7 Days at the Hot Corner

by Terry Trueman

  I walk to the on-deck circle and try to quiet my breathing. Inside my head I talk to myself like an ESPN Sportscenter announcer: “Collins represents the tying run and is on first. Tompkins, the big first baseman, is at bat, the potential winning run. And in the on-deck circle is Scott Latimer, two for two today with a walk, an RBI, and a run scored. It’s important for Tompkins to stay out of the double play and to—”

  An incredible crack of the bat interrupts my fantasy broadcast. Matt hits a one-hop dart right down the third-base line, where Priest River’s third baseman, the hero of the top half of the ninth, is hugging the line. There is no doubt that they can turn a double play to end the game—Matt hasn’t even gotten out of the batter’s box when the ball smacks into the third baseman’s glove.

  “Foul ball,” the umpire calls and signals, spreading his arms out wide. Even from my spot in the on-deck circle I can see the crease in the dirt, two inches foul, five feet in front of third base.

  If Matt strikes out, we’ll be down to our last chance, down to my last at bat. I want it. I have played hard and practiced my whole life for this moment. A part of me is scared, but lately I’ve faced much bigger fears!

  Matt takes a pitch, high and in for a ball, then another one low and away. Two balls and one strike. That count favors Matt, but their pitcher has pitched us well all day.

  I need to clear my head, forget about failure and winning and losing, and just relax.

  I look up toward the bleachers, up into the seats, hoping to catch a glimpse of my dad or mom or Travis. I need to escape from the pressure. I take a couple of slow, deep breaths and whisper, “Hum baby, hum baby,” to myself, getting ready; I even smile—

  Crack!

  It’s a sound like no other in sport: the sound of a bat crushing the life out of a hard-hit fastball. The second I hear it, I know that if it’s fair, it’s gone. I look up in time to see the ball sailing into the sky toward straightaway center field. Matt drops his bat, raises his arms, and starts off toward first base at a quick trot.

  The ball clears the fence by a good fifty feet. Home run!

  It’s over.

  We’ve won!

  All of our guys, who’ve been pressed up against the chain-link fence of the dugout, wearing their rally caps upside down and inside out, pour onto the field, jumping up and down like maniacs. I’m stunned. Of course, I’m happy we’ve won! We’ve set a new record for consecutive wins in an undefeated season, and we are the champs. But I also feel like I’ve lost my last chance. As I peel off my batting gloves, I can’t lock out the weirdness of Matt Tompkins being the hero. I wanted to be the hero—I needed to be! I try to put it out of my head, but it keeps rolling over and over. All my life baseball has been the most important thing, and now, at its most important moment, I’m left standing in the on-deck circle? This isn’t the way I saw things going—not at all. There’s a huge hole in my gut, a huge empty feeling inside me; how can this happen, to be so close to being a hero only to have it snatched away at the last second? You live in fantasyland … baseball and bullshit … you think everything is one way, the way you wish it were, when really nothing is!

  I watch Matt trotting around second base and I realize that I’m being a jerk, a jealous jerk at that.

  I remove my batting helmet and by habit drop my gloves into it. My bat lies on the ground at my feet; the metal donut ring is still wedged onto the barrel from my warm-up swings. Gloves, helmet, bat—if I don’t get a call-up from the pros, this will be the last time I’ll ever use this equipment. Matt is the hero, not me. How is that fair? But even as I ask myself the question, I laugh at how stupid that is—“fair” hardly ever has anything to do with what happens.

  I walk out to join the rest of the team at home plate.

  I crowd in next to Josh and Willie and all the other guys. It’s mayhem as we all jump up and down together. The crowd pours onto the field from every direction, jumping up and down with us, waving their arms in the air, whooping and whistling and hollering. It’s completely nuts. Brad Collins crosses the plate to a mugging of a hundred hugs and high-fives. By the time Matt comes around third, there is a huge mob of kids and he is actually smiling and laughing, accepting back-slaps and hugs and high-fiving kids; I don’t remember ever seeing him laugh before.

