Game Changer, page 22
I have about five minutes while the guys from St. Louis congratulate each other on the field before any of the bigwigs start filing out and heading for the exits. They’re bound to be rehashing the loss, trying to figure out what went wrong. It’s unlikely that any of the Kings’ execs are going to bolt out the door. Terry wouldn’t stand for it.
I step out onto the suite level and head toward the box directly behind home plate. Some people do a double take when they see me walk by still in uniform, unable to grasp that it’s really me and what I could possibly be doing up here so soon after the game. I use their confusion to my advantage, slipping through the crack in the door, the two security guards standing outside too slack-jawed by my sudden appearance to try and stop me.
"Mr. Heimlich, we need to talk," I announce without any introduction as all of those hobnobbing in the owner’s box part like the Red Sea, giving me a clear view of the back of his wheelchair.
The room falls silent as all eyes shift between us.
"Leave us…" comes the command from a voice I’d recognize anywhere.
My knees begin to shake, but I hold my ground as everyone streams around me and out the door.
I watch a set of gnarled fingers fiddle with the joystick on the arm of the wheelchair as he slowly spins around to face me. Arnold Heimlich, the gatekeeper of the New York Kings, the most feared persona in professional sports, the guy known for firing and rehiring managers on a whim, getting into fistfights with belligerent players, making and breaking dreams with the stroke of his pen. I swallow hard as he sizes me up.
But I’m not afraid of him. Instead, I find myself feeling sorry for him. His stroke has left him vulnerable, his mouth drooping to the side, his lower body paralyzed from the waist down, no longer cutting the robust figure of intimidation he was once known for. He looks like he’s on death’s door, barely clinging to a life whose best years have already passed him by.
I knew he’d be at the stadium tonight. Chase told me that he never misses a World Series game, that he’d be here even if he didn’t allow the cameras to catch a glimpse of him. He’s been something of a recluse since getting sick. Some pundits even mistakenly believe that he ceded control of the team to his eldest son. But those who know him best are quick to point out how much of a fallacy that is. As long as Arnold Heimlich’s drawing breath, he’s the decision maker for the Kings.
"Mr. Heimlich," I greet him, this time more gently. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir."
He blinks at me like I’m boring him. I don’t know how much he’s able to speak or if I should keep talking in order to fill the awkward gap. I’m too high strung to wait out any lulls in the conversation, so I decide to carry on.
"I’m not here to ask you for more money or to beg you to keep me for another year." I pause, gulping in as much air as I possibly can. "I’m not here for anything concerning myself or my place on the team. I know we have a World Series to win and that it’s far from over."
I watch a trail of saliva travel down his chin, and I do what comes natural. I reach for a napkin on a nearby table that’s strewn with catering warmers filled with everything from buffalo wings to chicken tenders, a veritable smorgasbord of every ballpark food imaginable, and bend down to dab at the old man’s face.
His eyes widen in shock when he feels me touch him, but he doesn’t resist. Instead, he closes his eyes and sighs with a deep, guttural rumble emanating from his chest. Up close, he seems so frail, just like my grandpa did before he died. Looking at him brings back a whole host of memories of those days spent in a nursing home holding vigil with my grandma before he passed away. But it makes me even more determined to plead my case, realizing just how much I have to lose.
"I’m here about Kyle," I whisper, choking up when his rheumy eyes find mine. "He’s running out of time, Mr. Heimlich, and you’re the only one who can do something about it."
He knits his eyebrows and tilts his head away from me like I’m bothering him.
"Sir, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I also know how much you admire my brother. You never play favorites, but for you to mention how much bringing Kyle up through the organization meant to you, I can’t help but feel that you wouldn’t turn your back on him now. Not when he needs you the most." I lightly touch his face, drawing his gaze back to me.
