Second Chance

by Katie Kacvinsky

  “You look a little gray today, Gray,” she says, taking in my sullen face.

  “Thanks, Linda,” I shoot back.

  “Life getting you down, or are you just hormonal?”

  I narrow my eyes and raise my voice. “That reminds me, did you get that autographed copy of Hillary Duff’s album yet? I know you were so excited when you won it on eBay.”

  Lenny tightens her lips at this blow, but I interrupt our daily squabble to hit her with the truth.

  “It’s my birthday,” I say. She blinks with surprise and fidgets with the pen next to her crossword puzzle. She knows enough about my past to understand why I’m not happy about it.

  “Maybe I should have bypassed the morning insults,” she offers, her way of apologizing.

  “Hey, don’t change your customer service standards just for me.” She smiles, since she could care less about waiting on over-caffeinated college students. She’s been roped into managing the Brew House, and the money’s good enough to keep her away from getting her nursing degree. She’s also living with her mom and helping to pay bills because her dad, whom her mom never married, was detained and sent back to Mexico three years ago for being an illegal immigrant. Lenny has light skin and her mom’s small nose and angled chin, but her dark eyes, long lashes and black hair come from her dad. I tell her she could be attractive if she smiled a little more often. She tells me the same thing. Our friendship includes making fun of people as much as possible, sharing the occasional joint, and watching Christopher Guest films, because we can appreciate the art of turning life into one long mockumentary.

  I ask Lenny for coffee, and she raises her eyebrows since I usually order juice. She fills a cup and sets it down on the counter.

  “This one’s on me,” she says. I mumble thanks and tell her I’ll be outside, where I meet her every morning for her cigarette break.

  I walk down the street to the end of the block, sit on the curb, and toast to the sun with my cup. I take a sip and wonder if there’s coffee in heaven. I wonder if there’s an atmosphere, or if you even need to breathe. I wonder if you float everywhere, or walk, or drive, or if they have fuel emission laws for cars. I wonder if I’m still high from last night.

  The coffee tastes strong and bitter, and it burns going down, but I drink it to honor Amanda, who drank about five cups a day. I turn on my phone to find two missed calls from my parents. I call my mom and it goes straight to her voicemail.

  “Hi Mom, it’s me. I’m sitting outside drinking coffee and thinking of Amanda. I hope you’re feeling all right today. I love you.”

  I call my dad and leave the same message on his cell phone. I’m relieved they don’t answer. I don’t want to hear that bittersweet edge in their voice, like they’re happy to hear from me, but we all know who they would give every ounce of their blood to hear from one last time.

  I snap the phone shut as Lenny sits next to me on the curb.

  “You want to talk about it?” she asks.

  I shake my head. She pulls out a lighter and sparks her cigarette, but once she exhales I can tell it’s a joint. She hands it to me and smiles.

  “To Amanda,” she says.

  I look at the joint in her fingers and it’s tempting. I can see Miles’ disapproving face, reminding me I have a game today. But I could use a distraction. On a day like today, it’s more medicinal than recreational. I’m willing to sacrifice a little lung tissue to settle my mind. I can spare a few brains cells—I think too much as it is. I grab the joint, take a long drag and pass it back. I mentally give myself a hard slap on the side of the head because my split second decisions tend to lean on the stupid side.

  “You just missed your fan club,” Lenny informs me. She tells me Amber McAssEasy and Valerie Slimslutty (nicknames she coined for volleyball players that have chased me in the past) came in this morning asking about me. She tells me they want the 411 on who I’m dating. She tells me she’s sick of being the public portal into my dating life, or lack thereof.

  I smile and tell her if it helps, to go ahead and validate one of the ongoing rumors circulating about me.

  Lenny laughs and starts to list all the theories on campus explaining my single status (mostly originating from volleyball team gossip). Ever since I made the mistake of kissing Amber McCafrey at a party last year, but passed up the chance to sleep with her, I’ve been accused of many things.

