Base Ball Dads

by Matthew Hiley

  “I’ll be home shortly, babe,” he said with a wink. “My assistant coaches and I need to strategize.”

  Dwayne scanned the crowd for his crew as Estelle and Alex drove off. Russ, Tommy, and Steve all began to make their way toward him. He continued to ignore the press as a litany of queries was hurled his way.

  The four coaches all high-fived each other as they came together at the rear of Dwayne’s Audi. He opened the trunk and the guys all reached into a cooler, pulling out ice-cold cans of beer and popping them open. Russ dug around in his pocket for a moment, then whipped out a massive joint and proceeded to light it.

  A reporter interrupted. “Excuse me, sir,” he queried Russ. “I’m Ed Zarecky, with the KFWI News Team. Can I get your name?”

  Russ ignored the interruption and took a long pull from the joint, sucking until his face turned red and his eyes crossed.

  “That’s Russ Paisley,” Tommy responded to the reporter with a big smile. “He’s a money manager, financial advisor, and godless rapist heathen. He’s also a deacon at the Westside Church of Jesus. Can I get an amen?”

  The reporter’s eyes went wide at the revelation. He looked around at his fellow journalists to see if they’d gotten the scoop as well.

  Russ didn’t necessarily appreciate Tommy totally outing him, but Russ also figured it was an understandable form of revenge, given the previous evening’s roofies and unauthorized sex. He coughed out two lungs full of smoke and passed the joint to Tommy.

  Tommy didn’t hesitate at all. He reflexively grabbed the joint and proceeded to take a monster hit, chuckling to himself as Russ slammed his beer.

  “And that’s Dr. Tommy Johnson,” Russ wheezed before crushing his beer can on his forehead. “He’s probably the top plastic surgeon in all of North Texas. He belongs to the Westside Church of Jesus, too. Oh, and he’s also possibly both an atheist and a Democrat.”

  The reporter cocked his head, attempting to grasp the situation. He wanted to get the scoop on Dwayne, as did all of the other reporters circled around them, but they were quickly finding out that all four baseball dads were fascinating character studies. And Dwayne’s silence made it impossible not to listen to the other guys.

  “Okay, so—hang on just a minute,” the reporter interjected. “You guys are prominent members of the Fort Worth business scene, right? And you’re active members of your church, and you’re baseball coaches. Yet here you are slamming beers and smoking … ummm, what exactly is that you’re smoking?”

  “Well, Ed, what we’ve got here is a hybrid mix of Hindu Kush and Purple Haze,” Russ said proudly. “It’s got a deep, floral aroma with hints of mocha. And it will jump up and kick you in the sack if you’re not careful.”

  Russ smiled and offered a thumbs-up to the camera, then reached his arm into the cooler and fished out another beer.

  “But how do you explain your actions to your clients? How do you explain yourselves to your congregation?” Zarecky probed.

  “We don’t explain shit, Ed,” Russ replied. “We just fucking rock, bro.” He slammed his second beer and again crushed the can on his forehead before letting out a deep, bellowing belch.

  Steve couldn’t believe the speed at which their lives continued to spiral out of control. At a time when it would be wise to hide for being accessories to mass murder, here they were … slamming beers and smoking weed in front of the national media.

  Tommy passed the joint to Steve. Steve scowled at him and grabbed the joint out of irritation. He begrudgingly took a long pull from it before passing it to Dwayne.

  The journalists were perplexed. They elbowed each other, pushing and shoving, fighting for the best camera angle, but at the same time, they were unable to think of questions. They were just letting it all play out in front of them.

  “So, the championship baseball game is in a couple of days,” Ed Zarecky attempted to recap the situation, hoping this would lead to some comprehensible answers. “The whole country is transfixed by your baseball team. You guys suffered some serious blows late in the regular season, with the untimely abduction and death of your original coaching staff. You four stepped up and assumed the responsibility. Your team fought back from last place. And here you are in the big game. You’re like that story of the little train making its way up the hill, never giving up.”

