Curveball, page 13
“I’ll call when I land.”
“I’ll be at the ballpark. Call tonight.”
Jess started towards the door, then rushed back to the bed and kissed Rah’s mouth. And kissed it some more. When they were out of breath, Rah said, “You doan wanna miss your flight.”
Jess started towards the door.
“And Jess—” Jess turned back.
“Doan forget your release point.” Rah licked his lips.
“I won’t.”
Jess smiled and hurried out the door.
Chapter Nineteen
At 10:00 a.m. Thursday, the Mets’ PR department announced top pitching prospect Jess Singer, son of all-time team great, Joe Singer, was being promoted from Syracuse and would start Friday against the Phillies. At 7:05 a.m. in Santa Rosa, where Joe was crunching extra shirts into his suitcase, his cell phone began blowing up. How did the New York press get his number? Jess? Mac? The Mets’ front office? Joe had disliked interviews even before the scandal twenty-five years ago. He’d never wanted to be a hero, nor did he deserve to be a villain. He couldn’t think fast enough on his feet to answer questions, and so for years had been reduced to the classic jock response: I just want to do my best for the team.
That became impossible after he was suspended for refusing to defend himself against allegations he tried to throw a game the Mets ultimately won. And though all was supposedly forgiven when the charges were dropped and he was reinstated, the attendant stink, Joe believed, had dishonored his name. That stink, Joe thought, was what people remembered, not his ten years as the ace of a bad team.
He also remembered the way some of his so-called fans had turned on him, especially that joker in New York who’d sent his five-year-old to Joe’s table, ostensibly for an autograph, but really to say, in his piping little boy voice, “Say it ain’t so, Joe! Say it ain’t!”
Joe had never returned to New York for a Mets Old-Timers’ game, nor did he supplement his pension appearing at card and memorabilia shows, like Pete Rose, who’d been caught betting on games, or the small army of retired players who’d spent years injecting themselves in the ass with steroids. Joe was shy; he was proud; and, it just wasn’t worth it to him.
But this was different, Frannie said. This was about Jess. The Mets’ PR department assured him of the same thing, when they called just before he turned off his phone. The first father-son tandem in team history! Just like Vlad Guerroro, Junior and Senior! Like Fernando Tatis! What a great story, Joe! And so, completely against his heart’s desire, which was to wear the disguise Jack always called the Midnight Jew, a la Jon Voight, Joe agreed to do his first press conference since he retired twenty-four years ago.
Because of the time change, they didn’t land at JFK until almost 9:00 p.m. A waiting Town Car whisked them to the Bentley, the East Side hotel where they’d stayed when Joe was seen at Sloane Kettering. Jack and Glad were already there. Five minutes after they checked in, there was a knock, and Jack entered, not just grinning ear to ear, but six inches past both sides of his face.
“Hey, Joey.” He grabbed Joe’s hand. “Hey, Frannie. They gave you one hell of a room, much nicer than ours.”
Joe hadn’t even noticed, but they’d been installed in a junior suite; one long wall of windows looked across the East River onto Roosevelt Island.
“How was your flight?” Frannie asked.
“Easy.” Jack reached up to kiss her cheek. “You know what? Either you’re still growing, or I’m shrinking faster than I thought.”
“You’re shrinking,” Joe said.
Jack shot him a look. “We got in early enough, me and Glad had dinner with Two-J’s.”
“Is he nervous?” Frannie asked.
“I’d be nervous,” Joe admitted.
“You,” Jack replied, “had me for a parent. But Two-J’s had the two of you. He’s like a thoroughbred inside the starting gate, waiting for his first race.”
Jack grinned. This was his version, Joe realized, of a compliment.
“By the way,” Jack continued, “Two-J’s said call him when you got in.”
Frannie asked, “You don’t think it’s too late?”
Joe checked his watch. Ten to eleven. “Nah, he’ll be up. He probably can’t sleep, I know I couldn’t.”
Jack was watching from the back of the press room, by special permission of the Mets, while the beat writers interviewed Joe. How, they wanted to know, did it feel to have his son not only follow him to the majors, but to the very same club he’d pitched for?
