“What else?”
“How about collecting some rent from Wiggins. The boy got a signing bonus of almost a million bucks. He can afford it.”
Chan bristled. “What else?”
“Seriously Chan. If that kid was leasing a place he’d be paying a thousand a month, plus utilities.”
“We’re not charging Lorenzo to stay with us.”
Barry groaned. “Probably doesn’t have it anyway. Did his hometown buddies really spend most of his bonus?”
Chan put up his hand. “I’m not talking about Lorenzo’s finances, Barry, and you need to stop trying to lure him away from his agent.”
“I just think he’d—”
“What else?”
“Okay, okay,” Barry shrugged. “I’m doing my best to help. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
Chan patted him on the arm. “I know, and I appreciate it. What else?”
“Okay, enough with the expenses. Let’s look at income. How would you feel about me talking to Billy Meyer about more money?”
“He gave me a hot tub.”
“Channy, that tub cost him three grand wholesale. He’s paying you a thousand a spot for two commercials a year. You’re bringing a lot of business into his stores. There’s no reason he can’t come up with five grand a spot and still make out like a bandit.”
When he and Billy started working together, Chan hadn’t even asked what the pay would be. Barry might be on to something.
“You think he’d go that high?”
Barry tossed out the name of a local FM deejay. “Have you seen his television spots for Churchill Garden Centers?” Chan had.
“He gets six grand each for three spots a year, and their sales aren’t anyplace close to Meyer’s.”
Chan gave Barry the green light.
“The folks at the TV station have asked if you plan to come back. I assume you want to.” Chan had been doing weekend sports and some fill-in work during the off-season.
“I’d like to. The schedule works well with the kids.” Chan enjoyed the gig more than he’d expected, and despite not having any training in broadcast journalism, the reviews were good.
“They should be able to increase what they pay you by at least twenty percent. I’ll ask for thirty and work from there.”
Barry made some notations before moving on.
“Personal Appearances. You made seven of them last year at five-hundred per appearance. That’s low, but what concerns me is the dozen or so you did for free.”
“They were civic groups, Barry. I won’t charge them.”
“Civic groups have all kinds of money, Chan. Look at those Shriners. They have money to buy those little scooters—”
“I’m not asking for money from civic groups.”
They had reached another standoff, and again Chan refused to budge. Barry didn’t differentiate when it came to his clients. He had told Chan more times than he could remember that you don’t give away the product.
The meeting ended amicably with Barry promising to do what he could with Meyer Hot Tubs and the television station. They were also in agreement that Chan could probably increase his paid speaking gigs. The other areas remained on the table.
Exiting through the reception area, Chan ran into Helene, Barry’s overworked long-time secretary. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes before Helene remembered something.
“A lady called here yesterday wanting your phone number. I forgot to write her name down, but she was from someplace in Missouri.”
“Did she say what it was about?”
“No, she sounded kind of old. I told her I couldn’t give out your number without your permission. She’s going to call back, I think.”
“But you don’t remember her name?” This was typical Helene.
“Her first name was two names. Hattie Sue or something like that.”
Chan smiled. “Never heard of her. Good work, Helene.”
“Well maybe that wasn’t it. Could it have been Bertie Sue?”
This sparked a memory. “Bertha Mae?”
Helene snapped her fingers. “That’s it.”
Saying her name brought back warm memories. Miss Bertie had been his lifeline, yet the ill feelings he felt toward that part of the world were strong enough that he hadn’t reached out even once in the years since leaving that sweltering gymnasium sixteen years ago.
Was he ready to reach out now? He rarely thought of the old house on Grebey Island. Still, the fact that Miss Bertie was trying to contact him after all these years had to mean something.
When Chan looked up, Helene was staring at him, pen poised to jot down his decision.
“Next time she calls, give her my number.”
SIXTY-TWO
Chan sensed their excitement as they entered the school’s bright, airy hallway.
Ryan’s enthusiasm didn’t surprise him. After all, he was starting kindergarten. But Lani? She’d be entering eighth grade. Weren’t thirteen-year-olds blasé about everything?
The decision to enroll them in public school wasn’t easy. Chan had homeschooled Lani up to that point, even when he had to work around a crazy schedule that included frequent out-of-town trips and evenings away from home. She had done well, and Chan knew that much of the credit was hers. She had a thirst for learning that even his hectic hours and travel couldn’t squelch. He would often arrive home to find that she had completed a month’s worth of work in five days. Mrs. Hayes marveled at how much further along Lani was than her kids, Luther and Monica, were at that age. Chan would smile and say thanks, but leave it unsaid that Luther and Monica weren’t hard acts to top. Luther Hayes was at the Green River Correctional Center in Muhlenberg County, in the middle of a five-year stretch for producing meth, while his sister Monica had spent the last four years delivering the Courier-Journal in Oldham County, waiting for a spot to open at a school for aspiring legal secretaries.
Despite Lani’s success, Chan faced the daunting responsibility of keeping two kids on task. Lani was easy. Ryan, his rambunctious, oversized six-year old, would be a different story. Barry’s admonition about the cost of a sitter also weighed into the decision. When Chan had broached the subject over dinner a few weeks earlier, both were fervent supporters.
