Out of My League Read online

  “Someone needed to knock some sense into you!”

  I fought the urge to club her over the head like a mole in a carnival game. She pulled her broom up and swung at me again, but I caught it. Holding on to the stick, I said, “I want you to know that one of these days I won’t be at your mercy anymore. One of these days I won’t need your sewing room floor just so I can chase baseball. One of these days I’ll break free of here, and then what are you gonna do?”

  “I’m better off without you!” she bellowed as she swung her broomstick free. She chased me from the house like she was a tribal warrior in a kitchen apron, waving her broom like a spear. I dove into Bonnie’s car and we sped away, leaving Grandma to cut my face out of all the family pictures.

  Chapter Four

  At a four-way stop a few blocks down the street from my grandmother’s house, I put the car into PARK. It was Bonnie’s car, and considering what just happened, I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to continue driving her someplace far away, or if she wanted me to get out and never speak to her again. I tightened my hands on the steering wheel and slowly looked over to her in the passenger’s seat for my answer.

  Bonnie looked at me and smiled. Then she started laughing.

  “I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so,” I said with a return smile. The car was in motion again as I drove us across town to my parents’ place.

  “I know. I know you did.” Bonnie laughed. “I just expected her to be more cantankerous and less, uh—”

  “Calling you a whore-ish?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Don’t take it personally. Hateful slurs are her love language.”

  “She must really like me, then.”

  “Oh, you noticed it, too?”

  “What did you talk about when I left?”

  “She said you had a voice like a whiny dog.”

  “She what?”

  “Again, a compliment. She’s a huge Lassie fan.”

  “You like my voice, right?”

  “I love your voice. I love knowing that if I ever fall down a well, I can rely on you.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I just put her in a headlock and told her what I’d do to her if she acted up again.”

  “No seriously, what did you say?”

  “I told her she was out of line, that she should be ashamed, and that I won’t be around to act as her punching bag forever.”

  “How did she take that?”

  “She hit me.”

  “She hit you?” Bonnie put her hand over her mouth.

  “Yeah, but, you know, I’m a man, I can take it.” I rubbed my head. This was done by design as it instantly had Bonnie rubbing my head and kissing my cheek for defending her honor.

  “Look, about my parents,” I said, changing subjects. “Are you still up for this?”

  “Of course,” she said, massaging.

  “Well, they’ll probably love you. Probably. But keep in mind, they’re not my grandmother. They’re pretty raw and they won’t apologize for it. They’ve been through a lot. Actually, they’re still going through a lot.”

  “I know, honey. You told me. Don’t bring up your brother’s drinking and don’t be offended if your dad is distant or depressed. And don’t get annoyed by your mother’s million questions.”

  “Yeah, I know, but the language and environment is not like your family’s place at all,” I said, thinking of how Bonnie’s parents were normal, functioning members of society. They had a nice place, with no holes punched in the walls from fights. They had two successful kids: Bonnie and her brother, who was nobly serving his country in the military. They were members of a local church, with a well-kept lawn, living in a town that wasn’t shrinking ever since the steel industry left.

  “I’ll be alright. Just try not to get hit again,” Bonnie said smiling.

  I did not smile back, however. I looked at her quite seriously. “I can’t promise you that.”

  I needed this meeting to go well, though I knew better than to expect my parents to act like foreign dignitaries. There was no covering up the rough edges in this family; however, my dad could have at least put on pants.

  Bonnie stood next to me in the kitchen of my parents’ place. My mom was nearly on top of us, practically bubbling over with enthusiasm the way mothers do when they smell even the slightest hint of possible grandchildren. One of the house’s four cats swished around our feet impatient for attention. We ignored it though, as we were too busy navigating the awkwardness centered around my dad’s perforated pair of tighty-whities.

  Bonnie was the first to speak, cheerily saying, “So, you’re a Hanes man, huh?”

