I
I remember that first game like it was yesterday. The middle of March was an ugly time for baseball in the Midwest. The high temperature was thirty degrees and it snowed so hard at one point we had to stop the game for fifteen minutes. No matter how many pairs of socks you wore, it was always hard to feel your toes.
We didn’t fill the five thousand seats at Collingston County Stadium, but there were a good five hundred Silver Streak faithful braving the elements that day. There were a lot of old timers that never missed a game. Most of them had probably been alive when the damn thing was built and for one reason or another just couldn’t stay away. Then there were the students, people like Jack and Brunno, who wouldn’t pass up a free opportunity to make fun of opposing teams and yell degrading comments. And there were the parents and girlfriends of players, people who didn’t give a shit about baseball, but would be damned if they’d miss their loved one making some great play. All of them were bundled up like Eskimos and sat practically cheek to cheek for warmth.
Joliet Catholic was our opponent that day, a private school powerhouse that always had a strong program and finished high in the state tournament every year.
Johnny shut them down for four innings, allowing only one base runner on a walk.
We were up by four runs thanks to a two out bases loaded triple by yours truly.
And then the snow came. The umpire let us play through it as long as we could but decided to clear the field when he couldn’t see anymore. It was soft, wet snow, with huge flakes that you could almost hear plop when they hit the ground. The air was thick and white for a good fifteen minutes.
Most of my teammates huddled in the bottom of the dugout during the delay, rubbing their hands together and in some cases jumping in place for warmth. Roman sat on one of the benches at the end, positioned with his hands in his baseball jacket and his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. Demera and Grouse argued about whether Johnny the Killer was going to take the mound after the break or if they should bring someone new in. Grouse usually lost these battles, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Johnny might go back out. I stood at the top step and scanned the crowd in the stands. Most of the time I was so focused on the game I couldn’t tell you one person in attendance. It was kinda nice to be able to look at the crowd.
The majority was massed together just behind home plate. It was the best view in the park and also the least windy. Carl sat off by himself, drinking out of a can wrapped in newspaper. The elements had still not swayed him from his drink of choice. Mr. Buttworst had his camera strung around his neck, snapping pictures of what he would later call “baseball in the snow.” Carl left his seat briefly to talk to the good teacher, undoubtedly asking him questions about his camera and his photography hobby.
Heather sat in the middle of the crowd—pink earmuffs and all—leading her cheerleading friends in stupid little chants and cheers that ended up in laughter.
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Sally sat a couple rows in front of the main group with her coat pulled up around her neck and slouched down in her chair. Frenchy had his puny little arm around her with a thin jacket on and no stocking cap. His nose was as red as Rudolph’s and even from that distance I could see him shiver. French Boy was definitely not dressed for the occasion, and I bet he wished Sally had her arm around him instead of the other way around. Good. Maybe he would turn into a pasty white French popsicle. Ma and Pops sat up toward the top of the stadium, wrapped in their matching Eskimo outfits.
Johnny took the mound again in the fifth. The snow shower had done minimal damage to the field. The only evidence of a delay was the wisps of white snow here and there on the infield grass. It reminded me of the lightly frosted fake Christmas trees of a department store. The dirt was damp but still solid on account of it probably being frozen.
As good as Johnny was in the first four innings, he was that bad in the fifth. He threw his first pitch five feet over my head to the backstop and walked two hitters on eight pitches in a row. I glanced over at the dugout to see Demera shooting Grouse a piercing “I told ya so” glance. Coach Grouse shook his head and in seconds the two were arguing again, hopefully about whom they were going to bring in. I called time and walked to the mound, not really to talk to Johnny, but to buy some time.
I saw Roman take his jacket off and head for the bullpen as I got to the Killer. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get warmed back up. I think my arm is fuckin’
frozen,” Johnny said.
“You’re done, Johnny. We just have to buy some time to get Roman warmed up. If Coach doesn’t take a trip, make sure you take a lot of time between pitches.”
“We’re bringing in the goddamn janitor? Shit! I can get these assholes out.
I’ve done it the whole game.”
I continued to act like I was listening to Johnny’s rant, but all I could hear was Bill Wright’s mitt popping in the bullpen down the left field line. The umpire broke us up in time to save my rebuttal to the Killer.
Batter number three of that inning reached base on an infield single.
Johnny made a good pitch—an inside fastball at the knees that sawed the hitter off. Unfortunately the ball rolled past the pitcher’s mound and slowed so much that Pick Bryant at short had no play on it. The only thing he could do was hold the ball. Although no runs scored, the bases were now loaded and the tying run was coming to the plate.
