Base Ball Dads

by Matthew Hiley

  The team hung on Dwayne’s every word. He had fast become their hero. The parents, on the other hand, were distressed.

  Holly Dale, wife of the late Ricky Dale and mother of Ace, raised her hand sheepishly. “Coach Dwayne,” she said. “I think I speak for all of the parents when I say that … while we’re all happy with winning a couple of games, I’m not sure that we’re sending the right message with this kind of talk. I mean—”

  Holly Dale was interrupted by the shrill sound of Russ’s coaching whistle. Russ blew until there was no more breath left in his lungs.

  Holly looked around, hoping for backup from other parents so that she wouldn’t be left to confront this lunatic alone. When she received none, she tried again.

  “I just—”

  Russ immediately blew the whistle again as loudly as he could, cutting Holly off before she could get started. She became agitated and turned directly to face Russ.

  “I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

  Russ blew the whistle again with everything he had, stepping toward her and coming less than a foot from her face before his lungs finally gave out. He pulled his sunglasses off and stared angrily at her with his beady, bloodshot eyes.

  Under the bright lights of the ballpark, a tense, strained silence blanketed the parents. No one moved. Russ cocked an eyebrow and snarled his lip around the whistle. Holly, now overcome with fear, stepped back among the parents.

  “Thank you, Russ,” Dwayne said. “Now, I know we’ve come a long way in the last couple of weeks, but let’s not start hiring hookers and buying blow just yet. We still have our toughest games ahead. We have to remain focused if we want to make it to the championship. I know that many of you have been told by your parents that winning isn’t everything, but that’s what losers always say. That’s why we keep score. That’s why we practice. We play to win. End of story. We’ve won a couple of battles now, team. We have a few more left to win. And then, we will win the war. Stay salty. Stay gritty. Our next game is in two days. They’re a good team. And I want to win.”

  “You’re trained killers now, guys,” Russ jumped in. “I want them pissing blood when it’s over.”

  The kids jumped up and screamed. A couple of dads nodded in agreement, offering a refreshing (albeit mild) level of approval.

  “Bring it in, team!” Tommy yelled. “Tigers kill … on three!”

  The kids threw their hands together in a circle. “One, two, three. TIGERS KILL!” they shouted before heading off the fields with their parents.

  Coach Dwayne and his assistants sent their boys home with their moms and ex-stripper stepmom. Dwayne wanted to burn a couple of joints in celebration.

  He joined Russ, Tommy, Steve, and Dave the umpire in center field beneath the well-lit scoreboard after everyone had left, and sparked up. With the exception of Steve, the men seemed satisfied with the way the playoffs were shaking out.

  “Great job out there today, Dwayne,” Dave said, taking a hit from a joint and looking up at the score. “Those boys are taking your direction well. You might just win the whole damned thing.”

  “Goddamn right we will,” Russ reported. “We’re gonna turn this motherfucker on its head.”

  “And the field looks outstanding, Dwayne,” Tommy added.

  “I think I saw a patch of dead grass behind first base,” Steve stated with agitated disgust. “Maybe we should murder a family and bury them there to get it blooming again.”

  Steve turned and marched off the field toward the dugout. He grabbed his son’s baseball gear, headed out to the parking lot, and left.

  “Fucking Democrat,” Russ groaned, watching as Steve’s Prius pulled out. “Maybe we should bury him there.”

  As Steve left Jenny Field, he noticed an unmarked police car parked in the corner of the lot. Inside the car sat Detective Loffland, silently watching the men who gathered at center field.

  He picked up his phone and hopped on the text chain.

  STEVE:

  Guys, there’s a cop watching you in the parking lot!

  All of the coaches and Dave received the text at about the same time. They pulled their phones from their pockets and read the text, then attempted to steal an inconspicuous glance at the parked cruiser.

  “We’re fine, guys,” Dwayne whispered in counsel to the others. “The detective was cool. He’s probably been checking everyone out. Let’s get our gear and head out.”

  The coaches made their way to the dugout while Dave the umpire headed to the scoring box to shut the lights and scoreboard off. Dwayne texted Steve back.

