Curveball, page 12
“Then we’ll have to work extra hard teaching you to spin a wedge. To make it worth your while.”
They arrived at the green. Carlie parked the cart and set the brake. Joe left his putt a foot short, then Carlie tapped hers in for a birdie, finishing five strokes and a personal appearance ahead. He never would have guessed she liked women. But what did he know?
That evening, Joe and Frannie drove to the Village of Sonoma and strolled around the plaza. Sonoma people-watching and window-shopping were among their favorite activities. Although they rarely purchased anything or tasted wine and olive oil, Sonoma charmed them, and they sometimes stopped into the original mission to feel part of its long history.
After they’d circled the plaza, returning to the north side where they’d started, they settled on a bench under the green arching trees. The light was fading. Small birds twittered in the high branches, and swallows, maybe even a few bats, swooped in the gloaming.
Frannie said, “You never did tell me. How old is the golf pro?”
“Maybe forty-five.”
“Who won?”
“I lost by five strokes.”
The light was nearly gone. “Did you ever figure out why he invited you?”
“Actually,” Joe said, feeling guilty, “the pro’s a woman, Carlie Johannsen.”
Frannie looked at him. “A woman beat you by five strokes?”
“She’s really good. She can hit the ball one hell of a long way.”
“Is she big and burly?”
“Not really. She’s kind of pretty.” Joe smiled then remembered he was talking to his wife. “But not as pretty as you.”
“Flattery will only get you to first base. So why did she ask you to play a round?”
Joe’s eyes did a little flip. “She asked me to appear at the club tournament in a few weeks.”
“I assume you said no, like always.”
“I said yes.”
For the first time in years, really for the first time he could remember, Frannie looked jealous. “She must be prettier than you’re letting on.”
“I never said she wasn’t pretty.”
He grinned; Frannie didn’t. Everything he said seemed to make things worse. But like the loyal husband he was, Joe pressed on.
“She confessed that when she was sixteen, which means I was, like, thirty, she had this giant crush on me.”
“Really.”
“The thing is,” Joe said, “she’s a lesbian, so it doesn’t mean anything.”
“How do you know she’s a lesbian?”
“She told me.”
“She told you?”
“That’s right.” He leaned towards her in the dark and kissed her, and not just a little peck. “Love you, Frannie. Now how about dinner? Girl and the Fig, okay?”
“Sure.” They ate there probably once a week, and he knew it was her favorite. They stood up, and this time she kissed him, just like in their courting days, really hard on the mouth and grabbed his ass too. Then they crossed Spain Street in Sonoma, California, heading for dinner.
Chapter Eighteen
Four days after the game that Glad, Jack, Emmy, and Tiff attended, the Syracuse Mets were settling into a Hampton Inn near the ballpark in Moosic, PA. They were in Moosic to begin a three-game set against the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre RailRiders, the Yankees Triple-A affiliate; Jess had been eager to face them since the season began. Scranton/Wilkes-Barre RailRiders was a stupid name, but last season Jess had pitched for the Binghamton Rumble Ponies, which took the layer cake for stupid. One, there were no ponies in Binghamton, New York; and two, what the hell was a rumble pony? All season long, Jess and his teammates had wondered if rumble was the sound of too many ballpark franks? Or did rumble signify street fighting, a la West Side Story, one of Jack’s favorite movies, so that rumble ponies meant they were bad-tempered miniature horses?
Sitting on one of the queen-sized beds in the room he shared with Rah, Jess decided that although Scranton/Wilkes-Barre RailRiders sounded stupid, they were the Yankees’ affiliate, and always fielded a good squad. They had three players on MLB’s top one hundred prospects list, and someday, Jess thought, he’d face them in a Subway Series in New York. Yeah, right, he thought. And then you wake up.