Coach Demera called time and came to the mound—a snail’s pace replaced the usual giddy-up in his step. People that don’t know the game get upset when all this time out and talking shit happens, but that’s just ’cause they don’t know what’s really going on. Demera was doing the same thing I just did. He was using his free trip to the mound to buy Roman some more time to get warm. I don’t remember the exact conversation on the mound between the three of us, but it had nothing to do with baseball. Johnny kept trying to convince Coach that he could get out of the jam, but Demera kept commenting on the weather. He stood out there until the umpire broke us up, and when he got back to the dugout he called 296
time again, stating he’d changed his mind. He told the umpire he wanted the man in the pen.
Demera retrieved the ball from Johnny’s hand and rubbed it in his palms as if to warm it. Johnny said, “I think you’re making a mistake.”
“You threw a good game Johnny, but that’s why I make the big bucks, so you don’t have to do things like think.”
Johnny walked reluctantly off the mound, grabbed his first baseman’s mitt from one of the subs that ran it out to him, and took his spot on the infield.
Roman sprinted from the bullpen out to the mound, his skinny frame unable to fill out the uniform that clothed it. He didn’t look like a ball player. But I reminded myself he also didn’t look like he could whip an army of thugs in the Hollow or at Freddy’s warehouse.
Demera handed Roman the ball. “It’s thirty degrees out and you don’t have on any sleeves Swivel. You hot blooded or something?”
I answered for Roman. “The cold doesn’t bother him none Coach.”
Demera just shook his head and smiled. “In case you haven’t been paying attention we’re in a real pickle here, bases loaded, nobody out, and the tying run is at the plate. Are ya nervous kid?”
“A little.”
“Don’t be, this isn’t your mess. My job as a coach is to find out what you’re made of and apparently there’s no time like the present. We’ve got the corners in, just try to keep the ball on the infield,” Demera said and headed for the dugout.
Roman looked at the ball like it was going to share some confidence with him.
“Look,” I said. “Johnny was getting these guys out before his arm froze up. It’s cold and you throw hard, let’s live on the inside corner. Sound like a plan?”
“Yes.”
Roman’s first warm-up pitch flew over my head and hit the backstop. The whole Joliet dugout was smiling like Hyenas, before the kill. His second pitch hit the plate and bounced over my head. The third pitch was right down the middle but with no zip. Pitches four through eight were on the inside corner and progressively elevated in velocity. Roman’s last warm up stung my hand, and the popping sound of my mitt put a silence through the stadium as well as the Joliet dugout. They didn’t look as anxious to step in the box as before.
The hitter stepped in and the umpire yelled, “Play.” Roman stood on the mound with the ball in his mitt pointed toward home. The only part of his face I could see over the mitt was his eyes. Those brown spheres were full of concentration and for the first time my friend—the warrior genius janitor—was an actual ball player. He was a pitcher. I gave the old number one with my finger and Roman started his windup without shaking his head. He lifted his left leg with perfect balance to the point of his knee almost hitting him in the chin. His long arms swung like a pendulum, he took a fluid stride to the plate, and in a fraction of a second the ball hit my mitt. The batter looked back with raised eyebrows in disbelief. The stadium was as silent as I had ever heard it. The umpire made no 297
call. I held the ball there waiting for him to signal something. Finally the word
“strike” came from his throat, but it was choked with amazement.
The crowd’s disbelief ended on strike three, when the batter took a swing after the ball was already in my glove. At first a few claps came and then they escalated to an all-out cheer. Grouse was smiling from ear to ear and paced around in the dugout, unable to stand still from his excitement. Roman was all business, stepping back on the rubber every time I threw the ball back to him.
Coach Demera’s wishes of a ground ball to the infield were far exceeded—
Roman finished the game, striking out the side in all three innings throwing only thirty-six pitches. The opposing team touched the ball only once—a foul ball that would have killed somebody on their bench if they hadn’t scattered.
During the clean-up, guys were all over Roman, doing what teammates do—pounding him with compliments and making him feel like Cy Young. Roman only concentrated on the dirt he was raking on the mound. From time to time a smile would break free and a “thank you” might fly, but Roman shrugged off the praise. In his overly modest way he reminded the team that he only played three innings and that they already had the lead when he came in. Of all Roman’s talents, being a teammate might be his greatest. The spark of life he had energized people around it.