  “We’re like a train all right, Ed,” Russ opined, leaning back against the Audi in a faux-philosophical pose. “We’re like a freight train … a freight train packed full of fuck you, and we’re about to pull into the station and deliver our payload.”

  Steve glared at Dwayne. Why wouldn’t he step in and stop the insanity? Steve knew it was a terrible idea for Russ to be the self-appointed national media spokesman for the baseball dads. But Dwayne simply stood back and watched.

  “From what I understand, there’s a good little friendly rivalry between your team and the team you’ll be playing,” Summer Pruett, one of the few female reporters, belted out. “And the coach of the other team is the pastor at your church. Do you have anything you’d like to say to the other team?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do,” Russ said. “I’d like to tell the other team that while they’re away from their homes, I’m gonna be breaking into their bedrooms and farting on both sides of their pillows. And not just on them, but in them. Deep, deep inside them, so that every time they drop their heads onto them, a big whiff of my ass is gonna come whooshing out.”

  “Do you, ummm …” the reporter stammered, attempting to digest the answer. “Do you think that will affect your standing in the church?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, then.” The reporter sheepishly stepped back into the crowd. She had no further questions.

  “Mr. Devero,” a reporter beckoned from the masses. “You’ve been pretty silent since your arrest in the Batman costume. Yet somehow, in your silence, the whole country has rallied around you. Are you a rebel? Are you an outlaw? Everyone in America is dying to know.”

  Dwayne took in the media spectacle surrounding him. He cracked open the top of his beer and sipped, then stepped forward to speak. The camera flashes went crazy.

  “Am I a rebel? Am I an outlaw?” Dwayne began. “I’ve never looked at myself that way. I’m a father. I’m a husband. I’m a baseball coach.”

  He looked out to the baseball field and admired it. The lights were still on. It looked so green and perfect.

  “I’m just a guy who’s trying to do it right, you know?” he continued. “There are so many people out there doing it wrong … and we just get used to it … and we sit back and take it. But we don’t have to. That’s the biggest lie we’ve all been told … that we have to take it.”

  Dwayne paused, reflecting on the day’s game. He loved that his boys had stepped up and delivered yet again. “We don’t have to let assholes push us around. Not in our personal lives, not in business, and certainly not in fucking baseball.”

  Dwayne shut the trunk of his car, walked over to driver’s side, and climbed in. The crowd of reporters moved with him.

  “Is there anything you’d like to say to Pastor Jim and the Mariners team, Dwayne?” a voice called out with the hope of one last comment.

  Dwayne smiled, extended his arm through the Audi window, and held out a big middle finger. Cheers erupted from the media. Dwayne revved up his engine, dropped it into drive, and sped off into the night.

  60.

  Saturday could not have come soon enough. The day of the big game had arrived.

  Dwayne knew that this would be no ordinary day. No, in fact, this was the kind of day he would use to measure all future life events. There was nothing inside him that would allow any part of this day to be ordinary. He had to start it strong in order to finish it strong.

  Yesterday, he had labored, creating varying lineups and field positions in the most strategic manner imaginable. He’d studied each opposing batter and made notes of which pitches to throw at them. Dwayne couldn’t possibly have been m
ore prepared.

  Now, he needed to relax. He needed to get out in the early morning air and go for a run to get his mind right. But this couldn’t be just any run. This run had to be different. It had to be the best run ever.

  Dwayne crept into his bedroom. There, on the dresser, he saw it laid out in all its glory. He sat on the edge of his bed and slowly climbed into his Batman costume. Yet instead of wearing his official Batman boots, he slipped on his favorite gray New Balance running shoes.

  After pulling on his black cape and fastening his yellow utility belt, Dwayne made his way to the front door, swinging it open quickly for dramatic effect. The hundreds of media personnel camped out in his front yard sprang to life. Cameras flashed from every direction. Cheers and applause crashed through the neighborhood as Batman jogged down the sidewalk and out into the street.

  There must have been five hundred journalists and camera operators jogging alongside Dwayne. As they passed down the street, house lights came on, doors opened, and husbands and children came rushing out to join the jogging crowd.

