One True Outcome, page 18
“Sure, she does. Jamie, su novio.”
“She does not call me that.”
“No, she said ‘esposo’ at first, and I told her you weren’t.” He taps his finger against the door, loud in the otherwise quiet truck. “Not yet anyway.”
Jamie blinks a few times. “Are you…uh…”
Mack smiles at him. “If I was proposing, you’d know.”
And Jamie doesn’t know what to say, other than wanting to kiss him, which he can’t do, sitting at the entrance to the players’ lot. So he does the next best thing, and makes the turn onto the broad Miami street, navigating their way to Mack’s condo that increasingly feels like home.
21
Game Three
Game three is their last in Miami for the season. They’ll have to get on a flight later, a short hop over the Everglades to Tampa’s circus tent of a stadium. Higgins hauls Jamie into his office before the game, the kind of discussion Jamie would have greeted with apprehension and nausea a few months ago.
“I need your thoughts on a few bullpen guys,” Higgins says. “Not now. Take a couple days to prepare or whatever.” Like it’s a class assignment.
“What are you looking for?” Because it’s one thing to say Miller’s sinker works against righties, another to say that Miller shouldn’t be on the roster.
“I’m not asking you to snitch, DeLuca. Sometimes catchers see something that the rest of us don’t. Especially since you know our scouting reports better than the analytics guys.”
And Jamie doesn’t glow at that, the way he would a compliment from a favorite professor. Except when he leaves Higgins’s office, Mack takes one look at him and laughs and asks what has him walking on clouds.
Anderson takes a more direct approach and pinches him, the kind of hard twisting pinch that doesn’t really hurt. Or doesn’t once Jamie put shaving cream on his favorite cleats in retaliation and he howls that he’s cleaned all the lucky dirt off them.
The stadium is actually fairly full for the game. They have the bleachers roped off, condensing the crowd on the first two tiers, a chatter of people excited to be near baseball, even Swordfish baseball.
Mack’s in uniform for the game, jersey practically gleaming, free of so much as a grass stain. The top two buttons are undone, and either he’s wearing an undershirt with an exceptionally low neck or, more likely, forgoing on.
“Did you, uh, get your jersey altered or something?” Jamie asks.
Mack glances down at himself. “No?”
“Your pants look tighter.” Jamie aims for a joke and misses by about a thousand miles. He looks…he looks like Jamie’s poster. Like the Matt Mackenzie of a decade ago, and they have to go out and play baseball in front of a stadium with people, something Jamie’s only dreamed about for the full twenty-six years of his life but now feels a burning resentment toward.
“You good, DeLuca?” Mack asks, clearly winding him up.
Jamie wants to both kiss him and throw up his hands in frustration. Instead he shields himself with his catcher’s mask and jogs out to warm up their starter.
He’s still on the edge of the outfield when it’s time for the anthem. Players assemble on the foul lines, hats pressed to their hearts. Jamie takes off his mask, but retains his plastic catcher’s cap. The crowd stands, silent and shifting.
After, the stadium announcer calls the Swordfish lineup, something they usually speed through. Today, they offer each name, batters one through nine—and Jamie’s chest constricts when they call his fourth and the crowd gives him a non-perfunctory cheer.
They run through all the names, all but one—Mack’s. Maybe they’re leaving out players on the injured list. Maybe Mack asked them not to. But all the position players’ names go by before they begin calling the full complement of bullpen guys. Jamie’s heart rate picks up. It’s possible they just forgot, and his pre-game meal churns in his belly.
Mack is standing at the dugout railing, forearms draped over it like he hasn’t noticed the omission. From this distance, it’s impossible to see anything but the broad set of his shoulders and the dark waves of his hair escaping his hat.
The announcer finally gets through the last relief pitcher. The stadium is quiet around them. And Jamie’s about to slide his mask back on, to thump his glove and give Womack a final pre-game word of encouragement when the video board lights up.