In the meantime, he’d been following his day-before-starting regimen. Before the two-and-half-hour bus ride, he’d gotten in his lifting. On the bus, he crunched scouting reports with Rah and watched iPad videos of the RailRiders’ best hitters and of his own last two starts. Even though his mechanics were generally good, he was still flying open on four-seamers, especially to right-handed batters, missing high and wide when working the outside corner, and even worse, sometimes splitting the dish when coming inside. He’d been lucky several times against the IronPigs on fastballs middle-middle, but against the number three and four batters on the RailRiders, those pitches would get crushed. Release point, he’d thought, watching video on the bus. Release point, which Dad had been emphasizing his entire life. Release point, he was thinking now, back propped against the headboard, watching his Mini-Me on the iPad. Rotate your hip, drive with your legs. Stay balanced over the rubber. Release point.
Jess glanced at Rah, seated on the next bed, bare-chested, playing Fortnite on his Nintendo Switch, wearing boxers. Part of his night-before-starting for his last three starts had involved a different sort of release. He still couldn’t believe that after being certain Rah was straight, it turned out he’d been sleeping with men since he was fifteen. Nobody in his family knew, of course, and Rah said that if his father found out, he might kill him. Or worse!
Jess glanced at Rah again, lost in Fortnite. How could he bring up sex without being too obvious? Rah loved Fortnite and didn’t like to be interrupted. But it was getting late, and another part of the night-before-starting was extra sleep. Maybe propose back rubs, which wouldn’t be too obvious, because loosening his back and shoulder was another part of night-before-starting. It was key, Jess thought. Yes, key! The Mets, like every other team, were serious about protecting starting pitchers’ arms. He remembered Suarez saying after his last start, “Take care of that moneymaker, son!”
Big league clubs employed armies of trainers and massage therapists, and stars often hired private masseuses. Even in Triple-A, tomorrow at the park before warming up, Jess would get a fifteen-minute rubdown from Gus the trainer. But the rub Jess had in mind was different. He shifted to Rah’s bed and started stroking his shoulders.
“Doan bother me, Yess, I’m playing.”
“Don’t you want your shoulders rubbed?”
Jess pressed harder, then moved his lips to the back of Rah’s neck.
“Pendejo!” Rah shouted, dropping his Switch. “They kill me!”
Rah turned, and Jess kissed his lips. Rah kissed him back so violently it was like getting punched, and they thrashed around as if they were fighting. Then it wasn’t fighting, and just as Jess started relaxing into the smooth, pliant feel of Rah’s tongue, knocking started on their door, softly, then more urgently. Over the next few seconds, Jess grasped the knocking, which became a banging, wasn’t inside his chest. Rah understood at the exact same time, and they jumped away from each other as if scalded, eyes wide with fear.
Jess mouthed, “Get dressed!”
Rah grabbed his pants and ran to the bathroom. The door banging intensified. This had been and remained their greatest fear: getting caught in bed. Jess pulled on his Syracuse t-shirt and shorts, shoved his mussed hair off his face, and started towards the door. Halfway there, he glimpsed his eyes in a mirror: stark animal terror.
“One second!”
Jess heard voices in the hall. He looked back to make sure nothing would give them away. Good, the sheets on both beds were turned down.
When he unlatched the chain and opened the door, his manager, Ray Suarez, and Tony C., traveling secretary, stood shoulder to shoulder, grinning.
“For a minute,” Suarez began, “I thought maybe you and Rah were at a bar trying to get lucky. But Tony said, ‘No way, not Jess, night before a start.’”
Remembering Jack’s lifelong advice that if you had to lie, be as honest as possible, Jess replied, “We were in bed. I sleep extra before a start.”
Suarez said, “Tony, you were right.”
Tony C., whose face resembled a slice of meatloaf, nodded. “Okay if we come in?”
Jess backed up, hoping he hadn’t missed anything incriminating.
“Where’s Rah?” Suarez asked.
“In the crapper.” Jess hesitated, then added, “Sir.”
Suarez and Tony C grinned. “Sir,” Suarez said. “That kills me.”
Tony C. asked again, “Where’s Rah? This is about him too.”
Who had ratted them out? Who could possibly know? “I’ll get him.” Jess stepped around Suarez and knocked on the closed bathroom door, said in a loud stage whisper, “Coach is here to see us.”