Mr. Buttworst and Carl made their way down to the fence by our dugout and caught Roman as he was putting his rake away. The teacher had his coffee mug in hand but set it aside to shake Roman’s hand. He held up his camera with a cheesy-ass smile on his face. “I’ve got some good shots of you for the yearbook, Roman. Just when I think you’re all out of surprises, you go and make a state-ranked team look like the Bad News Bears.”
Carl jumped in before Roman could say a word. “Say guy, you threw the ball well eh? Had them bastards scared you did. How do ya throw the ball so hard?”
The question almost overloaded Roman’s brain, not because it was difficult, but because there was no answer. After seconds of deliberation Roman told the truth. “I don’t know Carl, I just can.”
“Ha! That’s the first time Carl has ever heard you not be able to answer.”
“I’ll second that,” Buttworst said.
Roman just shook his head.
Mr. Buttworst reached in his coat, pulled out an envelope, and handed it over the fence. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you. Read it when you get home.”
“What is it?”
“Just read it when you get home.”
“Say guy, you want to come over and have a celebration brew ?”
“Thanks Carl, but I think I’m just going to relax at home.”
“That means reading eh?”
“Eh,” Roman replied and laughed.
“Well take care,” Buttworst said as he walked off. “See you tomorrow.
Carl, let me give you a ride; it’s on my way.”
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“Carl will make your trip even shorter, Bill. Just drop me off at the watering hole.”
Roman stood and watched the two as they made their way to the exit—two men who had become unlikely friends, two men who were each in their own way as close to a father figure as Roman would probably ever have.
I caught up with Roman in the dugout after all the field equipment was put away. We were the last people left in the stadium besides Demera and Grouse.
“You need a ride a home?”
“I think Heather’s waiting in the parking lot, but thanks.”
“You guys want to grab a sandwich or something?”
“I just want to go home I think. This pitching stuff is stressful.”
“Yeah, not allowing a ball in fair territory, striking out nine in a row, real stressful.”
Roman grabbed his equipment bag, patted me on the shoulder, and walked toward the gate. Heather stood there waiting for him.
As good as our start was, as good a game as I had, as happy as I was that Roman was a Silver Streak and did so good, something was missing. I just felt a little empty inside. I felt alone.
II
As much as Roman disliked Heather’s driving—the non-slowing at turns, the constant riding of the bumper in front her, the running of yellow almost red lights—he never said anything. It was just something he got used to and now he read the contents of Mr. Buttworst’s envelope despite the jerkiness of the ride.
Roman read both pages in seconds and looked out the window with a blank stare.
“What’s wrong?” Heather asked.
“Mr. Buttworst apparently sent my transcripts to Northwestern. This is a letter from the admissions office accepting me into the college of mathematics with a full scholastic scholarship.”
“That’s great Roman.” Heather looked over noticing Roman didn’t share her excitement. “I got my acceptance letter last week. Wouldn’t it be great to go to the same school? In a couple of years we could get a place together. We could….”
Heather stopped at the glance Roman was giving her. Even if the NN
stopped hunting him, they would always haunt his dreams she imagined. Heather rode the bumper of the car in front of her, but instead of slowing swerved to the passing lane and accelerated the Mustang. Roman put his hand on the dashboard.
“How long has it been since you last saw him, six months? The way you talked, it sounded like Agent Johnson cared about you or at least respected you.
Maybe he’s just going to let you live your life.”
“Even if he wanted to let me be, he doesn’t have a choice. He doesn’t make the rules. He only follows orders.”
Heather swerved from lane to lane, bypassing the slower vehicles and making her own route. “To hell with Agent Johnson and his orders. Maybe it’s just time to take a chance and move on. Are you going to spend the rest of your life waiting on a guy that may or may not show up?”
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It was always a short trip with Heather, and the Mustang pulled up in Roman’s driveway. “Maybe you should come in and convince me some more.”
“Why Roman Swivel, what kind of girl do you think I am.” Heather batted her eyes and laughed. A serious look came across her face a second later. “I planned on convincing you all night but only if you teach me to fight.”
Roman laughed as he opened the car door.
“Come on Roman. You keep blowing me off and you promised you’d teach me to fight.”
“I feel like I’m being propositioned here. I’ll have to think about it,” Roman said as he unlocked the front door.
“Think about it too long and you’ll be thinking alone.”
III
The Pinto was the last vehicle left in the Stadium parking lot. Demera and Grouse had even left by then. I walked to the car with my head down and the gray clouds overhead as my only company. Their gloomy presence conveyed the same feeling that lived in the pit of my stomach.
