“How do you know which Dave I’m talking about?”
Dave stood confused, and, using his one free eye, he glared with hatred at Coach Dale. He was way too high for a conversation. Plus, the hot Texas sun was beating down on him, and he was wearing a ski suit.
“I just … I don’t know. But I’m not Dave, fucker. Now shut up and tell me you understand that it’s time to play baseball the right way.”
Coach Dale stared at Dave. He didn’t like being pushed around. He was used to getting his way. He looked Dave up and down and assessed the situation.
“Dave, why the fuck are you wearing a ski suit? Seriously. That’s just stupid. And furthermore, who in the fuck do you think you are? I run things around here. Do you want to get fired, Dave? How easy is it to find a job with your history? And by the way, you smell terrible, like old homeless balls.”
Dave was getting more pissed by the minute. This little fake-tanned cocksucker was getting personal. And how did he know what homeless balls smelled like?
“I told you. I’m not Dave,” he growled. “I came here to deliver a message, that’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. You’re going to play good kids in good positions. You’re going to quit benching the talent on your team, and you’re going to start benching the shitstains like your son. Tell me you understand, you rich prick, or things are going to get ugly.”
“Oh, really?” Coach Dale snapped. “You white trash, Ramen-noodle-slurping, NASCAR-loving, trailer-park-living goddamn Neanderthal. Don’t fucking tell me how to run things. You don’t know shit about success. I own you, Dave. I fucking own you. And you just made a big mistake, jackass. I’m calling your parole officer. We’re going to order up some drug tests. We’ll see how you like getting your ass poked back in pr—”
TINK!
Dave had always loved the way an aluminum bat sounded when hit in the sweet spot.
Coach Dale never saw it coming. He managed to stay on his feet for a few moments after being struck. It was almost comical, Dave thought as he watched the coach grab at the air for balance.
Ricky Dale’s head appeared somewhat caved in on one side. It had changed shape. It was lopsided. The coach gave a final half-pirouette, and collapsed to the ground. When Dave noticed a trickle of blood come out of Coach Dale’s ear, he knew he’d swung the bat just a bit too hard. He looked around to make sure no one had seen the events that had just transpired. Once he realized he was safe, he lifted the body of Ricky Dale into his van and attempted to slide the door shut.
The door latch on the old cargo van had given him problems for months. He’d stolen the van several years back to transport large quantities of marijuana. He tried in vain multiple times to close it, but it wasn’t working. The final time he slammed it, the latch went flying off behind him, and the door slid wide open again.
“Fuck it,” Dave mumbled. He climbed over the lifeless body that was curled up inside the rear door, and hopped into the driver’s seat. He fired up the engine, threw the van into drive, and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.
“You shoulda listened to me, you dumb sonofabitch,” Dave said to the deceased as he sped down Happy Trail Drive, away from the ballpark. “But no, you had to be your usual cocksucker self. You own me, huh? Yeah. Sure you do.”
Without slowing, Dave took a hard left onto White Settlement Road. The tires screeched as they strained to keep the van upright. A couple of vehicles honked and swerved to miss him.
“Fuck!” Dave screamed. “That was a close one, eh, jackass?”
Dave looked into the rearview mirror for some reassurance from the corpse he’d been talking to. The corpse wasn’t there. He whipped his body around quickly to see where Coach Dale’s body had gone. He saw it for just a fleeting moment, as it rolled through the open side door of the van.
Dave immediately turned back to the rearview mirror, where he saw the body of Ricky Dale tumble three to four times before being struck in the feet by the vehicle behind him that had swerved to miss him. The impact sent Coach Dale spinning into the oncoming traffic lane, where he was smacked solid by the front bumper of a jacked-up four-wheel drive truck. The bumper popped the coach’s head off like a bottle cap, leaving it to bounce car to car like a hacky sack as his body was ground to mush.
“Holy shit,” Dave chuckled. “That was fucking awesome.”
