This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Greenleaf Book Group Press
Austin, Texas
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Copyright ©2015 Matthew Hiley
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This book is dedicated to the men and women
who raise their children properly …
It is also dedicated to my lovely wife,
who puts up with my insanity on a daily basis,
and my children, for whom I will hoist
the black flag and slit throats any day …
Lastly, if you are a pretentious turd that
feigns outrage at the drop of a hat, please
take this book and plant it firmly in your anus.
I wrote this book about you, not for you,
so kindly be on your way …
Let the adventure begin …
Every normal man must be tempted,
at times, to spit on his hands,
hoist the black flag,
and begin slitting throats.
H. L. MENCKEN
1.
“JESUS TAP-DANCING CHRIST, UMP! IS HE PAYING YOU ON THE SIDE? DID YOU FORGET YOUR ANTIPSYCHOTIC MEDS TODAY? MY BOY WAS SAFE, GODDAMMIT! GET YOUR GODDAMN VISION CHECKED!”
Russ Paisley was at the end of his tightly strung rope from horrible calls by the head umpire, Dave, at Jenny Field. Jenny Field was the swankiest little league ballpark in Fort Worth, Texas. If you lived in Fort Worth and belonged to high society, then your kids damn sure better have played baseball at Jenny Field if they didn’t want the shit beat out of them in the cafeteria every day.
Dave the umpire was a familiar and imposing figure at the ballpark. He had thin, dirty-blond hair tucked under a black ball cap, stood about six feet four inches tall, and weighed in around two hundred and fifty pounds. Tattoos covered his forearms, and a snarl was smeared across his pockmarked, unshaven face. Dave loved the power that he held over the snooty, upper-crust families while they were in his arena. He never hesitated to display that power.
Dave rushed to the fence where Russ was standing. Dust flew up behind him in the wind as he approached. He got to where their noses were so close that only a single chain link in the fence separated them. Dave stared down at Russ, who was only about five feet nine inches tall.
“I won’t hesitate to throw your monkey-ass outta here, Russ,” Dave growled down to him. “It’s Friday night. Been a long week. Don’t push me.”
Russ held his gaze until Dave turned and walked back to home plate. Both of their faces were beet red. Russ had obviously not forgotten to take his daily coke bumps that day. He kicked the fence before returning to the outfield side of the dugout, where he and the rest of his crew watched the game. They were the true baseball dads on the team—the guys who never sat down, never went to take a leak, never went to the concession stand.
They stood there intensely, with their fingers tightly gripping the railing along the top of the chain link fence. They drank from their water jugs, spit sunflower seeds, and bitched about how much better the team would be doing if they were coaching.
“Great,” Russ muttered to the others. “Three goddamn outs again. This coach is a goddamn joke. And where’s he gonna send my kid now? Right fucking field. And your kid, Dwayne? Left fucking field. This is absurd. Meanwhile, his kid is about six goddamn inches from being a full-blown retard, and he sticks him at shortstop.”
Russ had no time for Dave the umpire, and even less for Coach Ricky Dale, with his permanent shit-eating, bleached-white grin and leathery tan skin. He’d taken control of the baseball operation at Jenny Field, calling most of the shots via major monetary donations. Many of the outfield signs were advertisements for Ricky Dale Furniture, his wildly successful string of inexpensive rent-to-own furniture stores.
Russ was about to blow a gasket as he watched the time expire on the game clock. They were headed toward yet another huge loss.
“Goddamn daddy baseball,” he grunted.
Russ Paisley, a notoriously mouthy hedge fund manager, did business with the titans of Texas industry. He had made over $100 million in the previous year for putting together a national chain of storage facilities, inflating their values, and taking them public. He was on the board of directors at the local country club and was a deacon at the other major social club in town, the Westside Church of Jesus.
Also, he most likely snorted an eight ball of blow before lunch every day, and it was more than apparent in his constant enthusiasm.
Russ was thirty-nine years old, a little overweight, with hair covering every bit of his body except his head. He had attempted hair plugs a couple of years back but stopped after the front was finished because of the pain. He now slicked back the thin row of hair that traversed the front of his head in an unsuccessful effort to fool everyone.
Due to his inability to keep his penis in his pants, Russ had been married four times. His current wife, Jade, was a twenty-two-year-old former stripper whose penchant for cocaine use nearly exceeded his.
“I’ll bet you that son of a bitch is a Democrat,” Russ barked, referring to Coach Dale. “Who else would run a team like that? It’s goddamn affirmative action.”
“Um, excuse me, Russ,” Tommy Johnson interjected. “If it were affirmative action, I’m pretty sure TJ wouldn’t be sitting his happy ass on the bench right now. He is pretty much the only black kid on the west side of Fort Worth, you know.”
“Gimme a fucking break, Tommy,” Russ replied. “I’m talking about affirmative action for retards. I won’t even begin to get into what little sense it makes to leave a black kid on the bench on a sports team full of white kids. Jesus Christ. Don’t get me started.”
