The Crossroads of Logan Michaels

by James Roberts

  The first game arrived, and Coach Mangella read off the starting lineup. “Tim,” he said, “You’re at shooting guard; Logan, you will be the sixth man until you pick things up.” My lip quivered, but I kept a strong face. The team put their hands in the huddle as I felt like my whole world was crashing down.

  Tim and I split time during the game, but I really wanted to start. My parents could tell how bummed out I was while I sat on the bench—I just wasn’t myself. My confidence was shattered and I felt depressed. First, Kelly had hooked up with Josh, and now I was not even starting on my freshman team.

  My parents drove me home as I quietly sat in the backseat, listening to my dad and mom yell at one another about work, my mom’s classes, and bills. Jared no longer came to my games; he would usually hang out at his friends’ houses.

  For the rest of that week, I completely blocked out Kelly and anything that would have a negative effect on me. A week later, Coach Mangella announced the starting lineup and I heard my name get called to start.

  Hands in the air, I yelled, “GO KNIGHTS!” as I ran out onto the court for my first starting game in high school. The feeling was surreal when I heard my name, “Ice,” being called by the varsity guys; my head could have floated away. Halftime arrived and as I was walking off the court, I saw Kelly and Josh kissing. Fuck them, I said to myself.

  The next day in school, there was an announcement to the freshman Knights team for winning their game. “And the Player of the Game, scoring twenty-five points and seven assists, is Logan Michaels.”

  A strong wind flushed through my soul with feelings of ecstasy. Things were good for me again, and maybe Katie had heard the news. People started to recognize my name as the season continued like this, and jocks, hippies, cute girls, and even teachers would congratulate me on my awesome game.

  School was pretty easy because the entire teaching staff gave me a break on homework, so I maintained B’s throughout the first couple of semesters while I was playing basketball. I tried to focus on my game instead of messing around with girls; I didn’t want to get hurt again. Plus, finding out soon afterward that Katie wasn’t into me made me want to just avoid girls altogether. She had a boyfriend who was a junior, and they had been together since our days in middle school. I need to let it go, I guess.

  Maybe next basketball season I could make varsity, but until then the season was over. Baseball was starting soon and I was both excited and nervous to see what I could do. My freshman coach had made quite the impression on me when I first met him. He was a history teacher for sophomores, so I might possibly have him as a teacher the next year.

  One day, as I was stretching on the high school field to loosen up my arm, a man began to walk over. He had white wavy hair, and must have been sixty years old. He was wearing khaki pants with New Balance shoes, and he had an old flannel shirt, half untucked, which was covered by a black bubble vest. He pushed his glasses up on his face as he flipped the page in his book and continued to read. He shut the book when he got onto the field, and said, “I’m Mr. Hillfield; let’s begin with warmups.” I really didn’t know what to think of him, but, for some reason, I liked him.

  “Catfish Hunter,” a voice said as my shoulder was grazed. Mr. Hillfield was right behind me, smiling with his yellow teeth. “I heard a lot about you; let’s see what you can do.” He put me on the mound and called over a catcher as I dug my cleats into the mound. I had been practicing my pitches for months with my dad and threw in two perfectly accurate fastballs right down the middle. Mr. Hillfield smiled. “Okay, Logan, let’s try the curveball.” I remembered where my father told me to line up my fingers, and how to twist my wrist as I released. Here goes nothing, I thought. SMACK! Into the catcher’s glove. I had the attention of the whole team at tryouts as he asked me to throw my curveball again. SMACK! “Wow,” he said, “Looks like we have our starting pitcher.” My curveball broke perfectly into the lower corner of the catcher’s mitt.

  In my first game I pitched a two-hitter with ten strikeouts. I was Mr. Hillfield’s golden boy; he spent all the time he could coaching me. At this point in time, I wasn’t sure whether I was better at basketball or baseball. The next day in school, I heard the announcement about the freshmen boys’ first win, with a “Mr. Logan Michaels, Player of the Game.” As I walked into my classes throughout the day, my teachers called me “Mr. Superstar,” and I smiled and sat back in my chair like I was king.

  Mr. Hillfield would see me in the hall and yell out, “Catfish!” Everyone would turn, and I’d smile, embarrassed. I don’t know why he liked me so much, but I liked him, too. Catfish Hunter was a Hall of Fame baseball pitcher who had played in major league baseball from 1965 until 1979. It was a name no one could forget.

  By the end of my freshman year, I decided that high school had its ups and downs. I had focused on my two main sports and had become known as an all-star on both teams.

  My mother and father were very proud. They needed a bright spot in their lives as they continued to struggle personally and financially.

  I had wrapped up my baseball season with a perfect pitching season of five wins and zero losses. My curveball was the talk of the team, and Mr. Hillfield couldn’t wait to see what I would do the next year. He told me that I was special and that I was going places, and I truly believed him.

  •••

  That summer, we had to skip my wonderful relaxation on the Cape for the first time. My parents just couldn’t afford to take the time off from work and my mother was working hard to get her nursing degree. My AAU basketball was canceled because it was too expensive, which was kind of a drag, but I still had summer league basketball, which was free at the community center.