  “Let me see,” Lenny says and leans back on her palms. “What’s the latest theory?”

  I take another hit instead of answering her.

  “First, there’s the gay rumor,” she says.

  I nod because I’ve heard that one numerous times. Lenny knows the long and exhausting Dylan saga, so I don’t have to explain that one.

  “There’s also the one about you having a tiny penis.”

  Like anyone on this campus would know. “It’s not about size, it’s about stamina,” I say.

  “I’ve heard you’re a virgin, and you’re saving yourself,” she continues, as if I’m enjoying this particular conversation. “Oh, and supposedly you have an erectile dysfunction.”

  I take an unnecessarily long drag and choke out the smoke. When I get my voice back, I shake my head. “You know what, Lenny? You really know how to cheer a guy up.”

  She stubs the joint out on the curb. When I stand up, the full affect of the pot hits me. I wobble on my feet a little until I catch a tree trunk for balance.

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s pretty potent.” I rub the back of my neck and confess I have to be at the ball park in an hour. Lenny blinks up at me, then she falls back on the grass and we both bust up laughing.

  I walk back to the house, and I’m slowly climbing up the steps of the front porch when my cell phone rings. It’s Coach Clark. It’s not uncommon for him to call us on game days for a private pep talk, but I’m not pitching today so I start to wonder.

  “Hello?”

  “Gray,” his loud voice rumbles over the phone. I pull the phone away from my ear. Do coaches ever stop shouting?

  “How’s your arm feeling?” he barks.

  It feels wonderful, like it’s floating, actually.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Good. I just wanted to give you a heads up. Pat’s got some stomach virus so it looks like you’ll be starting today. Hopefully he’ll be back for tomorrow’s game.”

  I have cotton mouth from the pot, and I’m high, and it almost sounds funny to hear this, like this is Lenny messing with me. I glance at the caller ID again, just to make sure, but Coach’s name is spelled out on my screen, loud and clear. I can feel my heart start to hammer. I adjust the rim of my hat and clear my throat.

  “What kind of a virus?” I ask. Tell me this isn’t happening. Can’t he just take some Pepto Bismol and suck it up?

  “It came on pretty fast. Poor kid can’t make it out of the bathroom.”

  “What about Richie?”

  “No, I don’t think he’s ready. His shoulder’s still tight. I want somebody consistent out there. What do you think?”

  I tell Coach it sounds great and hang up the phone. I look up and try to focus on some of the branches in the tree above me, but I can’t tell which is swaying—the branch or my head. I want to laugh because my depth perception is shot.

  God, you really must hate me.

  ***

  Isotopes Park is packed with fans, and we’re playing our biggest rival, New Mexico State. I glance over my shoulder at the scoreboard, lit up in neon advertisements. We’re down by five runs and the bases are loaded in the bottom of the fourth inning. I can hear the frustration humming around the stadium. Fans are starting to boo me off the field and even our mascot, Lobo Louie, is hanging his wolf head. I’m ready for the DJ to start playing funeral music in between innings. Outside of right field, where people usually stretch out on blankets and relax on the grass, I notice fans are standing, arms crossed, bodies rigid, staring at the culprit who’s ruining their Saturday afternoon. Me.

  I ta
ke a deep breath and make a concerted effort to focus. I walked the last two players, and I’ve just succeeded in throwing the most consecutive wild pitches in my baseball career. I’m trying to concentrate, but no matter how hard I throw, my body feels like it’s moving in slow motion.

  I can just imagine what the radio announcers are saying in the press box: “Well, folks, if you just tuned into today’s game, we’re watching Gray Thomas confirm a baseball theory: pitchers perform poorly on pot.”

  In the dugout, half the team is sitting down, cowering in the shade, and the rest are leaning over the fence, fuming. The guys hate me. I know they suspect what’s wrong. They saw how bloodshot my eyes were in the locker room. Miles won’t even look in my direction. I stare out at the Sandia Mountains and try to relax, but the mountains loom and cower and the peaks look jagged like teeth, like a mouth getting ready to scream.