Tommy shook his head. “I’m gonna give you a pass today because you’ve obviously lost your mind again,” Tommy said.
Tommy Johnson, close to six feet tall with a medium build, thin beard, and bifocals, was literally the only black guy in town. He was a successful plastic surgeon who had moved to Texas from Beverly Hills to try and give his son a life that seemed somewhat normal, comparatively speaking. Tommy and his wife, Kelly, a gorgeous woman even though she was 90 percent nonbiodegradable, were secretly agnostic (and also possibly Democrats), but they attended the Westside Church of Jesus with all of the other upper crusters on the west side of Fort Worth. It had proven a great place to meet clients for his plastic surgery practice.
; “Leave it to Russ to bring politics into a little league game,” Steve jumped in. “My boy Jonathan has been on the bench more than anyone this season. He’s also been last in the batting order for every single game. I’m not saying you guys don’t have a reason to complain, but come on. Johnny’s getting screwed more than any of your kids.”
“Yeah, well,” Russ chose his words carefully, “that’s probably a little more understandable than the other situations.”
Russ let his statement hang in the air for a bit before Steve responded.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Steve asked.
“It’s just that …” Russ stammered. “Well, come on, man. I don’t wanna hurt your feelings, but let’s face facts. You and your wife are goddamn bleeding-heart liberals. It’s amazing Jonathan’s stuck with it this long. He’s just not that good, you know? Okay, fine. He fucking sucks. But let’s just say I bet he’ll be an amazing fashion designer, or some shit like that. What choice did you give him?”
“Fuck you,” Steve replied flatly, in an almost unfazed manner.
“Whatever, dude,” Russ said. “Your wife is a goddamn social worker. What did you expect?”
Steve Winwood was a high school principal who hated his name and the confusion it brought with it. He had been left with an enormous trust fund after graduating college and had always felt the need to do something positive with his life. He was in charge of the roughest high school in North Texas and was beaten to a pulp at least twice each semester. He never pressed charges, blaming society instead of the heathens who hospitalized him.
Steve stood about five feet seven inches tall, was thirty-five years old, and weighed in at a whopping 127 pounds. He had somewhat of a long brown white-man afro. He always attempted to dress hip in order to earn the respect of his students. But he always fell short. He was nervous by nature, as was his wife, Judith, who volunteered her time at battered women’s shelters and animal rights organizations.
At the end of the line of baseball dads gripping the fence, Dwayne Devero stood quietly, taking it all in. Dwayne’s son, Alex, was probably the most talented baseball player in the league. Alex had been dividing his time between left field and right field the entire season. Every other season he had played shortstop or first base. It killed Dwayne to see his son wasting his time in positions he hated to play.
Alex was a good sport, though. He never once complained. He had made it on base almost every time he’d been up to bat and was the only kid in the league to hit a ball over the outfield wall. He couldn’t stand Coach Dale, though.
Coach Dale’s inept son, Ace, played shortstop. The assistant coach, Pete, had a talentless son playing first base. Coach Dale’s close friends had kids that ranged from decent to talentless at every infield position on the team of ten-year-olds. It was true “daddy baseball.”
There were eleven kids on the team, and nine positions. For every game all season long, the only boys who sat the bench were the sons of Russ, Tommy, Steve, and Dwayne.
Dwayne noticed Estelle, his wife, heading his direction as time expired on the game. He braced himself.
2.
“I guess you’re not going to say anything again, are you, Dwayne?” Estelle Devero snapped at her husband, Dwayne. He knew it was coming. Estelle bitched about everything. “At least Russ has the balls to yell when things aren’t going right. But you just stand there. It’s so embarrassing. It’s almost as embarrassing as that goddamn truck you have to park in the parking lot for all of the west side parents to see. Do you have to remind everyone that you’re a glorified lawn guy at every social function?”
“Jesus, Estelle,” Dwayne snapped. “I own a goddamn landscaping company. I didn’t have time to grab my car after a long day at work. I would’ve missed the game.”
Estelle refused to acknowledge that Dwayne’s “glorified lawn guy” business made her lifestyle possible. Dwayne’s work ethic had taken him from having nothing to building a small empire. He had all of the major landscaping contracts in town, including Jenny Field. Lately, none of that mattered much because Estelle kept him strapped with debt. Dwayne struggled to make the tuition payments for Alex’s private school. The membership dues to the country club, the Mercedes and Audi payments, the massive mortgage for the house in the affluent neighborhood, and the almost insurmountable credit card bills racked up by Estelle made every month a challenge.
“Whatever, Dwayne. I’m going to meet the girls at the club for drinks. Please have that truck gone first thing tomorrow. I’m having Bible study at the house, and the last thing I want is for the girls to see that awful thing parked out front.”