  Summer league was incredible; I loved the feeling of freedom from school and getting together with my basketball buddies to play on the courts outside. But it was a little depressing to see my friends go away to the Bahamas or to other tropical islands with their families. I had never been further than Cape Cod, and I had thought that was amazing—I couldn’t imagine what Bermuda or Costa Rica was like. Maybe when I become a famous athlete, I can buy a house down there and retire to the perfect life with a beautiful wife, I thought, but until then I guess I’ll need to grind it out.

  Summer flew by that year and I was happy. Most kids never wanted summer to end, but I wanted to get back into my basketball season. Sports seemed to keep my mind busy, and I never let it wander onto other things. I was also excited because I would be turning sixteen this year, and was close to getting my learner’s permit. I had no clue how I would afford a car, and I realized that I would probably have to get a job soon. Some days, I would work with my dad doing construction, but I never really liked working with my hands. Plus, it was tough to find time to work while playing sports.

  My sophomore year had started and, by the time I would wake up for school, my dad had already left for work. My mother would wake up early to drive Jared and me to school, and even though she was very tired, she never missed a day. A lot of my friends from basketball and baseball were in different classes, and I got paired up with a lot of kids who were into the party scene—not sports.

  “What’s up, man?” I heard during class. I turned to see a face that was familiar, unfortunately.

  “Oh, hey, what’s going on? I thought you were a senior,” I said.

  “Nah, man, I got held back in this stupid math class twice.”

  As his eyes looked sleepy, it became quite obvious that he was high on something. “Rory,” he said. I remembered him from the park that day. How could I forget the kid who had told me that I would one day be into drugs? He said that he had seen me play ball and that I was incredible. “We should chill sometime.”

  I brushed him off. “Yeah, sure.”

  Class ended and I went off on my own separate path, dreading spending a semester in class with him. He was one of those kids who would always try to drag you into a conversation while the teacher was actually looking at you, making us both look
bad; it drove me nuts.

  Coach Lasell ran the junior varsity team. He was the one I would be trying to impress at tryouts. For me, making the team was an automatic, but maybe this year I could get onto varsity, now that a lot of the seniors had graduated.

  Tryouts started off well, as we did some passing and shooting drills, and then did a scrimmage halfway through tryouts. Right then, a vision came to me that really messed up my game: I couldn’t hit a single shot, my hands were sweating, and my heart was racing so fast that I thought I was going to die. In the vision, I had so vividly seen my mother sitting alone at the dinner table, crying, and I didn’t know what this meant, but it hit me in the hardest way possible. All I could think about was what was happening at home; things had been unsteady for a year now, and it seemed the fighting never stopped.

  Tryouts ended and my coach didn’t look impressed. I knew he shouldn’t have been, since I had not played to my full potential. My dad picked me up from tryouts in his old Dodge Caravan. It was maroon-colored and had a sliding door that Jared opened for me, so I hopped in the car, frowning. My dad was quiet, and he asked me how tryouts went as he bit his nail with a concerned look on his face.

  “Your mother and I have to talk to you and Jared.”

  When we got home, we walked in the house and I saw the same image that had hit me during basketball tryouts—my mother was sitting there at the table, but she wasn’t crying. She looked almost as if she had finally given up on love forever; the look on her face was that of a girl whose life had been hard, and that of a woman whose adulthood was a lie. My throat closed up at the table because either someone had died again, or my parents were no longer in love, and either one would change life for all of us.

  Chapter 4

  TEARS ON A BLUE COLLAR

  Jared and I had seen my mother cry a lot over these years. There was a certain pain behind her dark brown eyes that we couldn’t explain. They were filled with love, sadness, and uncertainty. Until the night my mother told us that she and my father were getting divorced, I always imagined things weren’t that bad.

  My mother had never really told me and Jared about her past or childhood until that unforgettable night that changed my life. My father drove off to a hotel for the night because he couldn’t face the reality of me and Jared not living with him anymore.

  Jared and I went upstairs to our rooms and closed the doors. We were only separated by a piece of thin sheetrock, but I swear I could feel his thoughts because they were similar to mine: uncertainty, sadness, and denial of what was happening and how it happened so quickly. We then heard a shallow, low knock on our doors to hear our mother’s voice: “Boys, are you okay? Can I come in?”

  My mother’s tears had finally ended, but her eyes looked uneasy. She had smeared mascara and was wearing sweatpants and one of my father’s T-shirts. “Boys I need to tell you about my childhood and how your father and I met.”

  Jared and I sat on the edge of my bed; my throat was dry and my heart felt like it was in my stomach as my mother finally let go and told us everything, beginning with herself as a young girl.

  “In 1973, my father had returned from the Vietnam War to his hometown of Stoneham, Massachusetts—where he and my mother raised two boys and two girls. From the outside, our home and family looked picture-perfect. Your grandfather drove a simple green Chevy Impala to work every day while your Nana, who didn’t drive, always managed to get a ride to work. George and Tim, their sons, your uncles, as well as their eldest daughter, my sister Catherine, were well into their teens, but the youngest, me, was just turning nine when life changed for me.