  I turn back to home plate. Focus, Gray. Just get this guy out. Finish off the worst game of your life, put it behind you, learn from your incredibly stupid mistake and move on. Oh, yeah, and move Lenny to number one on your shit list.

  I stare down the batter, but he just grins back at me. He isn’t scared. He has three balls and one strike. He’s waiting for me to throw another wild pitch so he can trot safely to first base and bring another runner home. It’s almost impossible to throw a fast ball when my arm feels like it’s a feather that wants to float away in the wind and land in a field full of nachos and cheese sticks surrounded by waterfalls pooling into a river of ranch dressing.

  Just when I’m about to throw, Coach calls a timeout and stalks onto the field. He looks like he’s ready to throw me to a pack of mountain lions. He runs his hands over his thick, spiky gray hair and takes off his sunglasses. His dark brown eyes are furious.

  “What the hell are you doing, Gray? You know how this guy works. You throw him sliders and he swings low every time. It’s an easy out. Why are you trying to throw wide? He’s not going to swing at that.”

  I shrug because that’s the problem. I’m not thinking. “Sorry, Coach.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” He suspects something so I tell him. I play my trump card.

  “It’s my birthday,” I say. The look on my face says the rest. I don’t have to remind him who shares my birthday, that this is one of the hardest days of the year for me, and that it was a struggle just to get out of bed.

  His eyes narrow as he watches me, and I see some of the anger drain from his face. But there’s still suspicion on the surface. “You should have told me you couldn’t play when I called you,” he says.

  “I thought I could pull it out,” I say, and I leave out the fact that being stoned doesn’t exactly help.

  Coach thinks about this for a second. “You want me to take you out?” he asks. This is a gamble. I’d rather pitch an awful game than give up. I shake my head and tell him I’ll finish off the inning. He slams the ball back in my glove.

  “Get this guy out and then we’ll talk,” he says.

  My heart’s drumming nervously in my chest, and a cold sweat creeps over my arms and neck. Too many people are moving in the stands. There’s too much noise. I get nauseous for a second and think I’m going to throw up. I take a shaky breath and glare at the batter. I can see the shadow of his eyes underneath his helmet. He swings the bat in circles behind his shoulder and waits for the pitch.

  I roll the leathery ball in my fingers until I like where the laces line up. You’re mine.

  I wind up and throw a curve ball a little outside the plate and forget to make it a slider. The batter swings and cracks the bat against the ball. I wince and follow its path in the sky, deep into center field where it hits the wall and bounces to the ground. He makes it to second base. Two more runners make it home. Coach pulls me from the game and a freshman pitcher relieves me, closing off our loss. Most of the fans leave before the game comes to an embarrassing end.

  ***

  Back in the clubhouse, Coach calls me into a side office. Miles is sitting in there with him so either he ratted me out or he’s trying to throw me a life-line. Miles has a lot of respect on the team, and Coach looks to him to be a leader. I sit down and pull my baseball cap as low over my head as it will go. I press the tips of my fingers together and wait. There’s a quiet few seconds while Coach studies me. He rolls a pencil back and forth on his desk.

  “I’m having some doubts about your dedication to this team, Gray,” he says. “But Miles is trying to convince me I’m wrong about that.”

  I glance at Miles, but his eyes are on the floor. Coach is silent again, just to terrify me. And it’s working. I realize I might have just played my last college baseball game.

  “Listen,” he says, “I know you’re dealing with something the rest of these guys haven’t been through. But I’m not making excuses for you. So, here’s my question. Is getting high before a baseball game a one time mistake, or is this becoming a problem?”

  I take a deep breath and try to find my voice. Why is it that until you come close to losing something, you don’t understand how much you want it? Need it?

  I look back at Coach. “It won’t happen again. I swear my life on it.”

  “Everyone’s entitled to one mistake,” he says. “One.”

  “That’s all it was,” I say quietly.