Sally stood next to the Pinto. She looked about a hundred pounds heavier with all of her winter clothing on. I smiled, but couldn’t tell if she returned the gesture on account of her coat collar covering her mouth. Only her eyes peeked through. They were a lot prettier than I remembered.
“Do you mind giving me a ride?” her muffled voice asked.
“Where’s Frenchy?”
“His name’s Jacques and he left with the others before the game ended because he was so cold.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Something made me stay and talk to you. I wanted to tell you what a good game you played. When you got the triple, I felt all warm inside, like I was there running the bases with you. Like a part of me swung the bat too.”
“No offense Sally, but you haven’t watched a whole game of baseball in your entire life and now you think you’re hitting triples.”
“That was before I met you.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there and stared at her.
“So can I have ride or what?”
“I’m sorry,” I sat down my equipment bag and unlocked the door for her.
The Pinto fired on the first turn of the key. The heat even worked now thanks to Roman, and Sally unzipped her winter coat and took off her gloves. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold,” she said, holding her hands in front of the vents on the dashboard.
Sally was good looking, always had been. It was hard to keep my eyes on the road while trying to sneak a peek every couple of seconds. There was something different about her though. It wasn’t her hair or make up. She still had the same perfume. Her lipstick was the same.
“Did you do something different with your hair?”
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“Nope, I’ve worn it the same way since school started. Why does it look bad?”
“No, no, just seems like there’s something different about you that’s all.”
Sally pondered the question for a moment. “Nope, nothing different.”
There was a long silence between us; so long in fact I drove north through the entire city of Collingston before another word was spoken. I had plenty of stupid ideas bouncing off the walls in my head.
I pulled in her driveway reminiscing about the fall day that her father came home and how bad my luck had been with her in the sex department. I wanted to speak volumes as she opened the door and stepped onto the street, but only one question came out. “Why are you with him?”
Without missing a beat, like she’d known the question was coming, in that eloquent way the female species can put the opposite sex in their place time and time again, she answered. “Because he treats me like a woman. Thanks for the ride, Tony.”
With that the Pinto’s door closed and Sally walked up to her front door, gave a brief wave, and disappeared into the house.
I put the Pinto in reverse and headed for home.
IV
Gina opened the double doors of the Hawthorne mansion. The man stood there in a brown Carhartt jacket, hands in his pockets, and eyes fixed on the ground. He raised them reluctantly to meet his new employer. He was only ten or so years younger than Gina, a rather handsome man with beautiful blue eyes. If it weren’t for the hideously obvious hairpiece, Gina could see one of her single friends dating him.
“You must be John Smith. Please come in. I’m surprised that you were able to work me in so quickly. Mr. Flowers said it might be a couple of weeks.”
John Smith only gave a shy nod and walked into the foyer.
“Can I take your coat?”
“No, thank you.”
Gina brushed off the man’s odd behavior, but there was something about him that she couldn’t put her finger on, something that was amiss. Maybe he was just tired. “Let me show you my problem.”
Gina turned and walked up the staircase and pointed out the two stairs that months before Roman had commented were off a couple of degrees. John turned his head trying to see the flaw but in the end just took a small level off of his belt and sat it on the stair. The bubble in the middle moved slightly to the right.
She led him back down the stairs into the dining hall, where she motioned to the wall and began to describe the fixture she would like to see adorn it. She would leave it up to him on the details, for she had already seen his craftsmanship first hand at The Lone Rose. She went on and on about how drab her mansion’s dining hall had been, and how there wasn’t a single day she passed up the stairs that the two off-kilter ones didn’t make her burn with anger. Eventually Gina’s babbling was drowned out by another voice, a voice that John Smith hadn’t heard 301
in a good while, a voice that emanated from the depths of his soul. The voice of Max Sheehan.
Look at the dark brown hair. Isn’t it lovely? She’s very beautiful isn’t she? Look at the way her breasts fill out her top, the way her ass fills out her pants. Not the ass of someone her age is it John? What could you do to that?
What would you make her do?
John Smith grabbed the necklace that hung around his neck, searching with his thumb until he held the charm on the end of it. It was Saint Jude, a gift from the priest down at St. Thomas’s. John rubbed the charm between his thumb and index finger, as if the friction would erase the evil voice in his head. Gina continued her woeful story, a tale that could complicate only the lives of the rich.
Crimson red lips, full and wet. Her face smooth, not a blemish on it. How soft is that neck?
John rubbed the Saint more rapidly.
