Base Ball Dads

by Matthew Hiley

  Dave offered Dwayne a wink through his umpire mask.

  “I’m not asking for any favors today, Dave,” he said. “Just make good calls like you usually do.”

  Dwayne had the boys circle around and put their arms in before they kicked off the game.

  “Tigers kill, on three,” Dwayne said. “Alex, start it off.”

  “One, two, three,” Alex yelled.

  “TIGERS KILL!” they screamed.

  The Yankees were startled. They looked out from their dugout at the opposing team. Just seconds before, they assumed they’d have no trouble winning in a huge way. But something seemed different with the Tigers now.

  “Grab your bats, boys,” Dwayne called out to his team. “And make your mommas proud!”

  “PLAY BALL!” Dave the umpire called out after the catcher practiced his throwdown to second base.

  On the throwdown, the ball hit the ground a few feet before making it to second base. Dwayne took a mental note that the catcher might not have the arm strength to pick off runners and then gave instructions to his assistant coaches.

  “Tommy, you run the lineup. Steve, you get the players in the positions I’ve assigned. Russ, you’re my first-base coach. I’ll be at third. Let’s be aggressive with the baserunning, Russ. Steal on passed balls. If we have a runner at first and third, and second is empty, send your first-base runner on the first pitch. If they take the bait and try for the pick-off, we’ll score with the runner at third. Let’s get ’em rattled early, men. Oh, also, Russ … I see that they’ve got Jake Schimmy playing first base. Torture him. His dad is a tool. We had a few words earlier today.”

  Russ nodded.

  Dwayne stepped out of the visitor dugout to third base, and Russ ran over to first.

  “Jackson, you’re up,” Tommy yelled over to the boys. “After that, it’s TJ, then Jonathan, then Alex at cleanup. Bats and helmets, boys. Let’s make some noise!”

  Jackson Paisley made his way out of the dugout and approached the batter’s box. He looked over to his dad, Russ, at first base and gave a sinister grin.

  Russ leaned over and whispered in Jake Schimmy’s ear.

  “My boy is about to knock the piss out of that ball. If you get in his way while he’s rounding first, I’ll hit you so hard in the kidney you’ll be shitting blood for a month.”

  He patted the terrified boy on the back and slid back into coaching position.

  Jackson made perfect contact with the first pitch. He hit a line drive just over the shortstop’s head, deep into left field. Jake Schimmy stepped out of Jackson’s way as he ran to second, where he was held to a double.

  Russ leaned over to the first baseman again as TJ approached the plate.

  “Good move, getting out of the way. You may not be as dumb as you look. And you look pretty fucking dumb. I hope to God you grow out of that. Anyhow, you see this next kid? He’s black, so automatically there’s something inside you that’s scared, right? Well, just so you know, his dad just got out of prison. He’s in the dugout now. He used to be a in a gang. Probably still is. He’s a fucking psychopath. I just thought you should know.”

  Jake wiped a couple of tears from his eyes and then assumed the baseball ready position.

  The pitcher threw a changeup as his first pitch. The ball dropped right at the plate. It was a good pitch, but it wasn’t good enough to get TJ swinging. Dave gave the signal for 1–0.

  The next pitch was an outside curve. TJ loved the curve. He connected with the ball and sent it to right field for a solid single. Jackson advanced to third. Steve’s son, Jonathan, stepped up to the plate.

  Jake Schimmy had a tough time concentrating on the batter. He was scared of being close to TJ. He thought that at any moment, TJ’s crazed father would come out of the dugout and run a knife across his throat.

  Jonathan hit a slow-rolling single off a first-pitch fastball. It happened to roll to just the right spot, between shortstop and third. By the time the kid got to the ball, he couldn’t make a play at first without allowing the runner at third to score. He had no option but to hold onto the ball and watch the batter run safely to first.

  The bases were now loaded. Alex came out of the dugout. He stared down the pitcher all the way to the box. All of the sudden, the crowd in the bleachers came alive. The parents of the Tigers were going wild. They’d never started a game like this. Dwayne could hear Estelle over all of the others, cheering wildly for Alex to get a good hit.