Estelle turned and walked away in a huff. Dwayne looked at the other baseball dads, whose eyes were fixed firmly on Estelle’s ass.
“Damn, bro,” Russ said as he stared over the top of his sunglasses. “I’m so gonna hit that when you’re not looking. With an ass like that, I bet the bitchy attitude is almost worth it.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Your wife is still in high school,” Steve blurted out.
Dwayne ignored them. He looked at the scoreboard as he waited for his son to come off the field. It read 14–1. That one run was from Alex, who’d had an inside-the-park homer in the third inning. Dwayne shook his head.
He wasn’t raised to quit, though. It didn’t matter that he could no longer stand his bitchy, superficial wife and her toned little yoga body. It didn’t matter that she was probably sleeping around with any number of the rich guys she shook her bikini-clad ass for at the club. It didn’t matter that his world seemed closer to crumbling to pieces every single day. It didn’t matter. He’d keep working harder. The only thing he cared about was Alex. Alex was a good kid, through and through, and he wasn’t going to let him down.
“Okay, fuckers, I’ll see you on the golf course at 8:00 a.m.,” Russ yelled to Dwayne, Tommy, and Steve as he walked toward his bright red Ferrari in the parking lot.
“Jesus, Russ—language, please,” Tommy snapped.
“Oh, goddammit, I’m sorry.”
The men all went their separate ways in the parking lot, consoling kids who had become unfortunately accustomed to losing. They all hated this part of this season—the quiet walk to the car and the offering of assurances that while the team may have lost, the boys individually had played well.
As Dwayne threw Alex’s baseball bag into the bed of his truck, he saw Coach Dale, his assistant Pete, and a few of the other parents laughing and backslapping. The others were kissing Coach Dale’s ass so that their kids could continue to play the good positions.
“We’ll get ’em next time, coach,” Dwayne heard one of them say.
Dwayne and Alex were the last to leave the Jenny Field parking lot, with the exception of Dave, the head umpire, who was sitting in his old, rusted Honda smoking what appeared to be a very large joint. They were a couple of miles down the road when Dwayne passed Russ’s Ferrari headed back toward the ballpark. A few seconds later, Dwayne received a text from Russ.
“Jackson forgot his glove, C U in the morning, fucker.”
When Russ pulled back into the parking lot, he didn’t even notice the old Trans Am parked beside Dave’s Honda. He left Jackson in the car with the beautiful Italian-tuned engine running and ran to the dugout.
After he grabbed the glove, Russ began to jog back toward the Ferrari. Suddenly, he noticed Dave and another rough-looking individual having what appeared to be a heated conversation by the dumpster at the far corner of the park. He crouched behind some bleachers to watch. The other man talking to Dave was holding a large baggie containing some kind of powdery substance.
“This is bullshit!” he heard the man yell at Dave, as he threw the baggie to the ground and poked Dave in the chest.
For the blink of an eye, the setting sun caught on a shiny object in Dave’s hand. It seemed to disappear into the other man’s stomach. The man slouched over and dropped to his knees.
A knife. The shiny object was a
knife, Russ thought to himself. Holy fuck.
Then, Russ saw Dave grab the man’s head and twist it. He wasn’t going to stick around to see what happened next. Russ ran toward the parking lot, hopped in his Ferrari, and left a patch of rubber from the tires about a quarter of a mile long.
3.
Tommy, Dwayne, and Steve practiced their short game on the putting green next to the first hole at River Oaks Country Club as they awaited the habitually late Russ Paisley. As 8:30 a.m. approached, they saw Russ’s Ferrari come sliding into the lot and pull diagonally across two parking spots.
“You know,” Dwayne said to Steve and Tommy as he missed yet another putt, “I don’t pray for much, but when I do, it usually has something to do with praying that someone keys his goddamn Ferrari for parking like a total jackass.”
A golf cart with Russ’s clubs placed in back met Russ at his car, and he sped toward the other three golfers. He bounced out of the cart and pulled his t-shirt off as he prepared to throw on a collared golf shirt.
“Jesus, man, that’s just disgusting,” Tommy remarked, referring to the quantity of hair on Russ’s chest and back. “You’re like one big 1978 bush walking around here. That shit just ain’t cool these days.”
“And if you can afford a Ferrari, I’ll bet you can afford a treadmill,” Steve added. “You’re just, like, this jiggling mass of hair. Like black mold on Jell-O. It’s just so awful, man.”
Russ threw the golf shirt over his head and pulled it down as if he hadn’t heard a thing. He pulled his glove out of his back pocket and slipped it over his left hand, wiping some white powdery residue from his nose. Russ didn’t give a shit that the others could tell he’d just done a few lines.
“Guys, you’re never gonna believe what happened last night,” Russ said as they all approached the first tee box.
“Your wife got some new crayons and drew you a picture?” Steve replied.
“She made the JV gymnastics team?” Tommy popped off.
Base Ball Dads Page 1