T hose beautiful eyes, you can see her soul through those eyes. And what would that soul look like as it trembled in those precious pupils…
“I must go,” John interrupted her. “I’ll be back tomorrow to start the work.”
“Oh, okay,” Gina said and walked him to the door. “Is everything all right, Mr. Smith?”
John looked at her but with Max’s eyes. “Just a little under the weather.
I’ll be back tomorrow.”
John sprinted down the driveway to his truck after Gina closed the door.
He stopped and gasped hard for air, not from the run, but from the person within choking him. John stood at the truck door, arguing with the voice in his head, on whether to leave or go back in and do what Max wanted to do.
After ten minutes of talking to himself out loud, John Smith got in the truck and drove off.
V
Heather had given up on her calculus and now she stretched out on the couch and put a pillow behind her head. She propped the soft cushion so she could look at Roman as he read in his rocking chair. She watched as the pupils in his eyes sped down one line of his book and then shot back to the beginning of the next. It was like watching the mechanized structure of a typewriter at high speed.
There was a slight wrinkle in his forehead, a sign of concentration for most, but Heather wondered if Roman’s was more than that—did his line magically transport him into the pages of the story? She watched as his serious face morphed into brief glimpses of frowns and smiles, joy, and sorrow. His arms though thin were defined and his dark hair was still wet from the shower. Heather now found herself thinking of how truly handsome he was—a thought that had built over time. She thought back to the locker row at school when she’d dropped her grandma’s cheerleader statue to the floor. The janitor with his ugly gray uniform and his shy personality was hardly attractive that day. It was amazing how the inside of a person transformed the outside. A smile came to her face. There was no doubt she was in love—very seldom does one get enjoyment from watching 302
another person read. It was peaceful. Heather imagined she could watch him forever.
Roman’s eyes unlocked from the page for a brief yawn.
“Is it that boring?”
“Actually I can’t put it down. I’m just tired,” Roman responded.
Heather got up, walked over, and pulled back the book to see the cover.
“To Kill a Mocking Bird. You haven’t read it before?”
“Amazing isn’t it. Somehow I missed this one. You remind me of Scout.
Sure she’s a lot younger than you, but you’re both strong, smart, and unsettlingly stubborn.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Speaking of stubborn, when are you going to teach me to fight?”
“Heather…”
“No don’t Heather me, you promised and you keep putting me off.”
“Why do want to learn to fight so bad?”
“I want to be able to do the things you do. I want to be able defend myself against people like Bobby Dukes. I don’t want to be the helpless damsel in distress.”
“I would hardly categorize you as a damsel in distress. I should be worried about the rest of the people in the world, not you.”
“Quit making jokes. You know what I mean.”
Roman knew when he was beaten in arguments with her—unsettlingly stubborn might have been an understatement. “Fine, but know this. The only reason I can do the things I do is because I spent everyday of an entire year in a padded room fighting against some of the best in the world. Some things you can’t teach.”
“Just the basics then. Show me how to defend myself.”
“Help me up.” Roman stretched out his hand and Heather grabbed it. In a second Roman was on his feet with Heather’s arm behind her back. Roman’s other forearm was snug against her neck.
Heather tried in vain to pull free. She tried to slip out underneath. She tried to kick him in the genitals with a back swing of her leg. She even tried to bite his arm. All of her efforts ended in failure.
“By the time you try all those maneuvers you’re out of oxygen,” Roman whispered in her ear. “I’m pulling back so why are you trying to go forward?
Which way should you go Heather?”
Heather stopped her struggle for a moment, gathered her thoughts, and took a deep breath. She stepped back against Roman, grabbed the forearm around her neck, flexed her shoulders forward and angled down. Roman rolled over her and slammed against the hardwood floor.
“Not bad,” Roman said.
“Wow. I can’t believe I just did that.”
In the next hour Roman showed Heather the basics of combat—the rules from Ninja echoing in the caverns of his mind. He taught her how to step into a punch, what the most vulnerable points on her opponent’s body were, and a few joint locks that would bring the biggest of men to their knees.
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Their combat session ended with Heather pushing Roman backward onto the bed, with Roman telling her that this particular fighting style would be an ineffective tactic, with Heather silencing the last of Roman’s lessons by putting her lips against his.
VI
The winds of March blew themselves out eventually, turning the indecisive weather into a ritual of semi-daily rain showers and a constant climb in temperature. This was April, and though the moisture came in mist and sometimes sheets, while the trees started to bud and the grass became green with life, Silver Streak baseball was also on a crescendo to fever-pitch levels.
Roman was moved into the starting rotation because of his performance in the snow that