“Like a dream,” Joe answered.
He was wearing a vintage cap, the same style he’d worn while pitching: blue brim and body, orange NY. He looked like a dream himself, Jack thought. Once again tall, strong, and slender. With gray hair showing at his temples, he almost looked wise. At the very least, Joe looked like an ambassador for baseball as it used to be: before steroids, instant replay, launch angles, the Universal DH, PitchCom, and the pitch clock changed the game. Before sabermetrics. Before openers. Before starting pitchers were lifted after twice through the lineup.
“Joe,” called a baldie near the front. “When Jess was growing up, did you give him tips on pitching?”
“Like any son and dad, we played a lot of catch.”
“What about his curve?” asked a woman in front of Jack. “Rated the best in the minors. Did you teach him?”
“Actually.” Joe grinned. “I spent Jess’s high school years cautioning him not to throw it. Shows what I knew.”
Damn right, thought Jack.
“Jess’s grandfather taught him that curve.”
“Your father,” asked a white-haired reporter, up front. “The bookie? He’s still alive?”
“He was never a bookie,” Joe’s eyes narrowed. “And yes, still alive and kicking like hell. He’s here today to watch the game.”
Their eyes met, Joe’s and Jack’s, and Jack nodded, remembering those terrible days.
“Last question,” Joe said, and pointed towards a reporter in the front row.
“Who do you think is better, Joe, you or Jess? I mean at the same age?”
Several reporters laughed. What a dumbass question, Jack thought.
“Some of you may know, I struggled my first two years throwing strikes. So, I’d say Jess. Then again, as his dad, I just might be biased.”
Joe grinned. He’d looked surprisingly comfortable answering these dumbasses, Jack thought.
“Thank you, fellas.” Joe stood, then leaned back towards the mic. “And you women too, of course. You know there weren’t any female reporters when I was playing. Some things really do change for the better.” He grinned. “Let’s go Mets.”
Seated behind the Mets’ dugout, Joe was jumpy as sixteen cats. Frannie was on his left, Jack and Glad to his right. Joe couldn’t remember feeling this nervous, not even for his one post-season start; well, maybe his first All-Star game, when he had to run back to the clubhouse and throw up. Watching Jess complete warm-ups, unable to influence what would happen in a few minutes, was terrifying and humbling. Just like the first day they’d brought Jess to preschool, and he ran off to play, without looking back. There was nothing he or Frannie could do now.
He’d looked so grown up in the clubhouse, dark stubble stippling his cheeks. You’ll do great, Joe managed. Frannie had hugged him and held on. But Jack, who was incapable of being low-key, had pumped Jess’s hand and half-shouted, You’ll fucking kill it, Two-J’s, I know you will!
Jess toed the rubber, peering in for a sign from Furillo, the Mets’ veteran catcher. Most likely they’d worked out the first pitch, maybe even the first sequence based on the scouting report and would follow it unless Furillo had picked up during warm-ups that Jess was having trouble executing one pitch or another. Joe hadn’t seen anything amiss, however, and hoped that whatever Furillo called, Jess dotted, because you only got one chance to throw your first major league pitch for a strike. He also hoped the Phillies’ leadoff batter wasn’t sitting dead red if Furillo had called a fastball. Jess bent into his motion. Without realizing he was doing it, Joe held his breath and watched a big breaking first-pitch curve nick the outside corner. Joe turned towards his father, who mouthed, “Fucking A.”
It was beautiful. And so was the next pitch, and the one after that.
Jess gave up a solo shot, a no-doubter, to Castellanos in the fourth, then gutted through a two-on, two-out jam in the fifth. When Gallagher sent him out to begin the sixth, he knew he was on the shortest of leashes. If anyone got on, he was gone. But Jess didn’t want to be gone. He was having way too much fun. He threw a one-two-three top of the sixth, ending with a slower-than-usual curve that froze the Phillies’ left-handed slugger, Bryce Harper. Jess just about danced off the field to the thunder of hometown cheers, reminding himself to Act like you’ve been here before. But he hadn’t. The Mets were leading 6-1 in his first major league start. If he could have written the script, it wouldn’t have been this good. Just wait, he thought, swaddled as if in a blanket by the crowd noise, which only grew louder when his new teammates pushed him up the dugout steps to doff his cap. Just wait till I tell Rah.