“But Lani, I thought you liked being homeschooled.”
“I love homeschool, Daddy,” she’d responded, her green eyes dancing. “But the chance to go to school with other girls...”
And boys, Chan thought, having overheard several recent conversations between Lani and her friends.
“And you, son?”
“I want to go to regular school. They have gym class!”
“And don’t forget school lunch!” Lani added.
“Yeah,” Ryan echoed. “School lunch!” Then, turning to Chan, “Do you think they’ll have burritos like Mrs. Hayes makes?”
And just like that, the decision was made. Chan started looking at available options, spending a month checking out schools all over Louisville. Then he found it, almost in his backyard.
Southeast Community School. An experimental school located a few miles from home. Southeast enrolled kindergarteners through eighth grade. Lani and Ryan would go to school in the same building.
They entered the brightly-lit school office. A matronly blonde glanced up from her desk, then did a double-take, something Chan had grown used to. It might be surprise at his size, which seemed to make everything and everyone around him smaller. Other times it was the contrast between the Mannings. Both kids favored their mothers. Lani’s skin was smooth, the color of butterscotch candy, and her green eyes and soft golden hair brought to mind the warmth of the Hawaiian Islands. Ryan’s handsome wide nose, high cheekbones, and darker complexion gave him the look of African royalty. Chan’s coloring and features fit nicely in between. Ryan was large for his age, destined to one day be bigger than Chan, while Lani was petite, and often mistaken for being several years younger.
“Hello. Can I help y’all?” The secretary’s soft
pleasant accent was typical Louisville.
“We’re here to enroll for the fall. We have a nine-o’clock appointment with Mrs. Leonard.”
The secretary grinned.
“I know y’all. You’re Chan Manning!”
“I am,” Chan said guardedly, trying to avoid one of those situations when he became the focus of conversation. Today was about the kids.
“Well I’m Jeannine. Glad you’re here. I’ll let Mrs. Leonard know you’ve arrived.”
The secretary punched a couple buttons on the phone and within seconds a door opened behind her. A short plump redhead in her sixties was beaming as came out.
“Mr. Manning, Lani, Ryan, I’m Mrs. Leonard, the principal here at Southeast.” She moved past the secretary’s desk and shook hands with them. Chan liked her immediately. Not many adults shook hands with kids. Actually it looked pretty normal, he thought, as Mrs. Leonard wasn’t much taller than them.
Her office was large and cheery, with student artwork decorating the walls. They sat at a round table. Mrs. Leonard took time to address questions to the kids, getting to know them better. They ate up the attention.
After a few minutes, she opened a file and scanned several lists.
“Mr. Manning, we need to determine which teachers will be best for Lani and Ryan. I usually do this by talking with them one-on-one. Would you prefer to wait outside, with Jeannine?”
The simple request brought a surge of memories that made Chan’s heart beat faster. Adair School, years earlier, alone with Lowell Surratt.
You know your name, don’t you?
I guess you are as stupid as they say!
“No Mrs. Leonard, I prefer to stay. I still don’t know you very well and want to hear what you and my children talk about.”
“That will be fine,” she replied, not missing a beat. “Actually most of my questions are for Lani. Do you have documentation of her schoolwork?”
Chan opened the backpack he had brought, laying out files on Mrs. Leonard’s desk for every year of school Lani had completed. He could see the principal was impressed as she started paging through the various reports, sample work, and test scores.
After reviewing everything, she beamed at Lani.
“Young lady, you’re going to fit in very well. I expect you’ll be near the top of your class.”
Lani grinned proudly.
“And you, Mr. Manning,” Mrs. Leonard turned toward him, “have done a remarkable job. That sixth grade report on the Pacific Northwest was beyond anything our eighth graders do.”
“We went there!” Lani said.
“I could tell,” she replied. “Your photographs and writing were marvelous. I’ll have no problem finding teachers who will be a good fit for you both. It will be a pleasure to have you here.”
SIXTY-THREE
The ball was exploding out of his hand on every pitch, like it had five days earlier when he held the Norfolk Tides to six hits. The radar gun had him in the low nineties, three miles an hour faster than at any point in the season. As Lorenzo said, he was “throwing gas.”
In the dugout between innings, Chan allowed himself to dream a little. Had he rediscovered the velocity that two arm surgeries had claimed? Could he, at thirty-four, make one last run at a spot on a big league pitching staff? The Reds’ General Manager hadn’t said much when he visited the week before, but Chan heard he was impressed.
Those thoughts would have to wait. There was definitely some bad blood between the Bats and the Toledo Mud Hens. They were battling for first in their division, and the trash-talking had escalated to levels Chan seldom experienced in the minor leagues. From the mound he could hear the Mud Hens players trying to get under his skin.
“Old Man.”
“Washed up.”
“Nothing left.”
They hoped he would lose his focus, but Chan had worked too hard to get to this point. He was seven or eight years older than most of the Mud Hens, and wasn’t about to let a little bench jockeying break his concentration.
His teammates felt differently. As Chan walked off the field at the end of the fifth inning, Lorenzo passed by.