A song starts playing, a hit from fifteen years ago that Jamie probably danced to in middle school. With it, a clip of a much-younger Mack sitting at a press-conference table, saying what a thrill it was to get called to the big leagues by the Baltimore Oysters.
Other clips follow in a video board tribute: Mack’s first game—his first home run, which he hit during his first big-league at-bat. Then a montage, the early years: games Jamie remembers watching from his parents’ couch in New Jersey. When he had those first stirrings that he not only wanted to play but play like him.
The video gets faster, piecing together great hits and at-bats and All-Star appearances. Mack, on a morning talk show, saying he couldn’t imagine being anything but a ballplayer. Like his career was a home run ball that would never descend.
Jamie’s eyes go damp. A scratch develops in his throat.
They cut to later games with fewer spectacular plays. A double that could have been a home run. A great infield grab at first base. Single after single and walk after walk, and eventually even those get fewer, until it’s mostly Mack in Baltimore, touring hospitals and handing out oversized checks.
There’s no way to escape the end of Mack’s tenure with the Oysters: A headline. A newscaster announcing that he was released. At least they don’t overlay sinister music. Instead, silence. The screen goes blank. Then the slow ascension the song Mack’s been walking up to in Miami. One that Jamie picked out after he said, “I don’t know. Just make me sound cool,” and Jamie laughed and laughed.
The tone of these clips is brighter: Mack signing in Miami. His first hit with the Swordfish. A video someone took of the two of them, candidly, Mack tapping the screen of a tablet Jamie is holding, their heads bent in conversation. Jamie gets a hot wash of embarrassment that he’ll look vaguely horny or, worse, worshipful. But they’re mostly just smiling at each other, Mack nudging his shoulder and Jamie nudging right back, amused.
Then a segment from the nightly news. Mack at an event at a hospital, a cancer treatment center from the sign above him. A banner next to him announces a “life-changing” donation to a fund that helps patients unable to afford care.
And if anyone in the stands sees Jamie wiping his eyes, perhaps they’ll blame sweat from late-September humidity. More video, which Jamie watches through blurred vision. Mack at the All-Star Classic. Mack sending a ball into a deep pocket of the outfield. Mack next to him at the dugout railing, pointing to something on the diamond.
It ends with Mack in one of the Swordfish press offices under gentle interview lighting. He’s in a team jersey and a pair of jeans. A heavy World Series ring glints from his finger.
“What do I like most about Miami?” he says as if he’s repeating the interviewer’s question. “Some of it’s the food.” He laughs. “Also the weather—I grew up on the other side of Florida so I can take the heat. A lot of it’s the people. Everyone’s so friendly, especially now that my Spanish is better.”
“You going to say something for us?” the interviewer asks.
“Not unless you want to hear me order pastelitos.” And the stadium gives him a mild laugh. “I had some help learning.” He pauses, considering. “I didn’t know what to expect from this season. I thought I might have been done. Heck, I think I was. But I found a lot of new life here. That’s what being surrounded by good people will do for you. I truly appreciate everyone who took a chance on me—” and he lists off Swordfish management and the coaches, staff, and team.
“And for the opportunity to contribute. To feel like I had something to contribute. It took a while for me to see that my legacy in this game isn’t just what’s on the field. I’m grateful to everyone who’s made me feel like I’ve had purpose here, and who was patient with me while I figured out what was next.”
“Do you have anything to announce?”
“Not yet. But hopefully soon. Tell you what though: This team has the potential to be something special. I’d love to see the guys in rings.” He touches his own meaningfully.
A cheer goes up that transmutes to applause when the on-field cameras focus on Mack at the dugout railing. He waves to the crowd, smiling, not his poster smile or media smile or even his meeting-nervous-fans smile—a smile like the world is for once sitting comfortably on his shoulders.
Eventually, the camera cuts away then fades back to a scoreboard. To the Swordfish lineup and the business of the game at hand. And Jamie isn’t sure how they’re supposed to play a game after that, but he jogs in from the outfield and takes his position behind home plate nevertheless.
