Base Ball Dads

by Matthew Hiley

  Dwayne called all of the players in and put them into actual positions according to their talents, the way it should have been done all season. He began calling in kids to bat, one by one, to help establish his batting order. He was beginning to feel good about the team’s potential. They looked as though they might be real contenders.

  He continued this until 7:00 p.m., when it was time for practice to be over. When practice ended, not a single parent so much as exited their vehicle. They simply let the kids come out to them in the parking lot.

  There was no backslapping. No ass-kissing. Nothing. They just gathered their kids and left.

  “Good,” Dwayne said to himself. “They were listening.”

  31.

  DWAYNE:

  Practice went well tonight.

  STEVE:

  Dude, seriously? You killed a guy in the scoring booth with a little league bat.

  DWAYNE:

  That bat had been banned by little league because of the barrel size, Steve. So technically, you’re wrong.

  RUSS:

  LOL.

  TOMMY:

  Lalalalalalala. Black guy knows nothing.

  DWAYNE:

  We’re gonna kill that team tomorrow in the game.

  STEVE:

  WHAT???

  DWAYNE:

  Sorry. Poor choice of words.

  RUSS:

  Unless they fuck with us.

  STEVE:

  JESUS!!!

  TOMMY:

  I guess we should feel confident about the calls from the home plate umpire tomorrow.

  DWAYNE:

  Correct, Tiberius. I’ve never been this comfortable with the potential for favoritism. Dave the umpire has joined the Jedi Alliance.

  STEVE:

  Really raising the bar on Jedi, eh?

  DWAYNE:

  Jedi don’t believe in class warfare, Steve. The Force does not discriminate.

  RUSS:

  Hell, Steve, look at Tommy. He’s three shades darker than midnight. His driver’s license is a picture of a pair of hovering eyeballs. You wanna start being a bigot, you’ll have to deal with him too.

  TOMMY:

  Yeah. What the fuck, Steve?!

  DWAYNE:

  Racist.

  RUSS:

  How do you sleep at night?

  STEVE:

  What the HELL? Don’t throw this back on me! I’m just saying Dave is a fucking moron! I deal with inner-city kids and gang members every day at work!

  TOMMY:

  So someone mentions race, and you go straight to gang affiliation? That’s just wrong, man.

  DWAYNE:

  How do they let someone who hates black people run an inner-city school?

  STEVE:

  Goddammit.

  TOMMY:

  Anyone else getting laid tonight? I’m gonna go drive it home with my boo Kelly.

  RUSS:

  Your boo? Seriously? Who the fuck are you, Ice Cube?

  TOMMY:

  Whatevs, bro, I’m about to go get some. Gonna be ass-tastic.

  STEVE:

  No doubt. Me too.

  RUSS:

  LOL, Steve. Pretty sure our definitions of getting some are different.

  STEVE:

  Yeah, mine doesn’t involve waking up with a shaved penis on my chin and a dude’s finger in my ass.

  TOMMY:

  BURN!

  RUSS:

  WTF? Burn??? Are you 8 years old? And fuck off, Steve, at least my wife’s calves are smaller than the goddamn Manhattan subway tunnels!

  STEVE:

  Yeah, well, your asshole isn’t.

  TOMMY:

  OOOOH, SNAP! BURN!

  RUSS:

  Jesus, this is like texting with a retarded boy band.

  DWAYNE:

  Alright, fellow Jedi warriors, gotta go eat dinner with the family. Russ, I’ll see you at 11:00 p.m. Tommy and Steve, see you tomorrow at the game. Tap that ass like the Rebel Alliance tonight, boys!

  Dwayne had been texting from the living room while watching ESPN with Alex. Estelle was putting the final touches on vegetarian enchiladas, a recipe she’d gotten from her fitness club. A story came on the television about more major league baseball players being suspended for steroid use. One of the players was Alex’s favorite, and he was pretty crushed.

  “Why do those guys do steroids, Dad?” he asked. “They already have it made. They get to play baseball for a living. What more could they want?”