I feel the tears start to trickle down my cheeks as I watch his eyes well up, too. "This is it, Mr. Heimlich. I don’t even think he’ll make it until the end of the series. You know it won’t be a victory if it comes at the expense of losing him. He means too much to this team for his death not to cast a pallor on even the brightest celebration. Is that what you want? To have your team ridiculed for being so crass and commercialized that it would sacrifice one of its own just to bring another championship back to New York?"
When his bottom lip begins to tremble, I lose control and break down, clasping my hands together through my tears. "Mr. Heimlich, please… Please do whatever you need to do to get my brother a new heart."
He doesn’t respond. He just looks at me sadly, his mouth hanging open. Maybe I was crazy for coming up here. He looks about as helpless as I feel. Sure, he has money, power, connections, but what if it’s not enough? He can’t very well pull a heart out of thin air. There are rules and regulations governing the whole transplant process. I just thought that, somehow, he of all people could find a way to break them.
"I won’t bother you anymore." I tap his bony hand as I get to my feet, offering him a weak smile. "It was silly of me to barge in here like this. I’m a big girl, and I know you’re not Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. You don’t grant wishes like some genie. I couldn’t even give you the walk you needed today, for crying out loud."
I spin around, wiping my nose with the back of my uniform sleeve. I have to get out of here. This was a terrible idea. He can’t help me, but I had to try.
I straighten my spine, pulling myself together. "I assure you I’ll do whatever it takes to win this series for you, Mr. Heimlich. Please don’t let my behavior here tonight dissuade you of that. I can juggle my personal and professional lives, I assure you. My mind is fully committed to the game. No matter what happens to Kyle, I’ll fulfill my duty and deliver what I promised you back in July. Rest assured, my head is in the game, right where it should be."
I’m too much of a coward to cast a look at him over my shoulder before I depart, and he doesn’t make a sound to stop me. I probably just made one of the most powerful men in the world feel like a world-class jerk, so what else is new? I’m forever sticking my foot in my mouth and doing impulsive things. I should have waited and talked to Brooks before I charged up here like a maniac. But no, I had to act on my own. Just wait until he hears what I did. I probably screwed things up for Kyle instead of making things better for him. Heimlich could report me for trying to coerce him into bribing officials for a new heart. It’s illegal. It’s unethical. It goes against the rules of good sportsmanship in every respect, something that he prides himself in adhering to as his personal code of honor.
Yeah, he just might kick me off his team for good.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Brooks
We’re down two games to none after dropping the first two at home.
Hardly any teams, in any sport, have come back from such a deficit. It’s going to take a miracle to bring this series back to New York. We’re going to have to take two out of our next three in St. Louis, preferably all three, to have any chance at all. Needless to say, it doesn’t look good.
But tonight, we’re in the best barbecue joint in the city, Sasha and her family along with my parents and me. The oil refinery president actually called my dad and personally gave him the time off to come up here and watch me compete in the World Series. My dad accepted, fearful of upsetting the big cheese, afraid to look like the selfish asshole he really is. So he flew Mama to New York, complaining the entire time about the traffic and the noise and how he was missing out on a critical repair job on one of the lines and how the jerks he left behind would screw it up without him. He hasn’t shut up about it since he landed, and the headache he’s given me just won’t quit.
Sasha is not herself. She’s here, but she’s not. She wanted to go back to the hospital and stay with Kyle until we head to St. Louis tomorrow, but Casey urged her to drop by in the morning, telling her that, if anything should change, she’d let us know. Sasha didn’t exactly like that answer, but she accepted it. I watch her yawn. She can just about keep her eyes open anyway.
I didn’t really feel like going out either, but with the families in town, there was no way around it. It’s not like either of us were up to having people over. Sasha invited her parents to stay with her in her spacious apartment at the Roosevelt Building, but they preferred to be near Kyle, checking into the hotel near the hospital, where Casey’s been staying. They won’t be traveling with the team, opting to remain close to their ailing son.