Game Two
On the day of game two, Jamie wakes up apprehensive. It should be an easy game: Tampa is going to the postseason and the Swordfish are going on vacation. But Mack’s mom—Lorraine, as she insisted Jamie call her when they finally met on FaceTime—is coming to the hotel.
Jamie is queer enough that he usually doesn’t approach brunch with dread, but he hasn’t done a meet-the-parents thing since college. He’s also never met the only parent of someone who’s paying his mortgage. Who transferred twenty-five thousand dollars into a bank account for him with a note that said, First of two.
Now he takes extra time shaving like she’ll care if he misses a patch and picks out a shirt he hopes doesn’t say, “I’m sleeping with your son for his money.” Mack meets him by the door to his room. He’s in a T-shirt and a pair of joggers, and eyes Jamie’s collared shirt and slacks and says, “You know this isn’t a job interview, right?”
He laughs when Jamie says, “It kind of is.”
When they get downstairs, Lorraine is at a table with a cup of coffee and a mimosa. She gets up to hug Mack, who’s a good foot taller than she is. In person they look more alike than they do on screen: Same hair, though hers is faded to an iron-gray and defiantly undyed. She turns to Jamie, insisting that he hug her, that his attempts to call her “Ms. Mackenzie” will only make her feel old, that he should sit and order himself a cup of coffee because, “Lord knows you’re gonna need one.”
And Mack, who is closer to forty than thirty, who has several hundred million dollars and who was in Hall of Fame discussions for the first half of his career, goes “Mom.”
Lorraine laughs.
A server comes over and accepts Jamie’s order for coffee, along with a mimosa at Lorraine’s insistence. For a second the server looks like he’s going to ask to see Jamie’s ID, something that hasn’t happened in years, before realizing that it’s both ten in the morning and that literally Matt Mackenzie is also sitting at the table.
“So”—Lorraine shakes two sugar packets into her coffee then stirs it with the handle of her fork—“usually this is supposed to work by me asking you a bunch of questions, right?”
Questions Jamie tried to anticipate the way he would opposing hitters. What his intentions were toward her son. Where he saw himself in five years. Maybe Mack was right that he was approaching this as a job interview. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lorraine gives him an amused smile. “Oh, he’s cute. And portable. I see why you like him.” And Mack, who mostly doesn’t blush, turns absolutely beet red to her delight.
“Matt tells me you went to college,” she says.
“Three years at Dartmouth. If baseball doesn’t work out, I’ll probably get my degree.”
“I’ve been taking classes through one of the universities. Creative writing for seniors, in case I get the urge to write my memoirs. ‘Lessons of a Lunch Lady’ does have a nice ring to it.”
Which Jamie knew, tangentially, because she needed help attaching a document to an email. When he asked Mack why she didn’t know how do that, Mack’s shoulders went stiff. “We were broke. Some things take longer to adjust to.”
It’s hard to imagine that now, sitting on the sprawling veranda of a waterfront hotel, looking at breakfast entrees featuring lobster.
“What are you getting to eat?” Lorraine asks. Said like there’s perhaps a wrong answer to that.
Jamie studies the menu, unsure if he should pick out the cheapest thing—though ordering a bagel that comes with whipped mascarpone instead of cream cheese will probably get him thrown out of New Jersey. “I was going to get a bagel, ma’am.”
“No avocado toast? I hear the young people love that.”
Said more to Mack than to him, and Mack rolls his eyes, but he looks happy, too.
“That was my other option,” Jamie admits, and Lorraine has a laugh that’s twice her size.
They order and eat. Mack gets two entrees, then a third, half of which he slides to Jamie.
Lorraine asks question after question, some of them teasing, some serious. “Okay,” she says when Mack has gotten up to use the restroom, “enough interrogation.”
Jamie wipes his hand across his forehead in feigned relief.
“Ask me something,” she says.
“Oh, uh, sure.” He considers a few possibilities. “What was Mack—Matt—like growing up?”
Lorraine smiles at that. Her teeth are unaligned by orthodontia, though bleached white, a tilted incisor in the same place as Mack. “Matt was easy to raise. Everyone said the big ones are either mild or wild. I guess I lucked out.” She takes a sip of her coffee.