  My dad glanced up at Bonnie from the kitchen table where he resided. “I’m a whatever’s-in-the-drawer-when-I-wake-up man. Sometimes there’s nothing. Count yourself lucky.” He took another pull on his cigarette but offered a sly hint of a smile.

  I nudged Bonnie and gave her a he likes you–type of nod.

  “Uh, my dad loves to lounge in his underwear, too.” She continued, “Sometimes he does yard work that way. It’s your house, wear what you want, right?” Bonnie looked back to my dad.

  “Hmm,” said my dad.

  “So, I hear Grandma wasn’t exactly glad to meet you,” my mom began.

  “She called Bonnie a whore,” I said.

  “Well,” my mom said, clapping her hands together, “in that case, you two are meant to be! When I first met Grandma, she called me a bitch!”

  I slapped my hand to my head. When I first met Bonnie’s parents, her mother served a roast while wearing an embroidered apron she’d cross-stitched herself. Then she asked me if I would say grace for everyone as we held hands around the table. My folks can’t make it five minutes before they’re pantless and swearing.

  “Did you tell her she was a miserable old dinosaur?” asked my mom.

  “No,” said Bonnie. “It doesn’t bother me. I’m used to dealing with, um, ‘inappropriate elderly’ from my nursing home days. I’ve heard worse.”

  “You’re used to it? Well, that’s a good thing because we’ve got a lot of’em in this family, isn’t that right, Sam?” My mom gestured to my dad while laughing at her own wittiness. My dad merely offered a cigarette smoke–leaking grunt of affirmation.

  “So, do you like baseball?” asked my mom.

  “I’ve never really paid much attention, but I will now!” Bonnie took my arm.

  “Have you seen him play yet?” asked Mom.

  “No, but I’m excited about it.”

  “It’s nerve-racking. I’ve watched him since he was little, and I can’t tell you how many cigarettes I smoked to make it through his games.” Mom laughed in that you know what I mean kind of way after she said it, like chain-smoking menthols while you watched your son pitch between the cracks of your fingers was something everyone could relate to. “I think this year is his year, though,” continued my mom, implying that this year I would make it to the big leagues. “But watching you on television is going to give me a heart attack! What do you think, Dirk?”

  “Do I think it’ll kill you? Maybe, if you don’t cut back on the cigarettes,” I said.

  “Do you think this is the year?” said my mom, and with her question all eyes turned to me for an answer.

  With Bonnie sitting next to me, there was nothing I wanted to say more than “Absolutely.” In fact, I wanted to say this was the year it would all change: Grandma’s floor, crap jobs, being broke, and being single. I wanted to say I’d make it to the Show this year and live happily ever after with money in the bank and a sports drink contract. But I couldn’t. As the pitcher’s mantra goes, once the baseball leaves your hand, the rest is out of your control. I knew what would happen this year about as well as a gambler knew what would happen before he let the dice go.

  I did have a good year last year, but that didn’t guarantee me anything. A lot of other guys had good years, too, guys on my team and on teams all over the game. Guys I didn’
t even know existed but whom I would be competing against after Padres scouts went out and grabbed them from other clubs in an effort to have the best talent available come spring training. At the higher levels—levels I was competing for—it wasn’t uncommon to lose a roster spot to a player you’d never heard of who got a good review by a scout you’d never seen. There is a whole economy taking place behind the scenes of the playing field, and behind the backs of the players. This is because when it’s time to consider who gets promoted to the Bigs, money, recommendations, trades, age, scouting reports, and arbitration eligibility all play a role as large as strikeouts and ERA. What players do on the field is only half the battle.

  At my age, I needed to be on the Triple A roster when the dust settled at the end of spring training. That would be tough since I wasn’t rated as a true prospect. The deck was stacked against an average right-handed reliever like me, coming off one above-average year. It was more likely I’d get sent back to Double A, where I’d have to prove I could excel again and that last season wasn’t a fluke. In which case, this forthcoming year would be just another audition for a real chance next year. Of course, no one sitting around the kitchen table wanted to hear such a logical and depressing answer, including me. So I simply said the portion everyone wanted to hear: “I got the best shot I’ve ever had, that’s for sure.”

  “Have the Padres talked to you about it any?” asked Mom.

  “No, Mom, they don’t talk to us about that stuff during the off-season.”

  “He never tells me anything good,” said my mom to Bonnie.

  “I tell her everything I know and it’s never enough,” I pleaded.

  “You never tell me what I want to hear!”

  “Sorry, Mom, I’m going to the big leagues. They’re sending a limo right now.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  “Stop telling me I never tell you anything.”

  The phone rang and interrupted us. My mom answered, then immediately rolled her eyes. “It’s your grandmother, again,” she mouthed at us. “It’ll be at least ten minutes before I can get her to shut up.” Mom got up and snuck into the other room, leaving us to sit with my dad.

  “So, I understand you’re into music,” Bonnie said to my dad, changing the subject.

  My dad looked at Bonnie.

  “What’s your favorite stuff? I’ll bet I’ve played it before.”

  “Dylan. The Stones. A few others,” said my dad in a disinterested tone. There were days back before my dad’s depression when he’d play records for hours on end, filling the house with everything from Alice Cooper to ZZ Top. He used to work in the garage, fix the car, and even spank us kids to music.

  “You know, you’d like my dad,” said Bonnie. “He’s into all the old music, too, but he never plays it anymore.”

  “Why is that?” asked my dad.

  “My mom won’t let him.”

  “She won’t?” My dad furrowed his brow and snuffed out his cigarette, but he was now more into a conversation than I’d seen him in years.

  “Mildred, she’s a nice girl, you can’t call her names like that and not expect Dirk to get angry with you.” My mom’s voice overlapped our conversation as she paced past the door of the adjoining room.

  “No,” continued Bonnie. “It’s tragic because I’ll bet he knows every band you listen to.”

  “Bet I got a few he’s never heard of,” said my dad with a hint of pride.

  “They are not having sex, Mildred. For God’s sake, I don’t think the boy even knows how to use it.” I dropped my forehead on the table.

  “Dirk said you had a big collection.”

  “Organized it alphabetically,” said my dad.

  “I’d love to hear some of it,” said Bonnie.

  I looked at Bonnie. I couldn’t believe what she was coaxing my dad into doing. Was it part of her therapy method, or just the idea of a cute young woman taking interest in my half-naked father that got him out of his chair? He threw his shoulders back like some romance novel cover model with ketchup stains on his shirt and holes in his underwear, and headed for the stereo.

  “I’ll let you pick,” said Bonnie. “I’m just curious if you’ll pick something my dad likes without me telling you.”

  Dad pulled out a tape and put on the Kinks, “Sunny Afternoon.”

  “Oh, this is one of his favorites,” said Bonnie.

  “No, Mildred, we’re not having a party. Sam put on some music. Yes, Sam. Yes, he still listens to that hippie crap,” said Mom.

  “You know, my parents used to sit around when they were first married and smoke joints and listen to this while watching a light board plugged into the stereo,” said Bonnie.

  “Your parents?” I was stunned.

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” said my mom, who was now tuning my grandmother out completely in favor of us. “Sam and I had a whole room of fish tanks and we used to get high and pretend we were under the sea.” My mom made a swimming motion, and said, “No, Mildred, no one’s getting high.”

  “Those were the good days,” said my dad. “Didn’t have to worry about dirty diapers and little boys who would cry without their binkies.” My dad nodded at me. “You know, when Dirk was a boy, he had a whole set of pacifiers. If you tried to take ’em away from him, he’d cry bloody murder. I think he finally stopped sucking on them last year.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Bonnie, turning to me with a coy smile.

  “I tend to disagree,” I said.

  “Yeah,” continued my dad, tapping his finger to the beat now. “He was allergic to everything, too. Couldn’t drink regular milk. He had colic so bad he used to poop his diapers like a toxic waste spill. Had to feed him goat’s milk.” My dad leaned into Bonnie with one hand over his mouth and whispered, “We think he’s part goat.”