My place isn’t exactly large enough to accommodate my parents, or at least that’s what I told them. When I left for the minors, I swore I would never again sleep under the same roof as my dad and I intend to stick to that. I booked them a comfortable room at the Sheraton in Times Square along with a car service for wherever they want to go. But so far, all they’ve been doing is tailing me, like to this dinner tonight.
If Matt and Nate weren’t here, I think I would’ve freakin’ lost it a long time ago. This is not how I anticipated our parents meeting each other for the first time. There’s enough tension floating around this table to choke a horse. Mr. and Mrs. Roberts are doing their best to remain cordial, but they’re going through such a rough time right now, and my dad is being as gruff and rude as ever, talking over them, giving his opinion when it’s not asked for, addressing only the men while ignoring the three ladies present. I can see Mr. Roberts’s jaw twitching when my dad starts lambasting Tony and how he should’ve pulled Landry in the seventh instead of the eighth, going on and on when he doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about as he just continues to embarrass himself in front of the father of three major league players.
Sasha silently sips her Diet Coke and rubs her temples. I requested a private room, but the din from the multiple TVs and the aggressive conversation over our loss is doing nothing to help her relax. I know she’s still beating herself up inside about not being able to draw that walk in game one. Word got out about Kyle’s failing condition from some anonymous hospital source, so the whole world knows what she’s going through. She’s putting on a brave face, but she always wears her heart on her sleeve. She can’t hide her pain. It’s just who she is and why everyone loves her so much—no one more so than me.
When she sits back in her seat, I reach for her hand under the table and slide her fingers through mine to warm them up. She shuts her eyes and just breathes, moving her thumb slowly across my knuckles in response. What she’s doing is as sensuous as it is moving. This connection we share is the real deal. What she feels, I feel, and vice versa. It’s so powerful that, with anyone else, I would be scared shitless, but with her, I’m not. Instead, she always leaves me wanting more.
"And bunting," my father drones on. "I’ll never understand Liotta’s obsession with bunting. It’s like a pitcher’s wet dream, giving the other team an easy out."
"Hold on," Mr. Roberts cuts in, for the first time unable to conceal his anger.
"Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not harping on your little girl, Rich. Settle down," my dad laughs, like what Sasha does is some kind of talent better suited for the beauty pageant circuit. "She always manages to lay something down, at least the majority of the time anyway. I’m talking about my boy here and how Liotta should’ve had him advance the runners with a simple hit-and-run instead of getting all slap happy."
Here we go. He’s out to find a way to make these two losses my fault. It’s what he does best.
"But the situation didn’t call for a hit-and-run," Matt interjects.
"Well, if you’re as bad a bunter as my son is, why wouldn’t you pinch-hit for him and put in some other clown who could at least give you what you wanted?" He shrugs, taking a swig from his beer bottle.
I’m going to hurt Sasha if I grip her hand any harder, so I let it go, propping my elbows on the table to stare my father down.
"Because Brooksey’s the best defensive shortstop in the American League. There was no way that Tony was going to take him out. Don’t be ridiculous!" Nate exclaims, shaking his head in disgust.
Nate’s been moody ever since Boston got knocked out of the playoffs. He was distracted and worried about Kyle, and his production at the plate was virtually nonexistent. Boston was such a strong contender all year, but we beat them for the pennant and they went in as the wild card. No one expected their early exit after they dropped their division series to Cleveland. We caught a break from the scheduling gods when Sasha and Nate didn’t have to face each other during the regular season, and I was relieved when they didn’t have to meet up in the postseason. I think it would’ve been more than either of them could’ve handled at that point.
Now, the last thing Nate is up for is listening to my dad’s bullshit. I can tell how much it’s grating on him. But my dad doesn’t care; he just keeps rambling on.
"Chase Whitfield was the best defensive shortstop in the American League. Hell, in all of baseball," my dad insists, by way of what he thinks is a brilliant comebacker. "It makes me sad to see him standing alongside first when he could be doing a much better job than this sad sack of bones over here."
"Ha!" Sasha snickers sarcastically. "That’s funny."
