Outside the Foul Lines, book 4, A Minor Success

Outside The Foul Lines

Book 4

A Minor Success

For David

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Forward:

John Dooley graduates college and settles into a temporary job as supervisor for Bartlett Roofing. Mr. Bartlett has given him a pay boost, fitting of a college graduate, a company car, but life hasn't changed for John, since he began working for Mr. Bartlett, during his summers.

Mostly John finds himself on rooftops assisting a crew when he isn’t the crew, making certain the job comes in on time.

Following Andy’s career by subscribing to the Lincoln newspaper, his lover has a banner season hitting more homers than any other Lincoln player, assuring his place in the lineup as cleanup hitter.

Their phone calls eating up much of John’s pay as they desperately seek to keep love alive, means the nest egg John wants to build is limited. A trip to Lincoln, talked about several times a week, is impossible with the summer being the time the roofing business booms, and they are left to love from afar.

After Lincoln finishes second in their league, Andy comes for a short visit before heading south to play winter ball. He’s settled into his roll as slugger with a not quite major league batting average.

John is left to his roofing, while lamenting his unanswered applications for work he is qualified to do. Nothing seems to run smoothly after John’s baseball career ends. Baseball was in his blood and he has had little success in getting it out.

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Chapter 1

Roof Dreams

Being a supervisor for a major roofing concern in a minor city, Statesville, was not a major success. In fact I drove the same car, except I now took it home with me, using it to go to the mall and to movies. It came in handy when running chores for my mom. The four dollars an hour pay increase that came with the title was really great, but the job hadn’t changed, and the car meant I was always on call.

“Dooley, I need the Commerce Street job hurried up. Go over and lend a hand. Keep those boys until dark. Here’s my Master Card. Pick up pizza and fill the cooler with soda to keep them at it. We’ve got to start on the Willenford Furniture Store tomorrow morning. Old man Willenford is driving me nuts. He’s predicting thunder storms for me.”

The two man team became a three man team and the only advantage with supervising was that I didn’t start as early as I once did. The disadvantage with authority came in staying late, after everyone else was gone. They all had lives. I didn’t.

I let the workers go and I stayed behind to get as much done as I could before dark. I’d spent enough time roofing to know, after eight hours the smell, heat, and fumes were about all any man could take. My men were little more than kids, and I let them go home and finished up myself.

Even at that, after eight hours, you smelled roofing tar all night long and you never got it off you. I’d begun to think the tar bucket smell was to be what I was stuck with for life. Finding a great job with the kind of pay Mr. Bartlett paid me was a dream. I wondered if I’d grow old on the roofs of Statesville.

Mr. Bartlett was an okay guy. He’d pulled himself up by his bootstraps and gutted out being a roofer until he owned the company. Times were not very good and customers waited until the roof began to leak before calling him, but it was likely him they called. We did the best work and were happy to have a job.

Happy is an overrated word. I wasn’t happy. Having a job was a necessity, but roofing was a pain in the ass. I thought about baseball at Statesville High School and I thought about baseball at State.

My letters started going out at the end of my senior year at State just before graduation. I’d sent out a hundred all over the state, another hundred around the Southeast, then the East, and then I began answering ads from California, Oregon, and Washington papers. I wanted something that would make it possible for me to cut and run when Andy went to the Bigs. He was on the fast track, hitting twenty-eight homers his first full season.

I was still roofing and picking the tar off my legs and out of my hair in the summer and just out of my hair in the winter. I kept it close cut and simply used scissors on it when necessary. I always wore a hat to hide my barber skills.

The smell wasn’t as easy to cover up. No matter the cologne, ode de tar altered it to where people spent a lot of time sniffing the air to figure out what that smell was, when I showed up.

It was most of a year since I’d graduated. I had no prospects, and even the inquiries had stopped going out. My life was going no where and Andy was back in spring trainging, playing baseball in Florida. He was playing with the White Sox spring training team and looking at big league pitchers. He wanted to visit but didn’t have any time, and time was running out.