“Give me the word, bro, and we’ll be all over ‘em.”
“Let it go. We’re leading five-zip.”
“Still man, they shouldn’t be trash-talking you like that.”
“Leave it alone. Winning’s the ultimate payback.”
Chan’s first pitch of the sixth inning was a bit too close for the Mud Hen third baseman. He stepped out of the box, staring long and hard at the mound.
“Get back in there, bush league,” the Bats’ first baseman yelled.
After a harmless flyball to short left, Chan got two quick strikes on the Mud Hens’ catcher before another pitch drifted inside, sending him sprawling to the dirt. The Mud Hens’ home crowd booed lustily. The batter got up slowly, threw down his bat and charged toward the mound. Benches emptied. The batter didn’t make it to Chan before Javy tackled him from behind. Several Bats’ players jumped on him while two Mud Hens made a beeline toward Chan.
Chan remained calm in the eye of the fracas. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two Mud Hens moving in on his left. As he turned to meet their charge Lorenzo and the team’s backup first baseman flew past, laying NFL-quality blocks on the Mud Hen combatants.
The fight quickly petered out, and the Mud Hens’ catcher was ejected. Chan closed out the inning with a strikeout, then sauntered back to the dugout. A half-dozen teammates met him on the top step, Lorenzo in front.
“We got your back, Channy.”
“Thanks, Lo.”
“You bet. That’s what teammates do. The way you’re pitching, you’re headed back to the big show. We won’t let those crybabies slow you down.”
Chan grabbed a seat at the far end of the dugout. From there he could watch his teammates milling about. Many players had come and gone during his years in Louisville, but never had he taken for granted the value they placed on looking out for each other. More than anyone, Chan had become the face of the Bats’ franchise. His was the name most people in Louisville knew and associated with Bats’ baseball. He was the guy who got the television and radio gigs. Sure, it was the minor leagues, but he was still a very lucky man. Having teammates who looked up to him and were willing to go to war for him made things that much sweeter.
Typical of most baseball fights, there were no injuries and few hard feelings. Chan finished out the game by striking out the Mud Hens’ shortstop. As he walked toward the dugout, someone called his name. It was the Mud Hens’ catcher, in street clothes following his ejection.
“Channy, sorry about that,” the catcher said. “We’ve known each other a long time. I know you weren’t head-hunting. I was mad at myself and wasn’t thinking.”
“No problem, Shane,” Chan replied. “See you in Louisville in a couple weeks.”
They went their separate ways. Chan, as he entered the clubhouse, hoped he might be somewhere else in two weeks.
Like Cincinnati.
###
Back home from the road trip later that night, after the kids were in bed and Lorenzo was snoring on the sofa, Chan went to his bedroom and queued up an old DVD. The image that burst onto the screen was a younger version of himself, wearing the uniform of the Cincinnati Reds. The younger Chan’s fastball seemed to naturally ride in on the hands of right-handed batters. His curve was good enough to get lefties to chase it out of the strike zone. And his change-up was devastating, making even the best hitters look silly.
Some of the skills he saw on the screen were returning. He was a decade older, but the pitches were doing what they used to.
Maybe there would be one more chance.
Turning off the TV, he grabbed his laptop to check e-mail before going to sleep. Buried amidst several congratulatory messages was one e-mail that grabbed his attention.
It was from Lance Skelly.
The Bats’ General Manager.
The guy who was the first to
know when personnel moves were being made.
The guy who told you when you were being demoted.
Or sent to the big leagues.
The message was short.
“Chan, I need to see you in the morning at nine.”
Sitting the laptop next to him on the bed, Chan laid back to think.
Don’t get too excited.
They probably want me to do another commercial for the team.
Or maybe a personal appearance.
But wouldn’t they take care of those things over the phone?
There had been messages like this in the past. Sometimes they turned out to be bad news.
You’ve been sent down.
You’re being dropped from the starting rotation.
Your arm isn’t responding to therapy.
But on one occasion, years before, the message was life-changing.
You need to get to Cincinnati tonight.
You’re a big leaguer, Chan.
Don’t get too excited.
But it was hard not to.
Especially when you were thirty-four years old, and had tasted the big league lifestyle.
Especially when you’ve worked your butt off to get in a position to enjoy that lifestyle again.
Don’t get too excited.
But by now, that was impossible.
SIXTY-FOUR
Interstate 64 was congested with morning rush hour, but Chan was making good time by staying in the passing lane.
“Did Lance say what he wanted?” Lorenzo asked, ratcheting his seat to a reclining position.
“The e-mail just said to come in at nine.”
A silly grin spread across Lorenzo’s face.
“I can tell you why I came: to see Saundra. I even took a shower.”
In the months since he’d arrived in Louisville, Lorenzo had become infatuated with the comely Bats’ Executive Secretary, not unlike scores of other ballplayers before. So far Saundra had resisted all advances, remaining single and dedicated to her career. Few people knew that Chan and Saundra went out a few times, three years earlier. The relationship seemed to be going someplace until Chan discovered he had a son. Saundra was pretty accepting of a boyfriend with one child. A second proved to be too much. They parted amicably and remained friends.
Harvest of Thorns Page 28
