about this again.”

  “I’m not—”

  “The hell with Ritchie. She’s my sister. I don’t care who he is. He could be…Joe Montana for all I care.”

  “Wrong sport.”

  “The only reason any of us even tolerate him is because he’s your friend. That’s it.”

  “I get that, but—”

  “That’s it!” Kristie shouts.

  I sit back and fold my arms. I hate it when she does that. That stubbornness. She gets on her soapbox and starts talking about Ritchie as though I keep his company out of pity. He’s my best friend. And he’s earned it. She doesn’t know half the shit he’s done for me. Angrily, I return my attention to the game. Screw her. Her and Joanne and Truman or Travis or whatever his name is. I know what’s coming even if they don’t.

  Our guys out on the field can’t muster any offense, and just like that Ritchie is back on the field. He throws seven pitches, and just like that he’s back off again—much to the hysterical delight of the sold-out crowd.

  Seven pitches.

  “Let’s get something going!” Travis says, clapping enthusiastically, which is ironic considering he’s from Lawton.

  “Like what?” I ask, sarcasm lining my tone. “The wave?”

  “Yeah!” he shouts. “Let’s do the wave!”

  “We don’t do the wave in this ballpark,” I grumble.

  Kristie frowns at me.

  Maybe Travis is a fan. Or maybe he’s afraid. Maybe he’s oblivious. After all, anyone who wants to do the wave is a tourist. This isn’t his town. This isn’t his team. And she’s not his girl. And if he’s not careful, he’s going to screw with Ritchie’s mojo.

  Even so, Travis gives the wave the ol’ heave-ho, rising to his feet and throwing his hands up before sitting back down, rising up and doing it all over again. But no one follows his lead. It’s not because we don’t like him. We don’t, but that’s not the point. The point is we don’t do the wave here. The wave is for amateurs, and this is Pirate baseball.

  Out on the field, a walk, a pop-out, a base-hit and a double, and the crowd is cheering an early 2-0 lead. Under normal circumstances, a two run lead would be tenuous, but with Hudson on the mound, the hometown crowd is actually hoping the scoring will stop so they can see Ritchie shut them down. And just like that, the Pirates hit into an inning-ending double-play, and just like that, we’re heading to the third.

  Another standing ovation as Ritchie takes the field. He keeps his head dipped the way he does when he’s in the zone. I know him. I know the way he thinks. He couldn’t care less if he’s winning or losing. There’s only one thing on his mind, and it’s the guy at the plate. He stretches, rotating his arms, loosening up. He cracks his neck and finally turns to face the batter.

  The crowd rises, clapping frenetically.

  Ritchie kicks dirt from the plate, settles into his wind, rears back and hurls eight pitches. Eight. That’s all it takes until we’re on our way to the bottom of the third. No hits, no walks and definitely no runs. Ritchie has a perfect game through three. That’s the way he throws. He’ll do this for four or five innings until he tires. Then he’ll dig down and find something else.

  “He’s good,” Kristie says, and it’s the first time she’s ever complimented him. Of course, if Ritchie was merely ‘good,’ this stadium would be half empty, there wouldn’t be any music, and no one would really care. It would just be another baseball game where a few parents show up to see their kid play. Ritchie isn’t ‘good.’ Ritchie’s special, and everyone knows it. Everyone knows the game ended when our first run crossed home plate, so now that it’s 2-0, they’re just sticking around to see how good Ritchie can be.

  They cheer him on with a standing ovation as he plods off the field, another inning in the bag. Now that Joanne and Travis are here, I’m glad he’s not looking up and searching me out. He knows I’m here, and that should be enough. As long as he knows I’m here, he’ll be fine.

  Fast forward to the top of the sixth. We’re up 4-0. Four more runs and the umps will enforce the mercy rule. Something tells me that would actually disappoint the hometown faithful. I think they’d like the game to go on forever. They stopped rooting for us to score a long time ago. They want to see all seven innings, and given how we’ve run the base pads the previous two innings, I’m not so sure even the ballplayers don’t feel the same. So long as Ritchie is at the plate, people want more. More groundouts, more pop outs, more strikeouts. More.