  “Bounce that fucking ball off the pitcher’s forehead, Alex!” Russ called out from first base.

  Russ winked at Jake Schimmy. “Your dad is a douche,” Russ said.

  The pitcher sent a blistering fastball by him first. Alex didn’t even flinch.

  “STRIKE!”

  The crowd got louder. Dwayne was loving it. He knew exactly what Alex was doing. He was going to shatter the pitcher’s confidence for the rest of the season.

  The pitcher whipped his second pitch out, a screaming curveball that pulled right back over the corner of the plate at the last second. Alex never took his eyes off the pitcher. His bat still rested on his shoulder.

  “STRIKE TWO!”

  The pitcher stepped off the mound and walked around it, glaring at Alex. Alex spit on the plate and smiled at him. The pitcher walked back onto the mound, trying to figure out what pitch to throw.

  Alex raised his bat off his shoulder, and the bleachers went silent. The pitcher went into a huge windup, bringing the ball from way back to throw the fastest fastball he’d ever thrown across the inside corner.

  Dwayne heard the unmistakable crack that a bat makes when it devastates a ball. Alex, along with everyone on the field and in the dugouts and bleachers, watched in silence as the ball sailed deep into center field and disappeared over the wall.

  Alex lowered his bat as the crowd erupted, and then he ran, offering high fives to Russ and his dad as he cleared the bases. The entire team dogpiled him when he crossed home plate.

  No one had ever scored more than three runs in an entire game on T-Bone’s team. The Tigers went on to score seven in the first inning. The final score of the game ended up at 21–2. It was a historic, oldschool ass whipping that ended with Alex and TJ dumping a cooler full of water over Dwayne’s head.

  Eric Schimmy came walking by a few minutes later, consoling his crying son, attempting to avoid being noticed by Dwayne when they passed by the Tigers.

  “Later, asshats!” Russ called out to father and son Schimmy.

  As was the custom, parents and kids gathered together in the outfield. And even though the sucky kids hadn’t played good positions, none were upset.

  “Take a knee, team,” Dwayne shouted.

  The four men in tiny coach’s shorts and whistles stood side by side with their arms crossed. The crowd waited for Dwayne to speak.

  “Kids,” Dwayne began, “I promised you that if you did the things we trained you to do, you would whip some ass today.”

  “Coach Dwayne,” one of the parents interrupted. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate to use the word ass in front of the kids.”

  Dwayne was visibly irritated at the interruption.

  Russ stepped in. “Did Coach Dale ever use the word ass?”

  “No, I don’t believe he did,” the parent replied.

  “And how did that work out for you?” Russ asked.

  “Well, we didn’t win, but—”

  “So shut the fuck up.”

  The parents all gasped. The kids tried to stay focused on Dwayne, positive that they hadn’t just heard what they thought they’d heard.

  “Yeah, umm, Russ,” Steve stepped in. “I’m okay with some light cursing, like ass, but I’m not sure I’m okay with fuck.”

  “Really?” Russ asked, genuinely confused. “Why the fuck not? Because I’m a fucking deacon? Or because there are kids three feet away?”

  “Fuck is a more offensive word than ass, Russ,” Tommy interjected. “I personally think you shouldn’t say fuck as a d
eacon, and I know you shouldn’t say fuck three feet away from kids.”

  “Yeah, but you just said fuck three times in a row,” Russ replied. “Why is it okay for you to say it, but not me? Is it a black thing? Can only black people say it? Is it like the N word?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Steve said. “Can we just get back to talking about the game we just won? Please?”

  “As I was saying,” Dwayne continued, “if you put your heart into this, if you’ll play hard, and play smart, we will win the championship. You kids did awesome today. I’d like to congratulate you all on earning that win. You came together as a team. And coaches, great job out there. It was so fluid. So perfect. And how about those fans, huh? Parents, you did great. I love it that not a single one of you offered me your opinions before the game. It warms my heart that you know how much I don’t care what you think. Thanks for keeping the energy level high throughout the whole game. Let’s give ourselves a round of applause.”