  The umpire behind home plate, getting jostled by the crowd, finally gets out of the way, giving up on the idea of watching Matt touch home. This game is over. My baseball career is probably over too. Oddly, it feels all right—actually it feels almost good.

  The second Matt jumps up and lands with both feet on home plate, he is lifted onto the shoulders of dozens of crazed kids, some teammates, some classmates. They carry him off for a trip around the diamond again. I give up on the idea of trying to congratulate him—the crowd is too wild and he wouldn’t care anyway. In the middle of that mob, though, I see the two girls from the Safeway. I can’t remember their names—oh yeah, the taller, blond girl is Davita; I think that’s right. The girls are helping carry Matt, the hero, on his victory lap. This is his moment.

  I turn to leave the field, noticing for the first time all the kids surrounding me, slapping my back, excited to be close to me just because I’ve been a part of it. I am laughing and whooping along with everybody else. Some moments are pure good, and this is one of them.

  I look across the white chalk running up the first-base line, and standing waiting for me are my dad and mom and Travis. Mom comes over and gives me a big hug. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. Dad hugs me too and adds, “Good game, great game, you guys were magic out there.”

  Travis has hung back a little, but I see his face. It is obvious he doesn’t want to take anything away from my moment, but I can tell he is really happy for me. How hard must it be for him to stand back and watch my parents give me so much love and support, while his parents have shut him out of their lives? Here I am being treated like a hero, when really I’m not a hero at all. Travis is the real hero. I get that now; he’s done something brave—and it isn’t in a baseball game, it’s in real life, and it’s something that matters a lot more than any game.

  He steps tentatively toward me, smiling and putting his hand out for me to shake. I take his hand and use it to pull him close. I give him a big hug. It feels good, like it always used to feel when we were little and we’d wrestle with my dad, or as we got a little older and we’d be on the playground and score a winning goal or touchdown and we’d jump up and down and grab each other; it feels just right.

  “Congratulations,” Travis says. “You guys were awesome.”

  “Thanks,” I say, still holding my friend close. “I’m sorry,” I add softly. I feel really emotional, my throat tight and my hands kind of shaky. But it feels great to be able to apologize and mean it. “I’m so sorry,” I say, “for being a jerk, for not being a better friend, for not—”

  He interrupts me. “Hey, we’re cool. We can talk about all that later. Let’s just enjoy this.” I look into his face and he is smiling too. He’s right; we’re in the middle of a gigantic party, so it’s definitely party time.

  We both laugh and pull away from each other, and do a fairly successful high-five.

  At about this moment the crowd carrying Matt on their shoulders sets him down to a huge cheer at home plate. Matt looks deliriously, out-of-his-skull happy. He waves his arms over his head to the hundreds of fans still in the stands, and they cheer wildly again.

  “I better go congratulate him,” Travis says, pulling away from me.

  I haven’t heard his words clearly, or his message just doesn’t quite register in the chaos and excitement of the moment. Before I realize what’s happening, Travis is walking straight toward Matt.

  A rush of fear, backed by a jolt of adrenaline, blasts up my spine and into my head, exploding!

  “Travis,” I yell to his back, lunging. He can’t hear me. As I throw myself after him, I bump into a skinny girl, almost knocking her over. “Sorry,” I say hurriedly, trying to pull aw
ay from her. But half a dozen other kids, jumping and screaming, are in front of me. Before I can get halfway to him, Travis is standing right in front of Matt. I see Travis’s lips moving. Matt throws his head back and laughs, then he and Travis throw their arms around each other and Matt lifts Travis in the air, like a rag doll. They are both laughing and hopping up and down. I stop dead in my tracks and just watch them celebrate.

  Eventually, the chaos and wildness and fun begin to ebb a little. The crowd thins out, and my mom and dad have gone.

  Travis walks back up to me, smiling as he approaches.

  “Jesus,” I whisper to him quickly. “Didn’t you get my voice mail?”

  Travis says, “No, I forgot my phone at your dad’s.”