  Dwayne tried in vain to think of a building with lots of stairs that he could run up in order to make the scene even more Rocky-esque, but he couldn’t come up with one. So, he just ran. He ran past the Westside Church of Jesus, which elicited a few jeers. He led the growing parade down the old redbrick section of Camp Bowie Boulevard and over to the River Oaks Country Club. The caddies and golf cart attendants preparing for the day dropped what they were doing and followed the masses down the first three fairways.

  Dwayne finally led them across a busy intersection on White Settlement Road, and headed toward the ballpark. Traffic was at a standstill as thousands of people came running by out of nowhere, following the charismatic grandmaster ninja in a Batman costume. Drivers everywhere were abandoning their vehicles and joining in on what was fast becoming the most exciting run in American history.

  Dwayne didn’t dare lead the runners onto the baseball field. He didn’t want to trample what he considered sacred ground. Instead, he retrieved an American flag resting in a flagpole holder at the entrance gate and waved it wildly above his head. The crowd went nuts. They loved him.

  Media helicopters circled overhead, capturing the spectacle for the entire nation. Dwayne led his devoted followers on three laps around the ballpark before returning the flag to its holder. He then headed back toward his home.

  With hands outstretched over his head, pumping his fists, a now exhausted Dwayne spoke to the crowd from his front yard.

  “What do Tigers do?” he shouted out.

  “TIGERS KILL!” they screamed their reply.

  “I said … What do Tigers do?” he yelled again.

  “TIGERS KILL!” they roared back.

  “That’s right! Now let’s go play some baseball!”

  The noise from Dwayne’s fans was deafening as he disappeared behind his door. He walked back into his bedroom, sweating and ready for a shower. Estelle was rustling a bit, just waking up, and rubbing her eyes.

  “Hey, Sugarbottom, where did you go?” a sleepy Estelle whispered to Dwayne as he peeled of his costume.

  “Oh, I went for a little run. Nothing big. You wanna hop in the shower with me?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Batman needs a little ass this morning.”

  “Ooooh, baby, Catwoman will gladly give it to him.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  61.

  Dwayne, Alex, and Estelle pulled into Jenny Field an hour before game time in the now-famous black Audi. Dave the umpire had reserved four parking spaces near the entrance for the baseball dads and one additional space for Uzi, who had begged the guys to let him attend.

  No spaces had been reserved for Pastor Jim. Dwayne saw the angry pastor making his way through the media spectacle with his son, Noah. Pastor Jim had not been a fan of the way the media had painted him. Both his hometown and his country had turned against him. They cheered for a man whom Pastor Jim deemed nothing short of psychotic.

  Every costume shop in the country had sold out of Batman masks. One glance at the fans attending the Jenny Field Little League Baseball Championship game left little doubt as to why. Every other person Dwayne saw was wearing one. Many were homemade, and more than a few were created from cardboard beer cases.

  Crowds of this size had typically been seen only at major sporting events such as the World Series, or the Super Bowl. Tailgaters were strewn about everywhere. Grills were blazing. Kegs were flowing. Breasts painted with tiger stripes were on display.

  Dwayne wanted to make sure that on this day, more than any other, he and his fellow coaches looked official. He was thrilled when Tommy surprised the baseball dads with new orange-and-black tiger-striped shirts, which they tucked into their tiny gray coaching shorts. They pulled their matching tube socks up to their knees, positioned their visors, placed their aviator sunglasses atop their noses, and hung whistles from their necks. Dwayne held his clipboard close, satisfied.

  Detective Loffland and five other officers greeted Dwayne and his crew as they walked through the entrance. Steve’s, Tommy’s, and Russ’s buttholes all puckered up as the cops surrounded them.

  “What’s up, Big D?” the detective said with a smile, raising his hand up for a high five.

  Dwayne slapped his hand, and then the hands of the other officers who had each raised theirs.

  “I thought you guys might like a little protection to keep these damn reporters from getting in your face,” Detective Loffland offered. “And I was hoping you might hook a buddy up with some primo seats.”