I’d come home from school and went to work without taking a trip out to see Andy. He was disappointed and this showed in some of our conversations. We’d been at each other’s elbow for years and missing any chance to get together now a days meant ruffled feathers, but if we were ever going to be together one of us had to make some money.

His short visits before winter ball was filled with passion and our relationship flourished, but as soon as Andy got to my house, we were making plans to get him on a plane to where ever it was he had to be next. I accepted it as part of what our relationship was, but Andy hated it and wanted me with him. This wouldn’t have gone over big no matter how many homers he hit.

It was a foregone conclusion he’d move to triple A ball after his second full season as a regular, and then it was only a matter of time until he got the call uptown to play for the big boys. Andy was the kind of slugger whose homers got general manager’s attention. Baseball was The Big Show and the home run hitters were king.

Me, I was sitting on my ass on Mahoney’s roof, eating a foot long hoagie Mr. Bartlett brought out to keep us going. It was another rush job that had to be done by yesterday.

I was exhausted.

I sipped my root beer as Mr. Bartlett went back down the ladder. Looking over toward where Mr. Bartlett was disappearing, I saw my mother running toward Mahoney’s Floor & Tile. It was a good half mile from the house and here she comes trotting along like she’s got somewhere to go.

It suddenly struck me by the expression on her face, only one thing would bring her in a panic. My hoagie fell into the fresh tar as I jumped up racing toward the ladder to meet my mother before she ran any further than necessary.

I nearly climbed over top of Mr. Bartlett as he stalled in the middle of the ladder, wondering the same thing I was wondering.

“John,” she said. “John.”

Her voice was weak and she was breathless. I was in a panic, wanting to know what she was doing there.

“John,” she said again, unable to say anything else, being completely winded.

“Where is he?” I asked, expecting my father had fallen ill.

“Where is who?” she managed, not at all sure what the hell I was talking about.

“Dad. Is it bad? What happened? Where is he?”

It was then she thrust a crumpled letter she had in her hand into the air, as though she’d just scored the winning run.

“Louisville wants you. You’re to report tomorrow. John, you’re going to play ball.”

I was stunned. It took me a few seconds to recover my senses.

“You’re going to Louisville,” Mr. Bartlett yelled, as the crew looked over the side of Mahoney’s half done roof.

I wouldn’t have to look Mr. Barlett up to tell him he was losing his last supervisor. He was suddenly dancing with my mother and me as I looked at the heading on the letter.

It was from Louisville. They wanted me to report. It was signed by Anthony Sizemore. Who the hell was Anthony Sizemore? I hadn’t even put my name in the draft. What would Louisville want with me?

“You take the car, John. It’s yours. I’ll go and have the paperwork signed right now. Don’t waste any time. Go ahead and get cleaned up. You’re going to play ball,” Mr. Bartlett explained.

I was going to play ball. I had waited to see if some last place team had need of a washed up infielder, after I graduated. It was a long shot and I knew better than to hope for a future in baseball. I expected a hell of a lot more out of the regular job market, but no one was hiring inexperienced help.

I followed Chance, Monty, and a half dozen other minor league players, knowing their batting averages and how many hits they got in their last game, should someone ask. Andy never failed to give me updates about one of our teammates who came to play against Lincoln.

It wasn’t playing ball, but it was keeping track of it. Baseball season the summer before had been hard. For the first time in eight years I wasn’t playing. I didn’t go near a glove or a bat. I couldn’t see myself haunting baseball diamonds looking for a pickup game. My career had ended without incident in the end. I’d never had any realistic idea I could go on playing ball.

Louisville had called and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. The letter said to report the following day. I ran my baseball career through my thoughts as I drove. It was the first time I’d driven anywhere on my own. If not for the mystery I might have driven straight to Lincoln. The bus had used some of the roads I started out on, when I went to see Andy.