  I say, “I thought you were going to get killed just now.”

  He looks puzzled, “Why?”

  “Matt Tompkins”—I’m still whispering—“knows it was you in the school paper. I tried to warn you before, and again a minute ago when I couldn’t get to you—”

  Travis laughs and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Tryin’ to rescue me, huh?” he says. “Matt’s known for a couple of years, Scott.”

  “Years?” I ask, stunned. “Why would you tell Matt Tompkins before you told me?”

  “I didn’t actually ‘tell’ him,” Travis says quietly.

  I don’t get it. “Well then, how’d he know?”

  Travis smiles at me patiently. “That’s secret, Scott. Matt’s got his own reasons for needing to keep it that way.”

  “Matt?” I ask, suddenly grasping what Travis is saying, completely surprised. “Big, tough, rough Matt?”

  “What’d you think,” Travis says with a laugh, “that we all become hairdressers?”

  I feel myself blush, but I smile too. “Matt,” I say once more, shaking my head.

  “He was pretty sure you’d react that way,” Travis says. “It’s the main reason he’s taken such an attitude with you. But believe me, with a family like his, Matt’s got to keep real quiet. If you think my parents have been bad, Matt’s folks will never accept him for who he really is; they’d hate him. At least with my mom and dad there’s still hope, I think; but not for Matty.”

  I smile. “Matty?” I say.

  Travis blushes. “Yeah, but you probably shouldn’t call him that.”

  Travis is telling me how important it is to protect Matt’s secret. “I get it,” I say. Then I add, “I’ve been thinking a lot about the stuff you said to me, about fantasyland, about how stupid I can be—”

  Travis interrupts me. “Scott, I was out of line. I’m sorry I said that—”

  I interrupt him, “No, you were right, about all of it—I have a lot of stuff to work on, but I will.”

  Travis says, “I was angry, but you know how much I care about you.”

  I say, “Yeah, I know—me too … but …” I can’t think how to say it, stumbling as I try to find the right words.

  But Travis laughs loudly. He says, “Believe me, Scott, you’re the least gay guy I’ve ever met. We’re friends, man—best friends, but just friends. I hope we always will be.”

  “Me too,” I say, and I mean it.

  We stand together for a while without talking, but not like it’s been for this last week, not uncomfortable and bad—more like it always used to be.

  “I gotta go,” Travis says. “Are you staying out at the lake tonight with your mom?”

  “Yeah, she’s expecting me. Come on out with me—the dogs miss you.”

  “Nah.” He laughs. “This is the last Thompson High game of the season. Your dad’s gonna need somebody to help him survive toxic baseball withdrawal.”

  I smile and say, “You’re right; thanks for filling in for me.”

  “Sure.” Travis laughs again. “I’ll see you Monday at school.”

  “See you,” I say, and laugh.

  It feels great to laugh with Travis again.

  So Travis and I are still friends. If I’ve learned anything from all this, I guess it’s two things: first, that nothing is ever quite like it seems—there’s the way we imagine the world, and then there’s the way the world really is; and second, that everything in life changes, and if you fight that reality, you’re gonna be miserable.

  Life is not always going to be as good as this. Things don’t always work out for the best. But I don’t want to think about that right now. I want to feel happy for just a little bit longer. I guess that’s something else I know now—being happy is more important than baseball; enjoying your life is more important than anything.

  I’m back out at Weaver Lake. It’s dark, getting late. The dogs, Evander and Bob, are asleep on the floor of the studio. I’m lying in my sleeping bag in the sleeping loft. Looking out, I see the light from the kitchen window of the house. The moon is shining down on the lake. A few crickets are chirping, and I can smell the fresh-cut grass.

  In forty-eight hours I’ll walk back into the Spokane Public Health office and get the results of my test. In some ways I’m not freaked out anymore. I trust Travis, and if he is infected and knows it, he’d tell me. The test should come back just fine, and besides, AIDS or no AIDS, life is about the way you live, how you treat the people you love. It really is about how you play the game.