  DWAYNE:

  Thanks for the heads-up, Steve. We’re fine. Relax.

  RUSS:

  Your wife has fat legs.

  STEVE:

  You’re an asshole, Russ!

  DAVE:

  She isn that ovrwate. Her hair sux tho. i’d still hav sex wiht her.

  STEVE:

  You guys are idiots! We’re screwed! They’re totally onto us! This isn’t the time for jokes!

  TOMMY:

  I’m gonna see if Jade wants a chocolate Popsicle tonight. Maybe Kelly & I can do the Oreo thing again.

  RUSS:

  WTF, Tom??? That’s not cool! I’m standing right beside you!

  STEVE:

  Have fun in prison.

  DWAYNE:

  Relax, little buddy. The Jedi Alliance will overcome, and the gods of the ballpark will look favorably upon us.

  STEVE:

  You’ve lost your mind.

  RUSS:

  Fuck you.

  STEVE:

  Fuck you!

  DAVE:

  Fcuk you to.

  DAVE:

  Damit.

  DAVE:

  Dammit.

  DAVE:

  Fuck oyu.

  DAVE:

  Shit.

  DAVE:

  Fck you.

  RUSS:

  You done yet, retard?

  DAVE:

  Fuck ou.

  RUSS:

  Jesus. Someone take his phone away.

  DAVE:

  Fuck you.

  51.

  Dwayne Devero couldn’t remember a single week that had gone as well as the first week of playoffs. Sure, the police were visiting his office and watching him coach, but still … All of his accounts were paying on time. Several paid early. And Estelle continued to amaze him at home (and at the office) with her perky, playful attitude and untethered sexual energy.

  The next two games the Tigers played that week both ended up being incredible. Both had been close, but the boys never gave up. They pulled off solid wins each time.

  The Tigers continued to grow as a team. Under Dwayne’s reign, kids who had never shown an ounce of ability were stepping up and delivering. Outfielders were hitting their cutoffs. Players were backing up plays. They were keeping the ball in front of them, letting nothing get past. The batting lineup began to deliver from top to bottom. Quality base hits were coming out of kids who had never made contact. They had confidence for the first time ever.

  But Steve Winwood was losing it. He had become an increasingly paranoid nervous wreck. The other coaches could hardly stand to talk to him.

  Detective Loffland had been to every playoff game thus far—gathering intelligence and trying to find anything that would help him solve the recent disappearances and murders of the local elite. This drove Steve absolutely nuts. He was certain the detective would storm onto the field at any time and throw them all in cuffs.

  That didn’t happen, though. And because it continued not to happen, Russ Paisley became more and more emboldened. He had increased his cocaine and LSD intake considerably. He bragged about waking up naked with a female midget wrestling team, a support group of blind sex addicts, and his favorite, a tribe of Native Americans who filled him with peyote, painted him blue, and pierced his nose.

  Dr. Tommy Johnson, however, appeared to not notice Russ and Steve’s journey toward opposite ends of the
spectrum. He and Kelly had been inviting Jade over nearly every night after Russ passed out. Dr. Tom experimented constantly with the latest and greatest boner pills to the point that he was getting maybe an hour or two of sleep per night. Jedi sex had taken over his life.

  Dwayne carefully watched each of them as they evolved. None of them appeared to be handling their newfound powers the way he had hoped. Balance was something that Dwayne felt must exist in the life of the Urban Caped Crusader Ninja Grandmaster Jedi. There had to be joy. There had to be justice. There had to be true love. There had to be a life worth getting bloody and fighting for. There had to be a code. And there had to be the willpower to abide by that code.

  And above all … there had to be baseball.

  As they entered the final week of the playoffs, Dwayne felt that he should gather the crew for a round of golf to discuss how the Jedi Alliance should proceed.

  DWAYNE:

  Golf anyone?

  TOMMY:

  I’ve had an erection for three days straight. If that doesn’t bother you, I’m in. I probably won’t even need clubs.

  STEVE:

  It won’t do me any good to fight you. I might as well just agree to it. I think we need to talk about the cops too. I can’t sleep. I know they’re watching.

  RUSS:

  Holy FUCKBALLS, man! What fucking time is it? OH JESUS! I think I’m in a tree house or something! I took SO MUCH acid last night! I think I fucked a squirrel!

  DWAYNE:

  Okay then. 8:30 at the club.

  RUSS:

  SHIT! I’m painted blue again! The Indians are back!

  TOMMY:

  Native Americans, Russ. Show some respect.

  Russ climbed down from the tree house and attempted to get his bearings. He gathered that he was two blocks away from his house. He sprinted all the way home, bright blue and totally nude, clutching his phone in his hand as he ran. The morning jogging group from the neighborhood seemed almost disappointed that he outpaced them when he passed them rounding the corner to his street. He arrived at his home to find that a teepee had been constructed in his front yard, and Jade’s Jeep was missing. He hopped back on the text chain.

  RUSS:

  Has anyone see Jade?

  TOMMY:

  *ahem*

  RUSS:

  WTF, TOMMY?! I swear to God I’m cracking a fucking 3-wood over your head today! I don’t care what Jade does with Kelly, but if you get up in there I’m TOTALLY having sex with your wife!

  TOMMY:

  Good one, Russ. You’re a quivering little fatbody with hair plugs and a tiny penis. She’d laugh herself unconscious.

  RUSS:

  Well then, I have roofies.

  STEVE:

  Jesus. Hello, Mr. Date Rape.

  TOMMY:

  Fine, bro. I’ll send her home after we get out of the shower.

  RUSS:

  Wow. It’s on, man. It’s on like Donkey Kong.

  DWAYNE:

  Great. I’ll see you guys at 8:30.

  Estelle had been up for several minutes. She had been acting odd the night before, but then she whipped out handcuffs and flavored body paint and Dwayne forgot about it. But now he was curious.

  He walked into the bathroom (nude, as always), and found Estelle (also nude) leaning back against the sink and clutching what looked like a strange thermometer in her hand. She looked up at Dwayne, terrified.

  “What’s going on, babe?” he asked.

  She struggled to tell him. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “It’s just that … honey, I’m always on time, and … so I was barely even late, but I had to check, and … and now things are so great between us, and I don’t want to ruin it … but … well, here.” She handed Dwayne the odd thermometer. He noticed two identical thermometers next to the sink. This one had a blue plus on it.

  It took Dwayne longer than it should have to realize what was going on, but then it hit him. And after it hit him, he did some quick mental math to make sure he was the guy who should be happy. According to his math, he was that guy.

  “Babe … are you … pregnant?”

  Estelle smiled at Dwayne nervously as tears poured down her cheeks. She nodded.

  “Wooooo-hoooo!” he yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Dwayne picked her up and squeezed her, then spun her around, dancing all over the bedroom and bathroom.

  “Oh, babe, this is awesome!” he said. “I love my life!” He set Estelle back down and looked her in the eyes. She was humbled by his joy, feeling undeserving. Her whole body shook.

  “Thank you, Dwayne,” she cried. “I love my life too. I’m not proud of the road we took to get here, but at least we’re here, and I’m so thankful. I love you, babe.”

  “I love you too. And our little Jedi.”

  52.

  Dwayne, Steve, and Tommy showed up early for golf. They each wanted time to hit a bucket of balls on the driving range and get warmed up before the game. As was the norm, Russ screeched into the parking lot at the last minute. Thankfully, however, he was already wearing his golf shirt this time.

  “Well, there’s a first,” Steve said smugly to the others. “At least we don’t have to watch him change cl—”

  Russ stepped out of his Ferrari completely nude from the waist down. Russ looked over at the others and held his arms straight out to his sides, smiling proudly.

  “SEE?!” he yelled over to them. “You had no idea I didn’t have any pants on, did you? I told you nobody could tell!”

  The guys turned back to the driving range, doing their best to ignore Russ. A golf attendant pulled his cart up for him with his clubs already on it, avoiding looking in Russ’s direction as much as possible. Russ grabbed his 3-wood and headed up to the range. Thankfully, no other club members were present.