Dave lit a roach, hit the gas, and headed home, where he parked the van behind his trailer. He covered it up quickly with old bed sheets and duct tape. He knew he had to come up with a plan. He’d have to think of it later, though. Right now he had to get to work. He took off his sweaty red ski suit, slapped some Old Spice aftershave on his cheeks, threw on his umpire/groundskeeper duds, grabbed the keys to his rusted old Honda, and headed back to Jenny Field.
10.
Dwayne was running behind. A local car dealership that his company had landscaped was having drainage issues. He and Alex were the last to arrive at Jenny Field for practice. The sun was shining and the sky was as blue as a monk’s balls. It was a beautiful day for baseball.
But baseball wouldn’t be happening today. The parking lot was total chaos. Police lights were flashing everywhere. Dwayne counted seven police cars and a crime scene van. His chest tightened. The Fort Worth Police Department had strung bright yellow police tape around half of the parking lot, including Ricky Dale’s abandoned classic Mercedes.
Dwayne’s palms became drenched with sweat as he pulled to the far side of the field where the other parents had parked. They were hugging each other and consoling their kids.
“What’s going on, Dad?” Alex asked in a scared, hushed voice.
“I don’t know. Let’s find out.”
They walked toward the crowd of parents. Alex ran over to his friends. Dwayne scanned the group for his. Over in the south field bleachers, about twenty yards away, sat Tommy and Steve. They looked like terrified statues, perched motionless with mouths wide open.
Dwayne didn’t have to ask what happened. He knew. He sat down beside Tommy and Steve and dropped his head into his hands.
Just then, the door to the restroom across the park flew open, and an exuberant Russ Paisley burst through in a three-piece suit and sparkling diamond Rolex. He was playing air guitar and singing “Two Tickets to Paradise.” He had white powder on his nose, top lip, and cheek, and went into an air-drum solo as he approached his friends. Russ leaned in for fist bumps. He received none.
“What the fuck is wrong with you guys?” Russ said with enthusiasm. “Our prayers were just answered!”
The guys stared at him while he rambled on.
“Don’t be such pussies! Do you know what this means? We still have time to pull this season out! Playoffs, baby! That’s what I’m talking about! And our kids will be shoe-ins for the All-Star team now! Except your kid, Steve, but that was never in the cards anyhow, right? Pull your tampons out, homos!”
Russ surveyed the scene proudly, with his hands on his hips.
“Russ,” Dwayne grunted through his teeth. “You need to sit the fuck down, wipe the coke off your face, and act like a grieving friend right now. Are you trying to get us thrown in prison here, you fucking idiot?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But nothing, you hairy little freak,” Dwayne continued. “You said no one gets hurt. No one. Gets. Hurt. That’s what you said. They’re putting up police tape everywhere. I don’t even know what happened yet, but I’m pretty sure someone got hurt. By the looks of Tommy and Steve, I’m pretty sure someone got hurt. I’m pretty sure—”
“You don’t know what happened?” Steve interrupted. “Oh, Jesus … I told you this was a bad idea. I told you. I can’t believe you guys went ahead and did this. I thought we were talking in hypotheticals. How could you do this? I mean … Look at me, man. Do you know how raped I’m going to be in prison? I have no idea how the rape scale works, but I’m sure I’m going to be pretty fucking raped.”
Dwayne looked at Steve, waiting to hear what had happened
to Coach Dale, but Steve was a mess.
“What the fuck happened, Steve?” Dwayne wanted to know now.
“Just … imagine …” Steve struggled to get the words out as he spoke slowly, focusing on the ground. “Imagine the worst thing possible. Then multiply it by a hundred. Then remind yourself that Russ is involved.” Steve’s eyes welled up with tears, and he sunk his face into his hands again. “I’m so raped.”
Tommy jumped in for Steve with a more concrete description of the event.
“They found his head about a 6-iron away from his body. Witnesses said Coach Dale got tossed out of a van that was hauling some serious ass a couple of blocks from here. Then he got hit by no less than fifteen cars, followed by a cement truck to seal the deal. He’s pretty much a wallet, a tie clip, and a bowl of chili now, man. It’s bad. We’re so screwed. Especially me. I’m black. I’m calling Al Sharpton. I just want you motherfuckers to know. If the shit hits the fan, I’m calling Al.”
“Holy shit,” Dwayne said, looking back toward the Mercedes and police tape.
In the middle of the group of parents was Pete Rearden, Ricky Dale’s assistant coach. Pete appeared to be quickly assuming the role of head coach.
Pete Rearden was the father of Eric Rearden, one of the worst players in the league. Because of Pete’s propensity for ass-kissing and bitch work, Eric always batted near the top of the lineup and always played prominent infield positions. The baseball dads couldn’t stand Pete.
Pete was thirty-eight years old and had been employed by Walmart since he was sixteen, working his way up through all of the low-level positions to be the manager of the largest Walmart in Fort Worth. He wasn’t much to look at—short and pudgy, with nubby little arms and legs. He wore thick glasses and possessed the insecure-yet-overbearing personality of a rent-a-cop. Pete was obviously very much Hispanic, too, although no one ever cared enough about him to question why his name seemed so white. He appeared to not have a single athletic bone in his body, and that appeared to be genetic.
“Hey, guys,” Pete said, approaching Dwayne and his friends. “I thought I’d come over here and let you know that the Tigers will continue to play ball this season. We’ll all try and get together for practice this Thursday. That should give the kids a couple of days to come to grips with things. I’ll step in and coach them the rest of the season. We’ve only got one more game in the regular season, and then the playoffs. Every team in this age group makes the playoffs. Hopefully we can win a game or two. Coach Dale would’ve wanted us to keep playing.”
“Oh, really?” Russ remarked. “So, you and Ricky Dale had a contingency plan in case his head ever popped off while he was rolling down the road?”
“Russ!” Dwayne yelled. “Jesus!”
“What?” Russ continued. “Are we supposed to assume that Captain Walmart can get us a win in the playoffs? Who does he think he’s kidding?”
Pete couldn’t believe what he was hearing. No one could. Russ nonchalantly leaned over to pick up a baseball off the ground as Pete attempted to regain control of the conversation.
“Guys, I know this is hard. Coach Dale and I have put a lot of time and effort into this season. I’ve read books. I’ve watched videos. I feel confident that I can—”
“THINK FAST!” Russ called out to Pete as he whipped the baseball at his face.
The ball hit him square in the nose, which promptly began to bleed profusely. Pete stood in utter shock at what had just happened as blood began pouring down his face and onto his shirt.
“RUSS! WHAT THE FUCK?!” Tommy screamed. He rushed to Pete with a towel from his bag.
“SEE?” Russ yelled accusingly. “THIS GUY DOESN’T KNOW BASEBALL! A GUY WHO KNOWS BASEBALL WOULDA CAUGHT THAT!”
Tommy held the towel to Pete’s face and tilted his head back. He offered a crude scowl to Russ. Dwayne and Steve stayed quiet, both too bewildered to speak.
Some of the other parents, upon seeing the commotion, began to walk toward the guys. As they got close, Dwayne motioned to them that everything was fine.
“I’m sorry, Pete,” Dwayne said in a comforting tone. “I think everyone’s emotions are running a little high right now.”
Pete peeked awkwardly over the blood-soaked towel. He was sweaty and shaking. He seemed too afraid of Russ to speak.
“Hey, fellas,” one of the moms from the team spoke up. “We were thinking that now might be a good time for us to join hands in prayer.”
Dwayne braced himself for the inevitable.
“Seriously, lady?” Russ popped off. “What are you gonna pray for? Are you gonna pray for Ricky Dale to sprout a new head?”
“Oh my God,” she replied, placing her hand over her mouth. “You monster!”
“Yeah, whatever,” Russ said. “I’ll see you guys at practice on Thursday. Try not to lose your head, Pete, you fucking Democrat,” Russ patted Pete on the shoulder, brushing past the crowd of stunned parents to get Jackson and make his way to his Ferrari.
At the same time, Dave the umpire exited his old Honda. Russ caught a whiff of Old Spice and weed as they neared each other. He was surprised to see Dave returning to the scene of what was obviously his crime so soon after it had happened. But, Russ supposed, to not show up might draw attention.