  Winning and losing, final thoughts: In ways that I never really got until now, I realize that winning and losing in baseball is exactly like they always used to tell us in Little League—it doesn’t matter.

  Day 6

  (Sunday)

  Baseball history: Almost every ball player knows the history of baseball, not every bit of it, of course, but lots of the really important parts. Babe Ruth, the Black Sox Scandals, and the Red Sox finally winning the Series. Baseball history is part of the game—remembering how people have played, how they’ve helped make it great. History is important, I think.

  A few months ago, back in early March, a month before the baseball season even began, Travis was out here for the weekend with me at Weaver Lake.

  On that Saturday morning he and I walked Evander and Bob out around the lake, like we’d done on so many other Saturday mornings before. As we got to the edge of the woods and could look out and see the wheat fields ahead, Bob started a weird, low growl, and the hair on his neck rose up. Evander, who had been padding along ahead of us, stopped, then hurried back to join Bob and began to growl too. My first thought was “skunk,” which is usually the nastiest thing you can run into out here. But as I looked ahead more closely, I saw what had set Bob off. It was a small herd of elk.

  “Look, Trav,” I whispered excitedly, although there was really no reason to whisper—they were a good 150 yards ahead and the wind was blowing toward us, so they wouldn’t catch our scent. There were five of them. They were at the edge of the lake; a couple of cows were drinking, the other grazing. The bull was a big one with a huge, handsome rack, and the three cows were full-grown too. A calf stood near one of the cows, not a newborn but still small.

  Travis softly said, “Wow.” We leashed up the dogs and, shushing them as best we could, moved slowly toward the elk.

  “We’d better not get too close,” I said. The bull looked more and more massive the closer we got. Even the cows, with a calf to protect, could be dangerous.

  I’d never seen elk in the wild before. I knew they were around, but they’re hard to spot. Some hunters buy elk tags every year for twenty years and never even get to fire a shot.

  We walked toward them as close as we felt was safe, about fifty yards out of the woods. We were close enough to run back to the trees if they charged us. With the dogs, I knew we’d be okay so long as we weren’t caught in the open.

  We watched them for twenty minutes, maybe longer. When they’d had their fill of water and grazing, they walked slowly off across the field toward the bigger woods farther west.

  “Pretty cool, huh, Travis?” I said.

  “Yeah.” He smiled.

  That morning there was still even a little ice on the lake, and a small
, filthy patch of snow at the foot of a craggy ledge where the sun wouldn’t reach until later in the spring.

  That was only a few months ago. This evening, after hanging out with Mom, I walked Evander and Bob back out to where Travis and I had spotted the elk. Of course there were no elk to be seen, and the ice and snow are long gone. In other ways, too, it feels like there’s nothing left of that morning with Travis—like the whole world has changed, all for the good. Everything that’s happened these last days, everything I remember from my whole life, feels valuable and worth remembering.

  It’s great how sometimes, when you let yourself, you can remember the things that make you the happiest, the things that make you feel … I don’t know what you’d call it.... Peaceful, I guess.

  The days are getting much longer now, so even though it’s close to nine P.M. by the time I get back to the studio and ready for bed, there’s still a little bit of light on the western skyline.

  Ten minutes ago the sun was coming through the smudged glass in streaks, oddly shaped shafts of light cutting through the pines and the leaves of the locust trees. Now the sun is low enough, and it doesn’t shine directly through the windows anymore. The light is softer. At moments like this, life feels perfect—like nothing bad can ever happen.

  I get my test results back tomorrow, but as worried as I’ve been about it, now I’m not all that nervous. Whatever the news, it’ll be what it’ll be and I’ll deal with it.

  Baseball history final thoughts: Hey, it’s only baseball. What else can I say?

  Day 7

  (Monday)

  My ride into town is quiet, just the hum of my tires over the road. I can’t think of any music I want to hear. I’m still thinking a lot about everything that’s happened over the last week. And, of course, I feel a little bit nervous. Who wouldn’t? But in a strange way, the fear is all right.