  Dwayne raised his hands in the air and clapped loudly. The kids and assistant coaches followed. The parents joined in after looking back and forth at each other awkwardly.

  Dwayne threw his arm out so the team would stack their hands. “Okay! Bring it in, boys! Lead us off, Alex! Tigers Kill, on three!”

  “One, two, three …”

  “TIGERS KILL!”

  37.

  Dwayne jolted upright in his bed in a cold sweat. It was the middle of the night. His side of the bed was soaked. A thousand things rushed through his mind.

  He hadn’t been thinking right. He hadn’t been paying attention. What the hell was going on? Whatever happened to that cop who was looking for Ricky Dale’s attackers? Could they trace it back to him? Would Dave roll over on him under pressure?

  And what about Pete Rearden? Jesus Christ, he never checked for cameras in the parking lot. And there was no way Steve could hold his own in an interrogation. More importantly, half the fucking town knew about Estelle slumming it with Walmart Pete. Motive. Goddammit. He had motive. Shit.

  And what the fuck was he thinking using his own office building as a kill site for Pete? His DNA had to be all over the place. In his trunk. On his equipment. Shit.

  Not to mention, had anyone else seen T-Bone at the ballpark? Shit, only a dozen kids. Shit, shit, shit. Did anyone see them enter the scorekeeper’s office? Could anyone see into the office when they bashed in T-Bone’s skull? Did anyone see them cut his leg off and bury him under the pitcher’s mound? Shit, shit, shit.

  He was smarter than this. What the fuck happened? What the fuck had he been thinking? He’d watched enough detective shows on TV to know that they wouldn’t need to dig too deep. Jesus. What was going on?

  Was he waking up from a complete psychotic break from reality? Was he putting Alex at risk? What would Alex do if his father were in prison for the rest of his life? What else was he capable of? Shit!

  Had he made so many stupid mistakes that prison was inevitable? Was it possible that he might actually belong in prison?

  Dwayne put his face in the palm of his hands. His heart was racing.

  He reached over to the nightstand beside his bed, grabbed a half-smoked joint, and lit it. He took a drink of water, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the light.

  In the mirror, Dwayne stared deep into his own eyes.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asked himself.

  He thought about the people who had died in the previous few days. He thought about the condescending assholes he had stood up to. He thought about those arrogant, hypocritical, soulless insults to humanity. He’d put them in their places.

  There was no doubt that what he was doing and who he had become might have been considered unconventional. But taking a step back from the way the world viewed society and taking a look at how evolution and the cosmos really worked … wasn’t he ultimately doing it right? Wasn’t it possible that everyone else was wrong?

  Was it possible that for most of his life he had been living in a break from reality, and the true reality—the primal, real, violent, natural, but ultimately honest way—wasn’t it possible that this was the way it was meant to be?

  Regardless of lives lost and the risk of collateral damage, wasn’t this way the only way to have a civilization with any shred of social justice?

  That’s when it came back to him. “I know who the fuck you are,” Dwayne said to himself.

  He leaned in close to the mirror. “You’re a motherfucking Jedi.”

  38.

  Alex came blasting through the bedroom door the next morning at 7:03. He dove into the bed between his mom and dad, laughing. His parents took turns tickling him.

  “WAAAHOOOOOO!” he yelled. “I can’t believe we won yesterday! Finally! That was so awesome!”

  “You were awesome, buddy,” Estelle said proudly. “You were crushing the ball! And your pitching totally killed those guys!”

  “Thank you so much for coaching, Dad!” Alex beamed. “You’re so much better than Coach Dale and Coach Rearden. I hope it’s okay to say that. I know they died and all. Or at least Coach Dale did.”

  Estelle looked over at Dwayne.

  “I’m pretty sure Coach Rearden is dead too,” she said. “What do you think, Dwayne?”

  “Yeah, he may not have been a very good coach, son,” Dwayne smiled. “But he makes a hell of a fertilizer.”

  Alex looked confused, and then moved on to the next subject.