Russ watched Dave’s disposition. Dave seemed calm. They looked into each other’s eyes. Time seemed to slow down, like an old western movie with wind blowing dust across the pavement, and quiet desperation hanging in the air.
Russ grinned. Dave grinned back. It was just for a second, but it seemed like much longer. No one that mattered was nervous. That was all Russ cared about. Things were going to be just fine.
11.
Dwayne and Alex left the ballpark a short time after Dave the umpire arrived. The consoling tone being passed from one parent to the next had gone down the shitter once a coked-out Russ whipped a baseball at Pete’s nose. The awkward situation thrust upon everyone caused a rather prompt disbanding of the crowd.
At home, Dwayne headed straight to the refrigerator for a beer. He slammed one quickly and then grabbed another, anxiously twisting the top off. Alex went to the living room and turned on ESPN. Neither had said much since leaving the ballpark.
Fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel on her head, Estelle walked into the kitchen. She brushed up against Dwayne, edging him out of the way so she could get into the fridge.
“I see you drove the truck home again,” she said with disgust, reaching for her yogurt. The slight slur in her voice indicated that she’d been into the wine and Xanax.
“Yeah,” Dwayne mumbled. He was distracted by her amazing, dripping-wet yoga ass. He wished his wife weren’t such a raging, social-climbing snob and cheating whore, because she looked incredible naked.
“You know, babe,” she leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “it’s been a long time. Why don’t we go in the bedroom and see if you can still make my toes curl up? I’ll forget all about that dirty old truck out front for a few minutes.”
Dwayne watched as Estelle walked slowly toward the bedroom. His eyes were fixed firmly on the slight jiggle of her tight butt until it disappeared around the corner. He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it on the dining room table as he sprinted through the house after her. He tripped over his pant legs as he quickly shed his clothes, almost falling over several times. He followed her into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.
“I’ve been really bad, honey,” she said in a playful tone as she slithered into bed, arched her back, and propped her rear-end up for him, looking back over her shoulder. “I think you need to punish me.”
He wanted to tell her that he would love nothing more than to beat the shit out of her, but he knew that might hurt his chances of getting laid. He opted to just play along instead.
As Dwayne raised his arm in preparation to spank the bejeezus out of Estelle, his phone made a duck-quack noise, indicating that he had a new text. He lowered his arm and stared at his
pants, where his phone was, as he contemplated his next move. Screw it, he thought, as he raised his arm again. It could wait.
His phone quacked again, distracting him from the task at hand.
“I swear to God, if you answer that,” Estelle said coldly, “I’ll be locking myself in here with my vibrator for the next hour.”
“Hang on,” Dwayne replied. He picked his pants up off the floor, opened the master bathroom door, and hurled them to the far end of the bathroom area. He closed the door behind himself and leapt over to the bed, where the spanking commenced immediately.
Within a matter of minutes, Estelle had him tied to the bed with her Pilates resistance bands. She rode him like Seabiscuit until his eyes rolled back into his head and they collapsed into a sweaty pile of lusty contempt. She climbed off, walked across the room and opened a window, and sparked up a joint.
Quack, quack.
Quack, quack.
The quacking of Dwayne’s phone hadn’t ceased for more than a few seconds. They had managed to drown out the annoying notification sound quite well, though, by banging the headboard against the wall and slapping each other. Now, it was becoming too much.
“Are you going to answer that fucking thing?” Estelle asked as she exhaled a large cloud of pot smoke.
Dwayne was still shaking from all of the physical exertion. He felt like he’d just climbed Everest.
Quack, quack.
“Goddammit,” he said, dragging himself to the edge of the mattress. He swung his jittery legs off the bed, hobbled toward the bathroom, and swung the bathroom door open to retrieve his phone.
The baseball dads had apparently decided to address the Coach Dale situation in a group text and had been going at each other pretty good. There were twenty-seven texts.
STEVE:
Guys, I think we need to talk about what happened today.
RUSS:
Of course you do. Fag.
STEVE:
Dammit, Russ, you took this way too far.
Base Ball Dads Page 4