  “Man, this breeze feels fucking great!” Russ said just loud enough for the others to hear him.

  They wouldn’t look. They didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching him tee up and hit balls at the range with his lower half fully exposed.

  “Hey, Steve,” Russ called out. “Does my swing look off to you? I’m kinda slicing them right now.”

  “Goddammit,” Steve muttered. “Can we just please go play this game? And can you put your damn pants on, Russ?”

  “Agreed,” Dwayne said. “Let’s go play some golf, men. I don’t think I’ve ever hit better than just now. Every damn ball went three hundred yards up the middle. Let’s do this.”

  “I’ve gotta say,” Tommy added, “I’m feelin’ it too. My God, I’m absolutely crushing the ball.”

  “Me too,” Steve enthusiastically threw in. Dwayne’s infectious gusto was hard for Steve to resist. He thought he might need to give the Jedi life another try. “Let’s roll!”

  The three of them headed to the #1 tee box. Russ went back to his car and put on his shorts and shoes, meeting them a few minutes later. He marched past them without saying a word, placed his ball on a tee, and took his shot. The ball sailed perfectly up the middle of the fairway, coming to a rest just short of the green. Russ offered a karate-chop high kick in celebration.

  “Suck it, douchebags,” he said, holding his middle finger up to the baseball dads.

  He then walked straight back to his cart without a word. The others watched him pass in disgust. The little bastard never practiced yet almost always won.

  When the others stepped over to the box and took turns teeing off, Russ dropped two tablets of LSD into Tommy’s water bottle.

  Dwayne teed up his ball with precision, took a beautiful practice swing, then stepped up and hit. His ball sliced hard right into a huge oak tree, which it ricocheted off, cutting back across the fairway and landing in a duck pond. “Stupid fucking game,” Dwayne whispered to himself.

  Dwayne picked up his tee and stuck it in his pocket as Tommy assumed his stance. Tommy stared down the fairway, visualizing his shot. He spaced his feet out properly, pulled his club back, and swung mightily.


  Tommy’s ball sliced hard right as well, except his didn’t have a tree to stop it from crossing the street and going through the large second-story picture window of a gorgeous nineteenth-century Victorian home. The entire ten-foot window shattered and came crashing down onto the sidewalk beneath it. They stood and watched, waiting for someone to come out screaming. Apparently no one was home.

  “Jesus,” Steve said. “You fucked that place up.”

  “Yup,” Dwayne added. “Hurry up and hit, Steve. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

  Steve hurriedly set his ball down, lined up, and swung. He topped the ball, sending it about five feet past the ladies’ tee box, narrowly avoiding “Arkansas Rules,” which states that if your ball doesn’t pass the ladies’ tees, you must complete the hole you are on with your pants around your ankles. While not an actual PGA-sanctioned rule, “Arkansas Rules” was adhered to at most country clubs.

  Russ laughed at the guys as he sped away down the fairway toward his ball.

  “Wait for it,” Tommy said, as he and the other two stood and watched.

  At the first slight bump Russ hit, his golf bag came crashing off his cart, spilling all over the fairway.

  Russ looked back at the other three. They all held up their middle fingers.

  After about forty-five minutes of play, Russ was destroying the others with his score. He was on track to hit in the low 70s, while Dwayne, Tommy, and Steve were each pacing 110 plus. And that was before the LSD kicked in with Tommy on hole number five.

  Dwayne had just begun to ease his way into the conversation he’d been hoping to have with the guys about “the code” of the Suburban Jedi. The guys needed to understand. It had been difficult because Steve wouldn’t quit interrupting with his concerns about the police. Dwayne wasn’t worried about that. He liked Detective Loffland, and he felt as though they’d been careful enough to get away with what they’d done thus far. But he wasn’t sure if they’d be able to continue to get away with things if Tommy and Russ didn’t follow the code.

  Dwayne had barely gotten into what the code of the Suburban Jedi must entail when Tommy started to behave erratically. Russ was the only one who knew that Tommy was on acid. Even Tommy didn’t know.