“Momentito.” Rah emerged looking every bit as startled and scared as when he went in.
“Sooooo,” Suarez began. “I’m sorry if we woke you guys. But there’s bad news about Jess’s start.”
I’m not starting? Jess thought. What the fuck?
“Real bad news,” added Tony C.
“Late this afternoon, Randy Vermouth went on the IR with biceps tendinitis. Guess who they’re calling up?”
Slowly, like a night-blooming orchid, understanding opened inside Jess. His lips began to tremble, and the next thing Jess knew he was fighting tears. Was he really going to mark the moment he’d been dreaming of his entire life by crying! Tom Hanks’s iconic line from A League of their Own tiptoed through his mind, “There’s no crying in baseball!” just as Suarez stuck out his hand.
“Congratulations, son! After your last start, I said you wouldn’t be here long!”
Next Tony C. pumped Jess’s hand. For a moment, it was too much. Too much! Jubilation and regret in a single breath: the fear of losing Rah. He stuck out his hand to his catcher, but Rah pushed past it and wrapped him in a bear hug.
“Jess,” Rah shouted in his ear. “Yess, Yess, Yess!” Then softer, so the others wouldn’t hear, “Te amo, hombre!”
Jess stepped out of Rah’s embrace, fearful of appearing less than manly.
Suarez said, “They want you on the 6:00-a.m. flight out of Wilkes-Barre.”
Tony C. added, “You change planes in DC, then onto La Guardia, landing at ten-thirty. Better start packing, son.” He turned to Rah. “For now, you got a single, but soon as they send us another player, you got a roomie, okay?”
Rah nodded and peeked at Jess, who was praying Suarez and Tony C. would leave them alone. Then he thought, Wait a minute. Wait a minute!
“Did they say when they plan to pitch me?”
“I was waiting for you to ask.” Suarez grinned. “Day after tomorrow, son. You start day after tomorrow at Citi Field.”
Those were the last words Jess heard. Eventually, Suarez and Tony C. departed. Jess jumped into Rah’s arms and held on.
When the phone rang, Joe was in their bedroom, waiting for the Giants game to start. Mike Krukow, the Giants’ color analyst, was finishing his pregame spiel. Joe had pitched several times against Kruk thirty or more years ago and liked him. He muted the volume and answered his phone.
“Dad,” Jess said, “could you get Mom? There’s something I want to tell you at the same time.”
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s great. Get Mom and put me on speaker.”
“Sure.” Joe switched off the TV and left the bedroom. “You still pitching tomorrow?”
“I’ve been pushed back a day. Let me know when Mom’s there.”
Joe found Frannie in the living room, watching this weird British show on which English craftsmen repaired family heirlooms. He’d also caught her watching a docudrama about famous assassins. He wouldn’t have thought she’d be interested in either, but she was.
“It’s Jess,” Joe said. “He wants to tell us something.”
Frannie paused her program.
“You’re on speaker,” Joe said. “Mom’s right beside me.”
“Guess who’s starting Friday night at Citi Field?”
“Oh, Jess!” Frannie shouted and started to cry.
“Son,” Joe said, then he was bawling too. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Hey, guys,” Jess said. “Are you crying?”
Joe looked at Frannie, who answered, “Tears of joy.”
Jess said, “When Suarez, the S-Mets’ manager gave me the news, my first reaction was to cry too.”
“It’s only natural,” Joe said. “When you dream about something for so long.”
Frannie squeezed his hand.
“You call Jack yet?” Joe asked.
“Right after I call you guys. So.”
Joe could hear the hesitation in Jess’s voice.
“Will you come to the game?”
“You couldn’t keep us away,” Frannie said. “Soon as we get off, I’ll buy tickets.”
“That’s great, I mean, Dad’s okay to travel?”
“I’m cancer-free,” Joe said. “Who are the Mets playing Friday?”
“Philadelphia. Nola’s pitching.” Jess hesitated. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?” Frannie asked.