  “Wow, bud,” Dwayne answered. “That’s probably the best comment I’ve heard about the subject. I think what it comes down to is that they only love themselves. You’ve got to love the game if you want to be great. They’re just trying to cheat their way into the record books. If you love something bigger than yourself, you wouldn’t do that. They don’t deserve to have the honor of walking out onto a baseball field.”

  “I agree,” Alex said. “I wish they knew how lucky they were.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel better,” Dwayne added, “their balls have most likely shriveled up into tiny little beans, and they’ll most likely go to jail at some point for flying into a coke-induced rage and locking a prostitute into a motel closet after their home is foreclosed upon and the IRS seizes all of their remaining assets that haven’t been pawned on eBay for OxyContin … followed soon after by several stints in rehab and early organ failure. Karma is an unforgiving bitch.”

  This particular information was hard for Alex to process.

  “Oh Jesus, Alex,” Dwayne said with mild concern. “My bad. But it’s good that you learn these things early.”

  Alex returned to watching SportsCenter, not sure what his dad had meant. Dwayne could tell it had flown over Alex’s head, so he didn’t feel the need to do any sort of damage control.

  Dwayne had thoroughly enjoyed watching Alex play ball that afternoon. The kid was gifted. The team had come together in support of something bigger—the joy of playing baseball the way it was supposed to be played: turning the body just right to make the double play, keeping a foot on the base while stretching out as far as possible to make a catch and beat the runner, fully extending the body in a dive toward a ball that was uncatchable, and catching it.

  Dwayne hadn’t seen that for a while. It was beautiful.

  “Dad, today was awesome,” Alex said.

  And that was all Dwayne needed to hear.

  32.

  After dinner, Dwayne retired to the back porch for a doobie and a glass of whiskey. Estelle had taken Alex upstairs to help him study for a math test before tucking him into bed. She hadn’t done that for a long time

  Dwayne felt warm all over, and not just from the whiskey. Alex deserved a lot of love and attention, and he was finally getting it. Not many kids showed such respect for others or cared so much about doing the right thing. Alex paid attention in school, never let his friends down, and showed compassion. He was the kind of kid every parent wanted.

  Alex was going to get the notice he deserved in baseball, too. Dwayne couldn’t wait to get out on the field with the boys and allow them to properly compete in the greatest game ever played. He was excited for the boys. He wanted them to have a strong sense of accomplishment and achievement.

  He took a long pull from his joint and slowly exhaled. There was hardly any wind at all, and the smoke lingered delicately in front of him, slowly changing shapes in the moonlight.

  A rattling commotion by the trash cans jarred him from his dance with inner peace. Unsure of what he would find, Dwayne set down his whiskey and grabbed a baseball bat that was lying in the yard.

  There had been a significant raccoon problem in the neighborhood due to the location of several dumpsters behind the high-end apartment complex around the corner. Roving bands of black-eyed rodents scurried through yards and over fences at night. They knocked over trash cans, tore up trash bags, and ate the outdoor dog and cat food. Aside from arrogant fundamentalist trust-fund babies, they were the most damag
ing things Fort Worth had ever seen.

  Dwayne snuck to the side of his garage and found an overturned trash can with garbage scattered all around. Perched atop the toppled container sat the most massive raccoon in the state of Texas. It wasn’t afraid of Dwayne at all. The raccoon simply sat and ate, as if at any moment it would reach out its paw and shake Dwayne’s hand.

  The quality of the weed Dwayne had been smoking played no small part in Dwayne’s fascination with the critter. He leaned in closely, watching the coon strip every bit of meat off last week’s KFC. Dwayne giggled when the raccoon tossed a bone over his shoulder. He felt like they were bonding. Perhaps it was a Jedi thing, he thought. He was still holding the joint, so he took a massive hit from it and blew the smoke at the rodent’s face. It just shook its head quickly, glanced up at Dwayne, and tore into another piece of chicken. Dwayne could’ve sworn the raccoon smiled.

  He glanced down at his watch. It was time to head to the ballpark. He used the bat to push himself up from the squatting position he’d been in and tried to maintain balance. He stood tall and pointed at the fence at the far side of his yard. Dwayne spread his feet shoulder width apart, bent his knees slightly, shifted his weight to his back leg, and lifted the bat into the “loaded up” position, just as he had taught the kids at practice. Then, he turned with his hips, exploding forward with a step, and offered up a beautiful level swing that caught the raccoon right in the teeth.