  Coach sits back in his chair. “Do you need to talk to anybody about this? A psychologist?”

  “No,” I say. I tell him I’ve been seeing a counselor with my parents back in Phoenix.

  He sits up straighter in his seat. “That was Phoenix. Maybe you should see somebody here.”

  I shake my head. “I’m doing better, Coach. Today was a mistake.”

  He eyes me skeptically. “I’m giving you a two game suspension. Then you’re on probation the rest of the season.” I nod quickly and tell him that’s fair. “I don’t think you see the severity of this, Gray,” he warns me. “It could make the newspapers. I’ll have to explain why my star pitcher isn’t suited up. Something like this can kill any shot at a career. And I’ll have to call your parents.”

  I stare back at him as his words hit me. I feel like I’m starring in the after school special: The Higher You Get, the Lower You Fall: The Gray Thomas Story. Except this isn’t a joke. This is my real life I’m screwing with.

  “Two things, Gray. One, if you don’t think you can play, you need to communicate with me. I can’t read your mind. Two, stay clean,” Coach says. “I mean it. If I find out that you so much as look at a beer, or are in the same room as marijuana, then I’ll have to cut you. I’m not going to waste my time on guys that don’t want to be here when there are hundreds of players that would kill to be in your spot.”

  I swallow and take his offer. “Got it.”

  I stand up and summon enough self-esteem to lift my head and walk out of the room. I open the door and Miles follows behind me. Coach yells for Richie to come in and talk to him. His office door slams closed and the next thing I know I’m slammed against a locker, with Travis Taylor’s face inches from mine. He pushes his hands against my chest. I can smell anger on his breath. The metal locker jam is digging into my shoulder, but I don’t try to stop him. I don’t have any fight left.

  “You stupid, selfish piece of shit. You do something like that again and I’ll kick you off the team myself,” he says. Miles tries to pry us apart.

  “Dude, let it go. Coach handled it.”

  “Stop changing his diapers, Miles. The kid’s got to grow up sooner or later.”

  He turns his scowl back to me, and I keep my face level with his. His green eyes are smoldering with anger.

  “You want to curl up and die, be my guest. But you’re not taking the team down with you,” he says. Todd and Bubba and Miles are standing close by, but they don’t step in. I think Travis is speaking for everyone. The locker room is quiet as the rest of the guys turn to listen.

  “He has a point, Gray,” Todd says. “It’s not just you. It’s the whole team you’re me
ssing with.”

  My eyes narrow at the attack I’m getting in all directions. “Thanks for this thoughtful intervention guys,” I say. “Are you going to give me a workbook I can fill out to help me find myself?”

  Travis slams my back against the locker again.

  “This is my life,” Travis says. “This team is my shot at the pros, and I’ll drop you before I let you screw up our season.”

  “Alright, back off,” Bubba says, and he pulls Travis away from me. Bubba has four older brothers and claims to have a lifetime of experience breaking up fights. He’s thicker than both of us and has tribal tattoos that curl around each of his biceps, which he can pull off because he’s actually from a tribe.

  Travis lets go of his grip on my shirt and stares me down. He grabs his duffel bag but before he walks out the door he stops and turns to face me. There’s still a death threat on his face.

  “And as for your sister—”

  My hands clench into fists. Now he’s pushing it.

  “Get over it. Move on, Gray. You’re pathetic.”

  Before my heart takes another beat my hands are on him and with the force I use to push him, we both fall hard to the ground. I throw a fist that lands on his jaw and there’s a loud smack when bone meets bone. His fist flies and I take a blow to the side of my face. The contact makes light explode behind my eyes. A dozen hands try to pry us apart. I slam my knuckles into stomach, and he takes another swing that hits my mouth. There’s a flash of heat from the punch and I can taste blood on my lips. Someone’s grabbing my waist and I’m getting pulled off of him. Voices are shouting, but the sound barely penetrates through the fire raging in my head. Bubba has my arms pinned back and I’m pushing to get free.