  And the crowd gets more, because our offense dies in our half of the sixth. Heading into the seventh, I’ve never seen him throw like this before. Through six complete, he’s thrown only 62 pitches, 41 for strikes. No walks and only one hit. One lousy hit. The crowd is energized and focused. Even Kristie is caught up in the magic. She’s clapping with the music, a cute little smile on her cute little face. It flees quickly when she looks over and sees me sweating. I’m just praying to get through the last inning without Ritchie looking over. The last thing in the world I want—the very last thing—is for him to see Joanne and Travis wrapped around each other like a pretzel.

  “You okay?” Kristie asks.

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. What’s wrong?”

  “He’s going to see.”

  She looks over at her sister before turning back to me. “So what?”

  I watch the field. “Never mind.”

  “It’s not like he’s going to do anything.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  She doesn’t reply, but she gives me a look as if to say that if something does happen then it’s my fault for not preventing it. Then she turns back to the game.

  Three more outs is all we need, and the crowd will light this place up. Ritchie’s already tossed six complete. By now the skipper should have called on the bullpen. Ritchie’s pitch count is still low, but with the score out of hand, they should be saving his arm. My guess is they talked about pulling him. They probably even asked him how he felt, and if I were a betting man, the outcome of that conversation was one-sided. Ritchie doesn’t sit. Period.

  Three more outs.

  Another standing ovation as my best friend takes the field. It’s so loud that my ears feel like they’re going to pop. I’m caught up in the frenzy as much as anyone, but these people are nuts. They’re waving fists, waving sparklers, waving lighters. They’re stomping their feet, clapping their hands, screaming at the top of their lungs.

  Ritchie finishes his warm ups and settles in. Strike one is followed by strike two. He’s throwing bullets, though the second pitch did look suspiciously inside.

  “Steeeeeerike!” the ump shouts, and the crowd explodes as the beleaguered batter hurtles his bat toward the enemy bullpen and walks away. Ritchie kicks away the loose dust on the pitcher’s plate before turning his back.

  Flashbulbs.

  One out.

  Two to go.

  Three quick balls, and the crowd is st
unned at the idea of a one-out walk, but Ritchie rebounds with a curveball the batter chases in the dirt. Then he follows it up with a heater that hits the catcher’s glove before the batter has a chance to blink. At three and two, Ritchie’s a pitch away from a second out. The crowd stands and begins clapping—making noise. Ritchie lifts his hat to wipe his forehead with his sleeve, kicks the dirt from the mound and licks his fingers before going into his wind.

  Strike three.

  Ritchie pays no notice to the cheering crowd as he turns his back and bows his head. He cracks his neck and loosens up before exhaling and turning back to the action. He again kicks away the loose dirt and prepares to face the last batter. By this point, it’s pretty obvious that the crowd isn’t here to see the Pirates. They’re not even here to see the Pirates defeat the Rams. They’re here to see Ritchie.

  Strike one.

  An enthusiastic cheer backs him up. It’s been an amazing performance. Ritchie missed out on a perfect game, but maybe that’s fate. Had he pitched a no-no, he’d make headlines, and headlines would give him a way out of Payton. A one-hitter means no one outside of our close-knit community will ever know what happened. A one-hitter only solidifies his permanent place on a small plaque in a small town that will someday forget his name.

  Strike two.

  The crowd is on its feet—clapping, chanting and hollering. The stands are shaking beneath stomping feet. The entire city of Payton is here. We’re all watching. All of us. He’s one strike away from a complete-game shutout. He’s one pitch from ending the game.

  And then it happens.

  Winded, gasping, tired but focused, he looks up. Then he looks over. Maybe he’s looking for an encouraging nod from me, but he instead finds Joanne draped all over Travis, her head on his shoulder, her hand under his shirt.

  Ritchie’s shoulder’s slump.

  He turns back to the mound, but I can immediately sense that something’s wrong—something’s off. He kicks at the dust on the plate the way he normally does but misses and kicks dirt instead. Stumbling, he rights himself and turns his back on home plate. I can see him drawing one deep breath after another.