It was a days drive to Louisville. I had mom get me up early, figuring to be there in the late afternoon. It said report to the stadium, gave the address, and there was a blue pass I was to give to the guard at the players entrance.

I carried the glove I’d dug out of my bottom drawer and my State hat that I’d kept away from the tar. I felt awkward as the guard nodded me through, after checking the pass carefully.

“Follow this concrete ramp to the center of the stadium and take the first left turn you come to. It takes you down to the field. See one of the coaches on the field.”

For early March it was warm in the late afternoon. The sky had started to darken as the sun sat west on the Louisville horizon. I’d only been to a few big league games as a boy and the stadium reminded me of that. The walkway and stairs were concrete, the seats green, and the shade in the stands gave way to some brilliant sunshine lighting the infield dirt and the outfield as I moved toward practice.

The smell of grass penetrated the memory of the smell of tar still in my nose. It was a grand smell I hadn’t sniffed in almost a year. The sound of a bat meeting the ball echoed back in the shadows where I watched guys in warm up wear, tossing balls around the infield.  Several players leaned on the backstop waiting for a turn at bat.

A lanky pitcher went through a full windup, kicking his front leg high, delivering an off speed pitch that was drilled between first and second base. The infielders ignored it, continuing to throwe two balls around the infield at a fairly good clip. Several guys in the outfield scrambled for the ball, fighting to see which one would get to throw it back in toward the pitcher’s mound.

An older gentlemen stood off to one side of the plate, watching the batters. His uniform was so white it made him stand out from everyone else on the field. Written on the back was the word Hack. His weather beaten face showed a good deal of age. I ran Hack through my memory banks, coming up empty.

Another man raked dirt from behind the backstop. I stood at the bottom of the grandstands as close to the field as I could get without jumping the short wall. I held the blue pass in my right hand and my high school infielder’s glove in my left.

I waited.

“Who are you?” a gruff voice demanded.

“Dooley,” I identified myself. “I got this letter to report and the pass….”

“Back up the walkway. Follow the ramp to the left. Take the stairs down to the locker room, first office on the right. Report in there.” The man ordered without looking at the letter or the pass. “Welcome to Louisville,” he growled, going back to what he was doing.

“Thanks,” I said, not meaning it any more than he did.

Did he say right or left? I followed his instructions, feeling a little like I was back in high school.

It was a wooden door colored the same green as everything else in the stadium. There were two large glass windows in the top half of the door, I knocked on one.

“Coach, ain’t home,” a player said from the locker room. “He’s over at the university checking out some talent. Go to the other side of the locker room and the first door is Coach Wilson’s office. He’s in there. He’ll know what to do with you. Welcome to Louisville,” the player said, clicking away from me with his cleats tapping against the concrete.

I knocked on the door where I was sent, wondering if I’d get dinner that night. I should have stopped before coming to the ballpark, but I wasn’t hungry then.

“Yeah,” a voice said.

“Dooley. I got a letter to report.”

“Come on in,” he said, not sounding enthusiastic.

I opened the door and was met with cigar smoke and a barrel-chested man sitting behind a desk with his cleats propped up on it.

“Welcome to Louisville. Coach is over at the university. I guess you’re stuck with me. You’re Dooley.”

I wasn’t sure if it was a question or an order. The man looked neither friendly or unfriendly. Indifferent would be my guess. Why the hell wasn’t the coach there if he wanted me to report there today? One of the mysteries of life was the one about being the low man on the totem pole, while being treated like it. I reminded myself I was being called up to play ball. I hoped it would be enough. Smelling the tar in my nose, I knew it would be.

I was given instructions where I’d live, where I’d eat, and when to be at the ballpark. The heart of Louisville’s team was in Florida, playing with the major league teams for seasoning. Louisville was their apprenticeship before going to play with the big boys.

The quarters were not like living at home and even less like the dorm. The rooming house was old but well kept by an elderly woman who walked me to a room I’d share with several other players. She pointed me to a closet and a bed and told me she’d do better as the cuts were made and players went home, Louisville rejects.

