Chapter 18
Travis insisted upon purchasing the tickets for all of them. He did this at the ticket window and with cash. No Ticketmaster, Stub Hub or scalpers for him. The seats were down the left field line. Not the outfield, exactly. But no luxury skyboxes, to be sure.
Once again, the kids were singularly unimpressed.
On the way to their distant destination, the band of them stopped for refreshments that they would carry to their seats. Here again, Travis insisted upon the traditional -- hot dogs, peanuts and beer (water for the kids), all around.
Yet, when the group finally made its way from under the dark concourse surrounding the stadium, through the tunnel and out onto the field level seats, some sort of magic occurred.
The brilliant blue sky, the cool spring breeze, and that fluorescent green grass opened up to them all at once. On the plush field below them, players tossed baseballs in the outfield. Batters cracked bats in batting practice. And pitchers labored in the bullpen, the strengths of their pitching arms and the speeds of their pitches registering with the sharp smacks of the baseball hitting the catcher’s glove.
Travis stood there for a moment, taking it all in.
Morgan noticed this and wondered whether such a constant as this in a person’s life somehow connected him to all iterations of him former self down through the years.
Looking at Travis Walker’s content, contemplative face, she suspected that it did.
Clutching a cardboard tray containing her beer and hot dog, Morgan brushed up close to Travis and whispered in his ear.
“Nice, huh?” she said.
She watched him close, his eyes sparkling.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “The best.”
“I’m glad you brought us,” she whispered softly. “It means a lot.”
He turned to her then. Travis’ eyes were another of the brilliant, crystalline things in the ballpark that day. They seemed to penetrate her then.
“It means a lot that you came,” he said.
His mesmerizing eyes seemed to possess the power to hold Morgan, to freeze her in place. On the periphery, Morgan was aware of her children and their growing impatience to get to their seats. No doubt, they were eager to dig into the junk food she normally wouldn’t allow. Perhaps, they were confused by this developing bond with Travis.
Geoff took advantage of the lull in the action to plug one end of the foot-long dog into his mouth. Samantha, meanwhile, shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. The idle, uncertain moment between her mother and another man was much too long for a twelve-year-old girl with self-esteem issues and a daddy complex.
“Can we, like, go now?” Samantha said with every ounce of her adolescent sarcasm, judgment and disdain.
It was enough for Morgan to break from the trance Travis had her under. She looked down at her daughter.
“Sure, Honey,” Morgan smiled. “But I told you we weren’t done seeing the weird side of Travis.”
Samantha looked at her feet, and then mumbled a rejoinder that was right on target.
“He’s not the only one acting weird,” she said.
Morgan turned her head, leaving her daughter’s comment undressed. She stepped forward, as if leading the way to the seats. But it was Travis who held the tickets.
“Over here,” he called, nodding to the left, further toward the outfield. “Those four right on the end.”
The group of them headed in that direction. On the way, Geoff mumbled over his mouth full of hot dog: “Do you think we’ll catch a ball out here?”
Adept at deciphering hot dog speak at baseball games, Travis answered: “We’re sure going to get our share of chances. I can tell you that.”
“Cool,” Geoff said, his lips pulling into a ketchup-stained smile that stretched over his mouthful of food.
Travis took the seat farthest away from the aisle. Morgan sat next to him, leaving Samantha and then Geoff to complete the row.
“It’s important for the guy with the glove to be on the aisle,” Travis instructed Geoff. “This way you’re freer to go for the fly balls.”
And even though the game was still about a half-hour away, Geoff kept the glove on his left hand, leaving him just one arm with which to finish his food.
The ballpark filled in with a respectable, but far from capacity, crowd. Clusters of fans dotted the seats around them, but no one was forced to sit elbow to elbow. Travis clasped his hands behind his head and kicked his feet over the back of the seat in front of him. In his position, his biceps swelled and pulled at the arms of his seen-better-days Pirates T-shirt. Morgan couldn’t help but admire his pose – and his body.