  The raccoon did approximately twenty backflips in the air, spraying blood out in every direction as it spun, and hit the far fence with a loud thud. Dwayne was mildly disappointed that the raccoon didn’t make it over the fence, but he also knew to never be upset with a solid line drive.

  Dwayne’s phone let out a quack. Russ had started a group text with Dwayne and Dave the umpire.

  RUSS:

  You guys ready to take out the trash?

  DWAYNE:

  Yup. Headed to the field in a second. Just killed a coon. It was awesome.

  RUSS:

  You killed Tommy???

  DWAYNE:

  No, you fucking racist! I killed a raccoon! It was in my garbage.

  RUSS:

  Fucking twisted, bro.

  DAVE:

  I nevr text befor. Cool.

  RUSS:

  Are you fucking kidding me? What, were you too busy winning spelling bees?

  DAVE:

  Fuck off. Your an asshole.

  RUSS:

  *You’re.

  DAVE:

  You’re an asshole. I dug a hole. Its hot out their.

  RUSS:

  *It’s, *there.

  DAVE:

  I’m gonna whip you’re hairy ass, Russ.

  DWAYNE:

  You guys ready, or what? Let’s do this.

  RUSS:

  Yeah, I just … fuck … he did it again. Do I not call that out? Jesus, that kills me. The concept is so fucking simple.

  DAVE:

  I’m a umpire n ex con. Dont need to spell. Suck my umpire balls, Russ.

  RUSS:

  Thank you for your honesty. Let’s move on.

  DAVE:

  Your welcome.

  RUSS:

  Goddammit.

  DWAYNE:

  See you guys in a few.

  It bothered Dwayne that Russ was wound so tight. He wished Russ would smoke more weed and snort less blow. He didn’t know if Russ was cut out for the Jedi life. Russ didn’t have enough Kenny Rogers in him. He couldn’t discern when it was time to hold ’em, fold ’em, walk away, or run. But Dwayne and Russ were in this together now. And Dave, too. That was the way it was.

  Dwayne walked into his kitchen and grabbed some paper towels. He was by the sink wiping raccoon blood off the baseball bat when Estelle walked up behind him and gently wrapped her arms around him. He set the bloody paper towel and the bat on the dark granite countertop and placed his hands on hers. They intertwined their fingers and took in the warmth of the moment.

  “Gotta run for a bit, baby,” he said. “Daddy’s gotta handle some business.”

  “No problem, sweetie,” she whispered as she nibbled his earlobe. “Take your time. I’ve got a new costume I want you to see.”

  “Wait, what?” Dwayne said, ready to abandon the guys and sensually tackle his wife on the kitchen floor.

  “Nope, I’ll be waiting,” she replied.

  “Come on, gorgeous! Can I at least get a hint?”

  Estelle turned and walked toward the bedroom, dropping her robe on the floor as she walked away, revealing her perfectly sculpted ass.

  “Meow,” she purred, walking through the door to their room and closing it behind her.

  Dwayne grabbed his keys and hauled ass out the front door.

  33.

  Dwayne arrived at the ballpark at precisely 11:00 p.m. He noticed Russ’s Ferrari parked off in the corner of the lot, obscured by foliage. Parked beside it was an old dirt-track motorcycle with an expired, dangling license plate. Dwayne could only assume that this belonged to Dave the umpire. Dwayne pulled his truck beside them.

  Dave and Russ were sitting inside the Ferrari having a clambake. The windows were up, and you could barely see either of them because of the thickness of the smoke. Both of them were wiping tears from their eyes, apparently from several minutes of intense laughter.

  Dwayne walked to the front of Russ’s car and held his hands in the air, as if to ask if they ever intended to get out of the vehicle. This just made Dave and Russ laugh harder. Dwayne frowned and headed toward the field.

  Just as Dave the umpire had been instructed to do, he had dug a hole about six feet deep at the pitcher’s mound. Dwayne peered over into it. Dave may not have been good for much, but he could sure dig a mighty fine hole. He headed over toward the scoring booth to assess the carnage.

  Dave and Russ came stumbling up. They were slurring, wobbly, and high, yet full of energy.

  “You’ve gotta try the coke, D-dog,” Dave said to Dwayne. “This shit is intense, bro.”

  “That’s okay, man,” he replied. “You go ahead and snort my portion. More for you.”

  Dave gave a smile and a nod, as if he’d somehow just come out ahead on doing lines of Russ’s coke.

  “Okay, bros, I finished digging early and had some time to kill, so I power-washed the scoring booth,” Dave said proudly. He pulled the padlock from the stairwell door to show them.

  The door swung open and came to a quick stop on the side of T-Bone Sprinkle’s very dead head. T-Bone’s body lay twisted at the bottom of the narrow stairs, hard in the grips of rigor mortis, with one leg sticking straight up in the air.

  “Yeah, I didn’t feel like carrying him down the steps, so, you know …” Dave said sheepishly. “Fucker got down quick, though. He’s hard as a rock, too. Check out that leg, man. That’s fuckin’ funny. I don’t care who you are.”

  Dwayne eased around the corpse of T-Bone Sprinkle, looking down at him as he passed. His head was caved in above the nose, and he was missing an eye. Portions of his skull pierced through his scalp. His hands were bent upward at the wrist, his fingers outstretched like he was about to play the piano. He didn’t look good.

  Dwayne eased around the corpse. Not a good way to go, he thought. T-Bone deserved it, though. He deserved to be whacked in the face and sacrificed to the baseball gods, with a pitcher’s-mound burial. It was fitting.

  Dwayne continued up into the scoring booth. He couldn’t help but be impressed. The room was immaculate. There wasn’t a drop of blood anywhere in sight. The carpet was still wet from the power washer, but everything else was perfect.

  “What about T-Bone’s car? What did he drive?” Dwayne yelled down the stairs to Dave.

  “He lived a couple of miles from here,” Dave responded. “T-Bone walked a few miles every day. This is where he turned around to go back. He always came in and fucked with people before heading back. So no worries there. The cops will probably think he got jumped walking by the river. We’re cool.”


  “Okay then,” Dwayne asserted. “Let’s drag this sack of shit to the hole. Russ, assume the lookout position.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.” Russ moved toward the front entrance. He edged back into the shadow of a large redbrick column so as not to be seen in the moonlight.

  The stadium lights were off, so Dave the umpire and Dwayne were able to drag T-Bone’s body through the fence and across the third base line in the comfort of darkness. It proved to be an awkward endeavor due to the rigor mortis.

  They realized that T-Bone’s leg sticking up would make it impossible to get the body into the hole. It wouldn’t fit. Dave struggled to push the leg down. Dwayne took a few turns as well. It wouldn’t budge. Even hitting the leg full swing with a shovel proved futile. It just wasn’t going down.

  “Any ideas?” Dwayne asked the umpire.

  “I’ve got a chainsaw.”

  “Too loud.”

  “I’ve got a hacksaw.”

  “Perfect.”

  Dwayne sat on the ground to catch his breath while Dave went to get the hacksaw. Dwayne loved being on the baseball field. Even if it were to bury a body, there was no place he would rather be. The bright green of the field was so striking in the moonlight. He hadn’t ever seen the field this green. His lawn crew had done an amazing job since they’d gotten the contract, he thought to himself. He wondered if Pete Rearden’s ground-up body had some kind of positive effect, producing the vibrant color of the grass. He would keep that in mind for the future.

  When Dave the umpire made it back to the mound, he took a seat Indian-style beside T-Bone’s leg and got to work. Without hesitation, Dave sawed his way across the upper thigh. Blood came pouring out.

  Dave had no problems getting through the flesh, but the bone proved more of an issue. After getting halfway through the femur, he paused for a break. The intensity of the coke had worn off. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, streaking blood across it and into his hair.

  “Here, man, take a break,” Dwayne said. “I’ll finish.”

  Several minutes later, Dwayne was able to finish the amputation. He had no idea it would be that difficult. He tossed the leg off to the side and looked at his hands, arms, and shirt. They were drenched in deep red blood. Dwayne wiped his hands on his pants and pulled a joint from his pocket, needing a break before the final stretch.