PART THREE
THE SHOW
Chapter Twenty
Four months later, Jess was preparing for his eighteenth big league start: Oracle Park against the Giants. Although he’d never again been as dominant as in his debut against the Phillies, his record was 8-5, with a 3.41 ERA, and his name came up, Jack loved telling him, on most National League Rookie of the Year lists. To manage his innings, the Mets brass skipped him whenever the Mets had an off-day, and often pulled him after five even when his pitch count was low. Mindful of the Matt Harvey fiasco in 2015, the front office was planning to shut Jess down at 175 innings; counting Triple-A, he was at 135. With the Mets in post-season contention—second in the NL East and leading the second Wild Card—How to Handle Jess Singer’s workload, was a hot topic on New York sports radio.
The Post, Newsday, and Daily News alternated calling him “Curvy Jess,” “Hammer Singer,” and “Dr. Hook.” He’d been hired as the spokesperson for Summerall Tires, and his agent was working on a sneaker deal. Bleacher Report ran a feature referring to Jess as the Boy Wonder and Singer 2.0. He’d rented an apartment on the Upper East Side, and there were social media rumors that he was the Mets’ most eligible bachelor. He’d accumulated 200,000 followers on Instagram, 250,000 on Twitter, and on the advice of the Mets’ PR office, he’d shut down his public Facebook account.
He and Rah texted every day. Rah favored emojis: four or six smiley faces with sunglasses. They’d promised to talk every night, or every other night, but that had proved impossible because the Mets played so many night games. Jess didn’t get back to his apartment or hotel room until after midnight. He could talk then, but Rah had a roommate, both at Applewood and in motels for road games (major leaguers had private rooms on the road). So they ended up speaking once or twice a week, whenever the Mets had an off-day or played in the afternoon. That wasn’t enough. Neither of them, Jess realized, knew anything about being in a relationship. They were so frightened of being discovered, they tried never to speak when Rah’s roommate was there. No phone sex. No sexting. What if someone found out? Just Hello, how are you? I miss you.
He’d managed to see Rah twice since being promoted and not at all since the All-Star Break, which he spent in Syracuse. His major league teammates found it weird he returned to Syracuse instead of going hunting or fishing, or chilling with his family; Jess tried not to talk about it. The visit wasn’t all that successful. Rah had a game every day except Monday and Miguel in his room at night, so they had to be incredibly careful. Jess rented his own suite at Applewood. They ate out in large groups two of the three nights, and everyone had questions. What was the postgame spread like? How much was the per diem on the road? What was the best city for hotties? Which Mets were chill, and which were assholes? Did rookies really have to carry vets’ suitcases on road trips? And having to dress up in women’s clothes, when was that?
Their last night, Jess and Rah went out by themselves to Otro Cuatro, which they thought of as their place. They got sloshed on margaritas, then returned to Jess’s room and made desperate love in the dark that ended with Jess fighting tears when Rah returned to his room; they wouldn’t see each other again for weeks or months. Rah was scuffling at the plate, batting .230 with three home runs, so was unlikely to be called up until September when rosters expanded, and maybe not even then.
The truth was, Jess thought, lying on the trainer’s table in the visitors’ clubhouse at Oracle Park, waiting for his pregame rubdown, he’d been dying of loneliness. The Mets were a veteran club; the only other young pitchers were relievers. Trey Sparrow had come over in a deadline deal with the Angels, while Big Barnes, who’d made a place for himself in middle relief, was even more of a douchebag than he’d been in the minors.
Pull up your socks! Jess chided himself. You’re in the Show! And tonight, he reminded himself, his parents were coming to the game. After it was over, they’d all drive to Santa Rosa. He’d only visited once before, and while it wouldn’t feel like home, it wasn’t a hotel room. Mom had prepared one of his favorite meals: green curry chicken with Thai eggplant. He was looking forward to chowing down around midnight: his first home-cooked meal since he couldn’t remember when. But first, Jess thought, feeling the trainer stretching the muscles in his upper back and left shoulder, there was the little matter of the Giants.