  “Hey, Dad, you think we can go to the batting cages today?”

  “Sure thing, little man. Go watch TV while your mom and I get ready, and then I’ll cook up some bacon and eggs.”

  Alex jumped off the end of the bed and took off toward the living room, swinging the bedroom door shut behind him.

  Estelle rolled over on her side, facing Dwayne, and ran her hand up his leg slowly until it reached its destination. She gripped him tightly. “Well, hello there, fella,” she whispered in his ear. “You sure feel happy to see me.”

  “I need to brush my teeth real quick, babe,” he said. “And then I’m gonna lay the smack down on that ass.”

  “Oooh,” she grinned. “I love when you talk hip-hop.”

  Dwayne ripped his underwear off as quickly as he could without tearing his skin, and hustled into the bathroom. Estelle passed a toothbrush covered in toothpaste back over her shoulder with one hand as she brushed away with her other. Dwayne moved in close behind her, and she closed her eyes.

  Within seconds, both toothbrushes hit the floor. Estelle planted both hands firmly on the mirror in front of her and pushed herself back into Dwayne over and over again. Dwayne spun her around and picked her up, hobbling around as he walked, and the two of them crashed through the master bedroom closet door.

  Dwayne pushed Estelle up against the side of the closet where his suits and dress shirts hung. She swung one arm behind her, searching for something to balance herself on while she held on to Dwayne with the other arm. She grabbed the railing his clothes were hanging on as he thrust himself against her. The entire rack of suits and shirts came crashing to the floor.

  Dwayne bent over and set her down on the pile of freshly fallen clothing, where they spent the next twenty minutes rolling around on the floor, ripping clothes from hangers, tossing shoes out of the way, and completely destroying their closet in the throes of passion.

  When they were finished, Dwayne helped Estelle to her feet. They laughed at the damage they’d done. Dwayne loved watching Estelle laugh, especially when she was naked, with her hair pointing in a thousand directions.

  One hour after Alex had left, Estelle and Dwayne emerged from the bedroom, fresh and ready to go.

  “Holy cow, what took so long?” Alex called from the living room.

  “Sorry, son, I had to give something to your mom. Three times, actually.”

  Alex could tell there was an inside joke. He turned back to the television to watch sports bloopers. Dwayne figured he might have two more years left of being able to say shit like th
at to Alex before he figured out that it was code for driving wood.

  Dwayne got the bacon and eggs started. Estelle started the coffee and sat down with her iPad to read the local news.

  “Oh, shit,” she said. “Honey, you may want to take a look at this.”

  On the front of the local news website was an article entitled “Missing Coaches at Jenny Field.”

  The article opened with the details of Ricky Dale’s abduction—his body flying out of an old van that was driven by a man or woman in a snowsuit. It didn’t pull any punches when discussing the condition of the body, and the distance between it and the head.

  Police believed they were looking for at least two people … the driver and the person who pushed Ricky Dale out of the van. The cops said they had no leads in the case, but were very actively investigating, especially in light of the fact that two more coaches went missing after Ricky’s demise.

  Pete Rearden, the article stated, had disappeared from the parking lot of the Walmart where he had worked for several years. The surveillance system set up in the parking lot at the Walmart had not been set to record, a flaw that went unnoticed until the incident. Again, police had no leads, but were actively investigating.

  Thomas “T-Bone” Sprinkle had not been seen since Thursday afternoon. A quote from his wife stated, “He’s probably drunk and got robbed by whores.” Police took this into consideration, but were still expressing concern.

  The only common denominator between the three men was their connection to Jenny Field. Police said this could be a coincidence, but they would be following up.

  Dwayne’s phone quacked.

  “Sweetie, I think I need to take this,” Dwayne said, kissing Estelle on the forehead. “Don’t worry, babe, everything is fine. Can you finish up with the bacon and eggs?”

  “Sure thing, honeybuns,” she replied.

  Dwayne walked out to his back porch and took a seat on a lawn chair. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  STEVE:

  Holy SHIT. Check the Fort Worth News website.

  DWAYNE: