“A little league field?” I question as I walk up to where Clark is unpacking a gym bag.
He tosses me a baseball, which I catch in my gloveless hand. “I like to come out here every once in a while. Brings me back to my roots.”
The logic is rational, though I don’t know how much this little practice will help. “If you say so. I didn’t bring a glove.”
“I have an extra.” He reaches into the bag.
“Wearing another man’s glove? That’s against baseball law in some circles.” My eyebrow quirks up.
Clark rolls his eyes. “I won’t tell anyone on ya, big man. Let’s have a round of catch, just like the old days.”
The nostalgia his request sparks in me can’t be ignored. It’s been a long time since I came out on a little league field, choosing instead to stick to the state-of-the-art facilities that were offered to me now. There is something about the red clay under your sneakers, the uneven mow of the grass surrounding the diamond, the chain-link fence and one metal bench meant to be used as a dugout.
“You’re a private guy, aren’t you?” Clark muses as we leisurely throw back and forth.
I shrug. “Not much to tell, really.”
“There is always something to tell. I’ve just never heard much on you. You’ve been in the league, what, ten years?” The ball smacks into his glove, and he palms it, tossing it high back toward me.
My arms stretch over my head, eyes glinting against the sun, as I track the ball where it falls into my hands. “Yep. This is my eleventh season.”
“And in all that time, there really haven’t been too many exposés on you. Shit, I’ve had more than my fair share of paparazzi photos, girls recounting their nights with me on Reddit, and then there was that dick pic I accidentally sent to a reporter …”
A snort makes its way up my throat. “I forgot about that. You’re a dumbass, you know that?”
“Yeah, but my dick looked pretty good in that picture. At least I had that going for me.”
“Bet that fine from the league was a punch in the balls, though, huh?” I joke.
Clark’s indecent snap was all the talk a year or two ago, and I heard he had to pay upward of fifty grand to the league for his mistake.
“But you, man, you’re like a ghost. A fucking baseball legend, but a ghost. You need to give seminars or some shit.” He ignores my taunt and instead refocuses the conversation on me.
We’re tossing back and forth, and the hot summer breeze has sweat dripping down my back, but it feels good. Easy. There is a relaxed monotony about hanging out on this public patch of dirt that I haven’t gleaned from baseball in a long time. When you play a game professionally, a part of that love you have for a sport is translated into the need to be the best. The need to make money. The need to excel in every play, every at bat. Some of the pure passion is diminished simply because you’re being paid to win.
“I decided a long time ago, with the help of a very wise person in my life, that if I was going to come into this league, it was to play the game of baseball. They could have me as a player, but they would not have access to me as a person. There is a lot that this world and the public expect to be invited to in our lives, but I signed up to entertain them when I’m on that field. Not when I’m with friends, or family … if I had any. I don’t have a lot of close people in my life, but those who are there deserve their privacy.”
Clark nods, as if he respects this. “And the whole … wife thing. Is it true?”
I sigh, because this rumor is so played out that I wish it was tangible so I could put it in a chokehold. I’m not sure when or how it even started, but some opinion piece once stated that I was one of these guys who wouldn’t marry or have children until after my career was over so I could dedicate myself to the game. It was a load of bullshit, because I’ve never really had that philosophy. But as time went on, and I didn’t seriously date or knock someone up, the rumor grew stronger.
“It’s not true, but it’s not not true. Between you and me, the way I grew up was fucked up. I’m sure you know I was in and out of the foster system. I have no real basis of what a family is or should be. Why would I choose to focus on that, to have my own kids, when I could only give them, at best, fifty percent of my focus right now? There are guys in this league who are the shittiest fathers of all time.”
“Some on our own bench,” Clark mutters.
Shane Giraldi’s face jumps into my mind. “Exactly. I don’t want to be that to my wife, or my kids. If those things are in the cards for me, then I’ll try to do the best I can. After my playing is all said and done.”
So, I guess, the rumor is not such a rumor after all. I just never knew how to articulate it, not in the way I just did to Clark.
“Not a bad plan, man. Like I said, maybe you should write me a manual.” He tosses the ball behind his back, toward me.
I reach out, catching it and bringing it into my body. Is there one day that I could see doing this with my son or daughter? On a regular field, in a small-town park? Maybe. I’m not sure. I have no experience to pull from, no memories of anyone doing this with me as a kid.
“Just don’t be an asshole. That’s my number one piece of advice.”
“Noted.” Clark chuckles.
After another half hour of tossing around and acting like we’re teenagers on the little league field, catching grounders and trying to make trick plays, Clark rubs his stomach.
“I’m hungry. Call Walker, let’s go grab a burger and a beer.”
13
Colleen
Hudson’s is packed, with it being a Friday night, and my cousins and I can barely get our usual table.
Whitney has a rare weekend night away from home, and our younger cousin Anna who just turned twenty-two is home from college for the summer. So, we all decided to go out to dinner, and maybe have one too many drinks.
“Ugh, my uterus is killing me,” Whitney complains, holding her hand to her lower stomach. “It’s not fair. Why can’t periods just stop after you decide you’re done having kids?”
Anna snorts. “Right? Like you could just press a button to turn off the blood flow. You’d think that pushing a watermelon through your hooha would give us some say over Aunt Flo?”
I’ve had a glass of Chardonnay, and I’m feeling loose, so I end up cackling a bit at that. “Ouch, all of it just hurts. I think men should have to do some of the work.”
“Amen to that. I’d love to see a man try to insert a tampon.” Whitney tips her glass back, the red wine sloshing as she sips some of it.
“Or pee after a UTI. I had to do that the other day, I thought my vagina was going to burn up.” Anna winces.
I nearly choke on the piece of buffalo cauliflower I just put in my mouth. “Oh my God, I did not need to know that about my baby cousin.”
“Did no one teach you to pee after sex? Is your sister telling you nothing?” Whitney admonishes our other cousin Talia who is Anna’s twenty-four-year-old sister and not present at this table.
Anna shrugs. “I was drunk and tired, too lazy to get out of bed. I won’t make that mistake again.”