"What is, darlin’?" My dad wipes his mouth with his napkin while Mama turns as white as one of those cotton bedsheets she’s always hanging on the clothesline out back.
"That you find the means to criticize your son when you’ve never actually played at this level yourself," Sasha says innocently enough, although my dad would be a fool not to hear the dire warning hanging around the edges of her remark.
"You don’t have to be able to do it in order to talk about it," he fires back, his eyes narrowing. "Your beloved announcer, Andy Rader, is proof of that."
"Yeah, but it’s one thing to give an intelligent opinion and another to sound like a jackass just blowing off steam," she retorts, and her mother urges her to settle down.
"Excuse me?" he asks, tossing his napkin forcefully onto the table. "I’d watch your mouth, young lady, if I were you. Cussing and swearing might be your way of getting men to take you seriously, and it might work when you’re around a mama’s boy like my son, but not with me."
"I’d appreciate it if you’d not talk to my daughter that way," Mr. Roberts threatens quietly, not needing to raise his voice.
"I’ll talk to her however I see fit!" my dad snarls back. "She’s nuthin’ more than a farce, pretending to be some kind of ballplayer." He turns his attention back to Sasha. "Honey, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not fooling anybody. You should hear the way we talk about you on the rig. No one takes you seriously. No one."
"Get out," Mama whispers, glancing at him with a stricken expression.
"I’ll go when I’m damn well ready, woman. I haven’t even had my dessert yet." He sits back, rubbing his stomach like he’s settling in for the night.
"Get out," Mama repeats. "I won’t tell you again. These nice people are going through a lot right now, and there’s no way I’m gonna let you sit there and insult them just because they’re too considerate of our son’s feelings to ask you to leave."
"Well, if that’s how you feel, don’t expect to have a home waiting for you in Chickasha when this is all over. I’m not gonna be slaving away, putting a roof over your head if this is how you’re gonna treat me in public, turning on me the minute you get a chance," he spews, that familiar temper of his rising to the surface.
"She doesn’t have to worry about a thing," I reply, glaring at him. "Because I’ll be the one taking care of her from now on, something I should’ve insisted on a long time ago."
"You do that, boy, because I’m through with the two of you." He gets up from the table, opening his wallet and slamming down a twenty, hardly enough to cover his meal, but then again, he’s not worldly enough to know that Manhattan prices are a lot higher than those in Oklahoma.
He stomps out of the restaurant, and my mom meets my eyes boldly across the table. I can only hope she means it this time. She’s tried to leave him before but to no avail. He was always able to sweet-talk himself back into her good graces. But this time, she did it in front of witnesses, so that’s an encouraging sign.
"Evelyn, I’m so sorry." Sasha’s mom gets out of her chair to give Mama a hug.
"Don’t be," she says with more conviction that I was expecting. "This has been long overdue. There’s nuthin’ left to hold on to. He’s so full of rage and bitterness, that man, and I won’t have him poisoning the family of my son’s girl. Brooks has a chance to make a fresh start with Sasha, and I won’t have him ruin it. He’s spoiled our lives long enough."
My cheeks burn when I realize what she’s implying, making it sound like Mr. and Mrs. Roberts are going to be my future in-laws. That’s presuming an awful lot, especially since I didn’t even ask her father for her hand yet.
I cast a sheepish look at him as if to say, "You know how moms are. What can I do?" and he just winks at me. He gets it.
But Sasha doesn’t seem too happy after watching our little exchange. It’s not like I’m holding out on her, but now is not the time to talk about this. There’s so much going on that there’s no way in hell I’m bringing marriage into the equation, too.
I’m practically on the brink of losing her again. We could drop the next two in St. Louis and then she will be out of my life completely. We’ll be right back where we started, with me playing in New York and her going back to college. I wasn’t keen on her being a member of the Kings, but at least we got to see each other every day. Now if it all goes up in smoke, this little moment of time that we had within the season will disappear as well, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen when our time together runs out.