  “I was just as feisty as I was sweet. And, my strong personality was almost all that I had to help me weather the storm inside our modest home. You see, my father, the veteran, was severely depressed.

  “Our house must have been the smallest on the block. To me it felt like living in a mental institution. What others called ‘home,’ I called ‘trying to survive.’

  “Times got worse over the years leading up to when I was in middle school. We never had food, clothes, or heat. Most nights, I would cry myself to sleep because I was always alone. I used to have a backpack adorned with my name, but after years of wear and tear, the ‘Maria’ stitching had worn off and it now just said, ‘Ma.’ Middle school was a time when everyone wanted to become accepted and to blend in, but all I remember is feeling outcast and embarrassed. Middle schoolers aren’t the nicest people in the world, suffice to say.

  “I never understood why we struggled financially, because both of your grandparents worked twelve-hour shifts almost every day. Your uncles looked after me, and your aunt was taking care of herself and was rarely home. My mother worked in a factory as an assembly line employee. I rarely got to see her; she worked so hard for such little return.

  “I remember when the family came crashing down. It was late at night when they took my daddy away while he was yelling and crying, looking lifeless in a straitjacket. I watched as his frail body was placed on the stretcher, which broke my tiny heart.

  “My dad was diagnosed with bipolar disease and severe psychosis, which he had been living with every day since the war. After returning home weeks later from the mental institution, things seemed back to normal. Until it happened again. That was the pattern we dealt with, his debilitating suffering.

  “Most nights when Dad got home from work he didn’t want to be seen. I’ll never forget his face the night he actually flipped out. He was expressionless, but I could sense that he was overwhelmed, tired, sad, angry, and confused—everything was in his blank stare. I came out of my room, which consisted of a bed, bare walls, and holes in the cracked wooden floors. I didn’t know what to think; I was home alone with Dad, and had no one to turn to for help. I picked up my journal from my small bed, held it close to my chest, and walked up to him. I asked him ‘What happened, Dad?’

  “They laid him off. After ten years of seventy-hour workweeks, they let him go.

  “I remember telling him that it would be okay. That night at the dinner table, my whole family was home and no one could eat a bite; we were all too sad for my father. When my mother said that she would increase her hours to pay for the bills, I thought about how physically impossible that was, but remained quiet.

  “Weeks passed and my father hadn’t gotten off the couch. Weeks turned into months and my father was slipping into an even deeper depression. I remember starting seventh grade and my friends making fun of me. They’d tell me, ‘We saw your father walking down the street with a hood on, talking to himself and playing with his beard.’ I would cry myself to sleep every night.

  “I came home from school one day and saw police cars and ambulances surrounding my house. I bolted to my front door, and flung it open like a bat out of hell. I saw a man I didn’t recognize run out the doorway as if he was being chased. He jumped off the porch and was immediately tackled by an officer. The man who looked up at me had lost eyes, a scruffy beard, and dirty clothes. My eyes welled up as I realized that my father was not the man he used to be.

  “The proud war veteran was long gone; he was no longer the happy man with a wife and loving family; he had been destroyed by life and looked as if he were possessed. I looked around at that moment and saw a home that was dirty, small, and ultimately lonely. One of my brothers turned to me and said, ‘Happy birthday, Maria.’

  “Dad was admitted to the mental hospital exactly six months after he was laid off. The company claimed he was not eligible for health insurance or paid time off to cope with his mental illness. I don’t know if it was the war that broke my father or if it was the fact that his decent life was stolen from him by a pink sheet of paper. Maybe both.

  He returned home after a month of being on lithium and God knows what else, and walked through the door, soulless. This was not my father. As I cried on my small bed, I watched the cockroaches scatter on the floor and listened to my older siblings scream at each other. My mother was working seventy hours a week and w
e were still dirt poor.

  “After Dad’s many hospitalizations, life at home became a little easier to deal with. While I was middle school, the kids on the bus had mercilessly made fun of my father and of how poor we were. Now that did not happen anymore; I had discovered that if I faked a smile and didn’t let anyone see my emotions, they would think my life was great. I decided that I wouldn’t show anything but confidence because otherwise, I would probably break down.

  “My friends didn’t know that every day, I would come home from school to find my father screaming and crawling on the floor, hallucinating. I walked into my room one day to see that all of the pictures on the walls had holes cut into them where the eyes used to be because my father had thought they were staring at him. He was at his worst at night. My father would smash my door, trying to break it down. I would sit on my bed, crying and hoping for him to go away as the pounding grew harder and louder. And each morning, I put on my smiley face.

  “Time and again, my father would be extracted from the house in a straitjacket. And, after a month or so away he would return, walking the streets with a hood over his head. Over time, he had destroyed all the furniture and burned to ashes everything else in the place. Now, we had nothing in our house besides our beds. There were times I wanted to go to sleep and never wake.

  “I am telling you all of this, boys, so you can understand my emotions. I never wanted you to suffer emotionally the way I did. I never wanted us, as a family, to suffer financially the way we have. You father left because I don’t want you boys exposed to the anger and hurt that I lived through. I am tired of you boys seeing me cry.