“No matter how much, or little, we had, I always tried to give him something. A dollar or two to spend how he wanted. There was an especially bad month. Summers were hard because he wouldn’t get meals at school. So it was July, late July, and the TANF money ran out, and I didn’t know how I’d be able to buy groceries. I must have said something to Matt, because the next day I went in my purse, and there was a wad of one-dollar bills tucked in an envelope.”
Their meal came with white cloth napkins. She picks up one, pressing it to the corner of her eye, below the unsmudged line of her mascara. “You asked how he was. That’s how he was. I worry that he’s always been older than he’s supposed to be. It’s good that he’s retiring. I want him to want something for himself. I just think he needs some encouragement.” She doesn’t say anything else for a minute.
There’s a marina next to the hotel, boats bobbing on the flat plate of water. Jamie imagines Mack on one, half-asleep on a sun-filled deck, or with the spotlight of the moon overhead. “I’ll try,” he says.
And Lorraine reaches pats his hand lightly before withdrawing to her side of the table.
Mack returns, sliding back in his seat. “Everything good?”
“Stop being so suspicious, Matthew,” Lorraine says. “I’ve been on my best behavior.” Which only makes Mack eye them both warily.
“Are you coming to the game tonight?” Jamie says.
“Wouldn’t miss it. I have been told”—she gives Mack a pointed look—“that I am not supposed to bring a sign like I did when he was in high school. Which I won’t. I’m not even sure where to get that much glitter.”
“I’m sure there’s a craft store around here somewhere,” Jamie says. “I could help. Matt says I have good handwriting.”
And Mack looks like he wants to either hug them both or throw them into the tidy little marina, and Lorraine laughs and laughs.
Game One
The last game of the season is an afternoon game in Tampa under the tented stadium dome. Higgins spent the day before reminding players of the ground rules: What happens if a ball hits a catwalk or gets stuck in the cabling.
Today there are no such lectures. Higgins comes to the center of the visitors’ clubhouse, gathering players for the announcement of the day’s lineup, a task usually done with limited ceremony. Jamie turns his chair, expecting a speech.
Higgins clears his throat, silencing the room. “It’s said this game has a lot of traditions. Probably too many. One I always liked was having a player-manager on the last day of the season. Maybe it’s because the press’ll have someone else to yell at.” A few guys laugh. “Usually, we just pull names for who’s a big enough sucker to want my job. This year was easy. So, if you got complaints take ‘em up with Mackenzie.”
There’s hooting, a few catcalls. Mack, wearing his game-day uniform and holding a clipboard mock officiously, stands. “All right. Thanks for having me, boys. Here’s what we’re working with today.” He rattles off the lineup.
A short silence follows. “DeLuca’s hitting second?” someone asks. Because Jamie’s been hitting fourth or fifth. Hitting second is usually reserved for the team’s best hitter. Which Jamie is not.
He shifts uncomfortably, uniform suddenly too tight. No one says anything, though he can hear them thinking loudly and it all sounds like teacher’s pet. Or worse.
“We’re going tandem at catcher,” Mack says. “DeLuca has the first four innings and then we’ll start shifting.” Which makes sense: Front-loading Jamie so that their other catchers—including a minor-leaguer so jittery that he makes Jamie nervous—can field without having to worry about hitting.
There’s a murmur of agreement, the room temporarily soothed.
“Yeah, but—” another of their players begins, and Mack gives a faux-weary sigh as Higgins exits.
“You could’ve told me about moving me in the lineup,” Jamie says as they’re milling around the dugout, waiting for the game to begin.
“Now that really would’ve been playing favorites. And besides”—Mack looks around—“you would have spent the time worrying about what guys thought.”
“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be trusted to make that as a decision for myself.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. For the next lineup I select.”
Which is a bigger statement than Jamie’s irritation at not being consulted about where he’s hitting. “You got something to tell me, Mackenzie?”