There was a long pause, then Jess said, “I’ll tell you when I see you. Love you, guys.”
“Can’t you tell us now?”
“In person would be better.”
“Love you too,” Joe and Frannie said.
There was no danger of Jack crying. One, he hadn’t cried in decades. Two, when his phone rang and he saw it was Jess, he turned to Glad, who sat beside him on her couch, and said, “I bet this is the call we been waiting for.”
Jess said, “Grandpa—?”
Jack shouted into his iPhone, “They CALLED you up, didn’t they?”
“How’d you know?”
Jack bounded off the couch like a spring rooster. “Cause I seen your last start! And because I read that stiff VERMOUTH has a bum shoulder!”
“Can’t tell you anything, can I?”
Jack thought maybe Two-J’s sounded miffed. “Sorry to steal your thunder!” Then he started shouting again, “I am SO PUMPED! Wait a minute.” He bent down and kissed Glad, bam! on her red, red mouth. “Start packing, honey, we’re going to New York.”
“Syracuse?”
“The Big Fucking Apple!”
“Jack,” Jess said, “I gotta go, early flight.”
“Your parents flying in this time?”
“They said they were. I’m starting Friday.”
“Against Nola?” Jack crowed. “Against fucking Nola?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ll beat his ass, Two-J’s, don’t worry.” Then a strange thought crossed Jack’s mind. “Say hi to Rah for us. What a sweet kid. Me and Glad really like him.”
“Me too.”
Before Jack could say, See ya in the City, the phone went dead.
When his alarm went off at four-fifteen, the room was black and Jess didn’t know where he was. It was so early, it didn’t feel as if he’d slept yet, and now that he was marginally awake, it felt as if he were still asleep. Then he remembered. Rah. They’d broken their rule and slept in the same bed. Rah was beside him, naked except for boxers, his face on the next pillow.
Jess turned off the buzzing cell alarm and raised the phone above Rah’s face. The dim light illuminated his closed eye sockets and the hollow between his lips and chin. They’d made love last night after Suarez and Tony C. left, and Jess couldn’t remember sex being so tender and loving. And then he thought, No, it’s not that he couldn’t remember sex like that. He’d never had sex like that!
The iPhone switched itself off, and the room plunged into darkness. Jess thought about crawling under the sheet, removing Rah’s boxers, and taking Rah in his mouth. Just thinking about that, and he could feel himself getting hard.
But no. They’d said goodbye that way, Rah hated waking up early, and he had a plane to catch. He crept from bed towards the bathroom to shower. With the hot spray streaming over him, the words of a song his mother used to play, “I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again,” merged with the water, and he sang them over and over, finishing with, “Oh babe, I hate to go.”
He nearly made himself cry, which he must have been trying to do. But then it was time to go, and he toweled off, put his Dopp kit in the suitcase he’d brought into the bathroom with him, and dressed in the shirt, pants, Skechers, and Mets windbreaker he’d laid out the night before. Just before leaving the bathroom, he glanced in the mirror and realized he’d forgotten his ballcap, which must be somewhere in the bedroom. He wondered how he was going to find it in the dark, maybe turn on the flashlight on his phone, because he’d decided as a point of pride that he wasn’t going to turn on the light and wake up Rah, who had an afternoon game and needed his sleep. And besides, he didn’t want to seem too needy; they’d said goodbye the night before.
But when he came out of the bathroom, carrying his suitcase, trying hard not to make any noise, he only made it halfway to the door before Rah sat up and switched on the bedside lamp.
“Weren’t you going to say goodbye?” Rah asked.
“Oh, babe,” Jess answered, hearing an echo of the song in his head. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You think I can sleep when you leaving?”
Jess put down his suitcase and hurried to Rah’s side of the bed. Rah wrapped his strong catcher’s arms around Jess’s waist and pressed the side of his face against Jess’s belly. He held on and held on. After a moment, Jess stepped back.
“I hate to go,” he said.
“You’re going to do great, Jess.”