  Bonnie laughed as my dad got up to change the tape. Then she leaned over to me and said, “Your dad is cute, and so are you, my little goat boy.”

  I went to steal a kiss, but the sound of my brother’s voice split us apart.

  “Mom!” yelled the rough and expectant voice of my brother. He called to her from upstairs, yelling down the stairwell. My brother worked the night shift and was now starting to stir for the day; no doubt we had awakened him.

  “Mom!” It came again, this time more demanding. My mom tensed, and my dad’s fingers stopped tapping. Like a dark cloud on the horizon, bad weather was coming.

  Chapter Five

  Something about the voice made Dad’s countenance change. My mom set the phone down, ignoring my grandmother, who was still harping through the receiver. Obediently, she went upstairs to answer my brother.

  My dad stopped talking. The music played on in the background, but the notes seemed sour to him now. The voices of my mother and brother above us spiked like thunder, sending a few strong, angry syllables echoing down the stairwell and into the living room where they seemed to strike my father. He lit a fresh cigarette and pressed one hand firmly against his head, as if he needed to support someplace inside he could not reach. “Jesus Christ, Brak, just deal with it. You’ll live!” cut my mother’s voice.

  “I ain’t going to work until I see the fucking doctor. If I get fired, it’s your fault.”

  My father twisted and squirmed at the table, as if he were fighting inside himself. I clutched Bonnie’s hand and started gesturing toward the exit. I knew she couldn’t feel the ground shaking, but I could. I could feel it coming, like it had so many times before, the approach of the darker side of my life. It was only a matter of seconds before it arrived. Bonnie, smiling sweetly, didn’t know what was ahead, couldn’t read the signs. I stood up and motioned for her to do the same.

  My mother marched downstairs and pushed in front of us to a shelf that contained a small wicker basket of medicine bottles. Within were all manner of drugs, from painkillers and antidepressants for my dad to unfinished bottles of antibiotics the family had hoarded.

  “What’s the matter with him
now?” asked my agitated father.

  “He says he’s not going to work because he’s got a sinus infection.”

  When my mom said that, whatever it was that was fighting to get out of Dad broke free. “Awwgaaawwwd ...” my dad sickly groaned. He clenched his fists and pressed them against his forehead like something had stabbed him in the mind. Then, just like the flick of a switch, the scene came undone.

  Abruptly, Dad struck the table, throwing all its contents to the floor. Then he began shaking. Bonnie jolted upright at the sight of it, and I backed her out of the room as the scene continued. Over and over, my dad’s fists came down. In a mix of agony and anger, he bawled, “God dammit! God fucking dammit!” A great inhale then a great rupture of contempt poured out.

  Drawn to the anger, my brother started down the steps to confront his rival. Shorter than me but stocky, with thick forearms and a neck like a bull, my brother was ready to charge into my father. He took Dad’s angry outburst as another personal attack of rejection. He’d settle it the only way he knew how, in a fight that would surely leave the house wrecked. That was how the hole in the wall was made, how the lamps got busted and why the doors didn’t shut right.

  Mom was quick to cut him off. “Stay up there, Brak, just stay up there. I’ll handle this.” She held up pill bottles like a sacrifice, in hopes to appease, or at the very least, to distract the bull. “I’ve got another refill on this bottle of decongestants. I’m going to call it in right now. You can take them along with some of my leftover antibiotics—it’s what the doctor would give you anyway. Then you can go to work, right?”

  “That’s not going to help me today.”

  “Oh, would you just work with me on this, please?” begged my mom.

  “No, goddammit, no!” roared the monster my dad had mutated into. “He’s gotta learn. No more fucking excuses! If he thinks he’s so fucking great, he can stop making excuses!” Laboring for air, he started up from his seat. Unable to spring upright, he flipped a chair over and lumbered to the foot of the stairs like some shambling creature. My mom stayed in the way as an intercessor between the bull and the monster.