  “Shit, Detective,” Dwayne grinned. “You guys can chill in the dugout with the boys if you want! You can’t get better seats than that!”

  “Hell, yeah!” the other cops exclaimed.

  Russ and Tommy introduced themselves. Dwayne’s magnetic personality never ceased to amaze them. Steve could only manage an uneasy smile.

  “You got any weed, bro?” one of the cops asked Russ.

  “Yup,” Russ replied.

  “Spark that shit up, man. Let’s get our swerve on!”

  Russ and Tommy escorted a few of the police behind the batting cages to smoke a few joints and drink a few beers while Detective Loffland helped Dwayne and Steve warm up the batters. Detective Loffland shared a flask filled with perfectly aged Scotch among the three of them. By the time the team finished warming up, they had all achieved full inebriation.

  And then it was game time. Dave the umpire walked out onto the field with a megaphone. He called upon the head coaches to meet him at home plate for the coin toss. The crowd of thousands cheered Dwayne and booed Pastor Jim as they entered from opposing sides of the field and made their way to Dave.

  “Gentlemen,” Dave grumbled. “You know the rules. We’re going six innings. Seventy-five pitch maximum per player and loose bases. Dwayne, you’ve got the honors. Call it in the air.”

  Dave flipped the coin up above the men’s ball caps.

  “Heads,” Dwayne said.

  The coin came down and landed with tails facing up.

  “Sorry, D,” Dave the umpire uttered.

  Pastor Jim offered an asshole’s smile at the two of them. “We’ll take ‘home,’ you pricks,” he said.

  Dwayne extended his hand to shake. Pastor Jim glanced down at Dwayne’s hand and grinned, then turned and walked back to his dugout.

  The fans booed and shouted at the pastor for the snub.

  “Oh, shit, Dwayne,” Dave the umpire said, pulling down his umpire mask. “It’s on, bro.”

  62.

  The Mariners warmed up on the field, looking angry and ready. Pastor Jim barked orders at his team while hitting balls to them from beside home plate. Noah was on the pitcher’s mound, throwing hard and fast. He glared over at the Tigers’ bench after every pitch, wanting to make sure that the Tigers knew what he was capable of.

  But the Tigers weren’t watching … and that pissed Noah off. Dway
ne wouldn’t allow the Mariners the satisfaction. He wouldn’t allow his boys to be intimidated and made sure that all eyes were on him as he rallied them around their cause.

  “Tigers,” he spoke, “we have but one single mission today. That mission is the complete and total devastation of the Mariners baseball organization.”

  Cameras flashed around the Tigers’ dugout as Dwayne’s voice permeated the souls of all who heard him. He had his team, his assistant coaches, the police, the parents, and the hundreds that surrounded them completely mesmerized.

  “Now, here’s the thing, soldiers,” he continued. “Lots of times in these situations, you’ll hear coaches say fluffy little things like, “no matter what happens today, you’re all winners.” But I’m here to tell you … that’s total bullshit. I’ll be pissed off if we lose today. You should be too. We came here to win, and I expect nothing less of you.”

  The kids nodded. The cops nodded. Everyone nodded. It just made sense.

  “You should count on a war out here today, men. If they draw blood, we will draw tears of pain and loss. If they throw a punch, we will sever a limb, and allow them to make do with a bloody stump. We must do nothing short of crushing the skulls that create the thoughts that they can win, so that bone fragments pierce their brains, rendering them incapable of ever having such deeply absurd thoughts again. I want you angry at their ridiculous assumption that they have enough talent to share a field with you. I want you to make a raw meal of their ability to ever experience pleasure again. I want you to destroy them.” A fire burned in Dwayne’s eyes as he delivered his speech, and the fury he spouted was contagious. The team was rabid and snarling. They were ready to annihilate the Mariners. Dwayne had the boys right where he wanted them.

  Dwayne paced. He let the words he had just spoken hang in the air for a few minutes so that the boys could fully digest them. When the time was right, he drew them back in for the finish.