She used the excuse of some idle chitchat to remain locked in his direction and study his form. She noticed the dark shapes of what had to be a tattoo of some sort encircling Travis’s left upper bicep. But she didn’t recognize the design, nor think much about it. It was just another of Travis’ charming blue-collar traits.
The game began, and Geoff sat ready with his glove. Travis made work of shelling his peanuts and washing them down with beer. The discarded shells were like a carpet of sawdust on the concrete underneath his seat. Morgan seemed to think that this blatant disregard for littering laws was a breach of etiquette of some sort. But Travis assured her that this was yet another of the charms of being at the ballpark. And he watched delightedly as Morgan began cracking her own shells and letting the brown pieces fall to the floor.
After her first few peanuts, Travis raised his beer in a toast.
“To the cheap seats,” he said.
Morgan smiled and grabbed her beer from a cup holder.
“The cheap seats,” she agreed. And so as not to exclude her children, she turned with her beer to Samantha and Geoff, and repeated the toast.
Geoff immediately got the drift, and raised his water bottle, but Samantha just frowned at another of her mother’s weird ways.
By the third inning, they were ready for more refreshment. At the very least, Travis and now Morgan were ready for another beer. But before Travis could get up and squeeze out of the aisle, a man walked up holding a tray of drinks.
“Sir,” the man called to Travis, who turned to see a fan that Travis vaguely remembered seeing seated nearby.
“On me, sir,” the man said, presenting Travis with the tray containing two beers and two sodas.
Travis looked down at the offering, somewhat taken aback but smiling graciously.
“Thank you,” Travis said.
“No,” corrected the man. “Thank you for your service.”
By this time, Morgan and the kids had turned and were watching the unusual exchange. Travis fisted two of the drinks, handing one to each of the kids. He then pulled out the beers, offering one to Morgan and raising the other to his mouth and drinking.
He nodded and smiled at the man.
“Mighty nice of you, sir,” Travis said.
The man smiled warmly and nodded back. He looked down at Morgan and her family. He must have noticed the confusion on Samantha’s face. Perhaps, that was why he addressed her, specifically.
“You got a brave dad right there, young lady,” the rather large man said as he leaned down to address Samantha conspiratorially. He smiled and nodded again as if to emphasize his point.
“Do you know him?” Samantha asked, not bothering to correct the man’s assumption of genealogy, but rather more interested in getting to the bottom of this strange gesture.
“Not personally,” the man said good-naturedly. “Haven’t had that pleasure. But I know that tattoo there on his shoulder. I know what men like him have done for our country. It’s why you and I can sit here and enjoy this game.”
The man laid a gentle hand on Samantha’s shoulder, and then raised himself to Travis.
“Navy SEALs, if I’m right,” the man said, nodding at Travis’s left arm. “You guys are one hell of a weapon, if you’ll excuse my enthusiasm.”
But instead of offering more information, Travis seemed
to close off then. Suddenly, his face held a flat, neutral expression that betrayed nothing.
“Thanks again for the drinks,” Travis firmly said. “We do appreciate it.”
The man nodded and smiled knowingly.
“Yep,” he said. “That’s a SEAL, all right. The real heroes never talk about it. I understand, and I thank you again for your service. I’ll leave you fine folks to enjoy the game.”
“Thanks!” Geoff called, raising the sugary soda that normally was disallowed.
Travis turned and sat down as if nothing had happened. But Morgan, and particularly, Samantha, were studying him.
“Well, that was nice,” Morgan said, fishing for further explanation.
“Yeah,” Travis said mildly. “Nice guy.”
“What did he mean?” Samantha pressed. “About you being a hero and stuff?”
Travis turned and looked at Samantha. Her face was so eager, so expectant. He didn’t want to disappoint her. But the fact was, Travis Walker didn’t talk about himself.
Ever.