After the game, Joe drove them north across the Golden Gate. Frannie sat beside him; Jess stretched out in back. It was later than planned, past midnight; they wouldn’t reach home until after one. Jess had pitched okay, good not great. First two innings he couldn’t find the plate. To Joe, it looked as if his son was trying to be too fine, a rookie mistake, picking at the corners rather than filling the zone, so his pitch count got up early. He was lifted after five, leading 3-2. In the bottom of the eighth, the Giants tied the game against Big Barnes, a rookie relief pitcher Joe knew Jess didn’t like. Blowhard, Jess said. Asshole, and a bully. Joe knew the type, had played with his own Big Barnes. The game went into extras; the Giants walked it off in the bottom of the eleventh. By the time Jess emerged from the visitors’ clubhouse, his dark hair still wet, it was 11:45, and he looked beat.
They drove in silence, and Joe’s thoughts drifted. On Monday, he’d been to Doc Perlman for his third follow-up. The little doc wanted to discuss Joe’s latest blood test. After falling rapidly the first five months after Portugal, his PSA had leveled off at 0.6. Still a good number, Perlman explained, and probably nothing to worry about, but he’d expected it to reach almost zero.
Joe had glanced at Frannie, beside him in the exam room. In Joe’s experience when a doc announced there was Probably nothing to worry about, it was time to hunker down.
“Maybe it’s a one-time blip.” Frannie squeezed his hand. “And it will continue down next month.”
“Likely,” Perlman said, and Joe relaxed.
“Joe,” Frannie said, breaking his reverie. “Don’t miss the exit.”
Damnit. He shot across three lanes and veered off 101 onto Highway 37. When 37 forked, he followed 121, a twisty country road, not well-lit, that turned north and west towards Sonoma. Another forty minutes, Joe thought. He’d be glad to reach home.
At one-thirty, they were seated around the table, eating green curry. Ruby lurked on the rug, wearing a doggie diaper, her protuberant eyes turned towards Frannie, her moon and sun.
“This is great, Mom.” Jess heaped his plate with seconds of rice and the fragrant curry. “Anyone else?”
She shook her head.
Joe asked, “Another beer?”
“If you do,” Jess said.
“I’ll get them.” Frannie stood.
“Mom,” Jess asked, “you have your hot sauce, prik, what is it?”
“Prik nam pla. I’ll bring that too.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
Joe loved having Jess home. It felt like years, not months, since they’d shared a meal. Frannie returned with two Singhas and the prik nam pla. She’d learned to make it and the green curry during the three months they lived in Thailand when Jess was two, the year after he retired. What a sweet time, Joe thought. So different from anything they’d done before, and so good for them as a new family.
“It’s awfully late for dinner,” Frannie said. “Isn’t it?”
“Not really. Ask Dad.” Jess looked at him. “It’s really hard to relax after a game.”
Joe nodded, remembering. “Some nights I could hardly sleep, going over what I could have done differently. Anyway, you can sleep in. You don’t have to be at the park till four, right?”
Jess nodded, still shoveling curry.
“I’ll drive you,” Joe added.
“I’ll take an Uber.”
“No way,” Joe insisted. “Anyway, I’m meeting up with Mac.”
“You are?” Frannie sounded a little ticked.
“Boys’ night,” Joe said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Why would I?” But she sounded as if she did.
“Jess,” Joe asked, “you spend much time with Mac? I mean, more than the other coaches?”
“A little.” Jess pushed the last of the curry and rice onto his spoon. “He doesn’t want the other pitchers to think he’s playing favorites.”
“Because you’re his godson.”
“Exactly.”
Joe thought about how much he missed Mac, how he wished he’d arranged his life to spend more time with him. Frannie yawned. Joe yawned too. Suddenly, Jess’s expression switched from laughing about curry to something more serious.