“I can tell you this, honey,” he gently said. “I’m no hero. I served my country. But the only heroes I ever met were the ones who didn’t come back.”
“That man says you’re a hero,” Samantha countered. “He says you were a SEAL. Were you a SEAL?”
“SEALs are the biggest, boldest badasses,” Geoff chimed in. “Anyone who plays videogames knows that. They’re the ones to send when the mission is impossible, the odds are against us and the enemy needs killing. Works every time.”
“So were you?” Samantha pressed. “A SEAL?”
“I guess I was too thick-headed and stubborn to quit the training,” Travis allowed. “Lots of people served, honey. What people call them doesn’t matter that much in the end.”
“I want to see your tattoo,” Samantha insisted. “The one the man was talking about.”
Reflexively, Travis reached a hand to his shoulder, as if covering up the ink that snaked around his upper bicep.
“It’s an ugly, ol’ thing, really,” he said, almost embarrassed.
“I wanna see it,” the girl pleaded. “Can I?”
Watching all this, Morgan wanted to see it, too. And she wasn’t about to correct her daughter for being nosey, not while Samantha was sweating this blank page of a man for firm facts and precious bits of biographical information.
Travis just couldn’t resist the searching and longing in the pretty little girl’s face. Samantha had been blessed and cursed with a high-achieving but absentee father. And an empty space inside of her has been longing to be filled ever since. Samantha needed a hero. Travis knew he did not fit the bill. No one could measure up to the man that little girls like Samantha truly need and deserve. But he was the one right there. He was the one who had to face her heart-breaking eyes, brimming as they were with so much need and want and uncertainty.
Travis turned his shoulder toward Morgan and the kids. Then, he rolled up his sleeve.
Underneath, riding high his on his arm, was the elaborate image of a skull wearing a floppy brimmed hat, scuba goggles and a respirator. Two rifles were crossed behind its head. And these words were scrawled underneath: “God will judge our enemies. We arrange the meeting.”
“Cooool!” Geoff sang delightedly. “That is too cool, Travis.”
Samantha, by contrast, was struck silent as her eyes scrutinized the tattoo. Wordlessly and semi-consciously, she reached out a hand. Her fingers gently touched the image, as if needing to confirm that it was real. Samantha’s kind and gentle fingers lightly traced the inked lines that so coldly and harshly represented death and vengeance.
Morgan could only watch as her daughter literally reached out for something her very soul had been craving since the divorce had become final.
“You are a hero,” Samantha finally said, her fingers still running over the lines of Travis’s tattoo.
Just then, there was a loud crack that snapped everyone’s attention toward the field. The crowd gasped in anticipation as the ball rocketed toward left field. Geoff instinctively jumped up and raised his glove. But this was no fly ball. This sucker was on a mission. It zoomed on a rope over the left field wall for a homerun. The crowd cheered the two-run knock that put the home team ahead.
The four of them were on their feet with the rest of the crowd. Suddenly, the once-sullen Samantha was cheering and clapping right along with everyone else. And as the excitement was waning, she reached up for her mother. Morgan leaned down to her daughter.
“Can I sit by Travis?” Samantha asked meekly.
Morgan smiled as something inside her heart let loose.
“Yes, dear,” Morgan whispered.
“Good try,” Morgan said, changing places with her daughter and addressing her son. “I want to sit by my left fielder over here,” she announced by way of explanation for the sudden change in the seating chart.
Having switched places with her daughter, Morgan watched as Samantha nuzzled close to Travis for the rest of the game. She saw the way her daughter looked at this man, and Morgan couldn’t help but look at him in the same way.
He was special. He was unique. He was mysterious.
But right now, and best of all, Travis Walker was theirs.
And when Travis caught Morgan looking so admiringly at him, she didn’t turn away. She wanted him to know. And to see her daughter with this fine man, Morgan would look and watch and admire -- all day long.
Morgan's Chase 1 (Power Play) Page 18