Louisville was triple A ball, one step from the pros. Andy was playing double A ball and would be making a stop at a triple A club on his way to the majors. It hadn’t occurred to me before. I’d told my mom not to tell Andy where I was, when he called.

We’d been talking about me going to Lincoln to spend a week with him as soon as the spring roofing rush was over. Now I wasn’t going to Lincoln and how would I explain my invitation to join a triple A club? I should have let my mother tell him. It was confusing.

Coach Wilson had given me a uniform with the number 10 and my name on the back. It was brand new and even the lettering and numbers were brilliant red. I hugged it and smelled the fresh new material. I laid it out on my bed before trying it on.

It fit. Even the hat was a perfect fit. How the hell did they pull that off? The big red L on the hat gave me a different feeling than the S on State’s hats. This was the big time for me. I was a little dizzy considering I was in Louisville. It was beginning to sink in.

Andy was on a double A squad and I’d sat out a season and gone right to triple A. It didn’t make any sense, not that I was going to complain to anyone about it. There was a piece missing. When pieces were missing, it bothered me.

What the hell was I doing here? Why give me a brand new uniform, when I might be on my way back home before the first regular season game? They hadn’t seen me hit yet.

There wasn’t a lot of time to ponder the discrepancy, when my roommates showed up. I was tired and wanted a nap but they wanted food and I remembered I hadn’t eaten. It was pizza and beer at a loud bar within sight of the ballpark.

The rooming house was a block away and there was a gated parking lot where I was told to put my car next to the ballpark. Some cars had an inch of dust on them. I pictured players going on a road trip and never coming back. My five year old sedan fit fine.

I wondered how long I might last as Brad, George, and Carlos talked about anything but baseball. Eight hours a day was enough and the range rule was not to talk shop at dinner or in the room. It would be a good rule. Even though I had a million questions. Odds were half of us weren’t going to be there at the beginning of the season.

All the guys who lived in the rooming house showered there. I was shown where to get the towel and soap I’d need. Mrs. Olsen sold all the doodads men used in the bathroom at her cost. She loved her boys and did her best to take care of us. I showered and dropped into bed, trying to sleep amongst the snoring. I thought about baseball.

We were at the ballpark at 9 a.m. There was a break for lunch and at five the day ended. There were classes where you sat at desks and listened to Hack Moran and Slip Wilson. They spent a lot of time talking about their time in the Bigs. They talked about specific players, offering them tips in a fairly casual setting.

I was introduced and everyone was happy and accepted me as one of the guys. Out on the field Slip kept me close. He described the players he had there. He spoke of Evan Lane, Louisville’s serious power, and Scraps Courtney, a major league catcher who’d been up and down, mostly down when injured and rehabbing for his next comeback. Scraps loved Louisville, being a fan favorite.

In the hallway on the way to meet the coach, who had finally decided to come visit his team, I ran into a life size poster of Evan Lane. He was tall, handsome, and rugged looking, and his wrap around Oakley shades were the point of the poster, Oakley being the sunglasses for ball players everywhere, so says Evan Lane.

Louisville’s power had more than a bat going for him. I tried to blank him out with thoughts of Andy.

I knocked on the door and waited for a reply.

“In,” a voice barked in a very familiar tone.

I turned the knob and pushed the door open, totally unprepared for what I found on the other side..

“Coach Bell!” I said, fitting the final piece into place.

It all made sense now. Louisville's ball club wasn't all a quiver over some modestly successful shortstop coming to town. Coach Bell had seen, or he'd been looking at a list of prospects, and seeing my name, he invited me to Louisville to try out.

It made perfect sense.

Seeing my former coach's face brought memories flooding back to me, and I couldn't wait to hear what he had on his mind.

Chapter 2

Louisville’s Head Coach

Coach Bell came around his desk to shake my hand. He rested his big left hand on my shoulder as we shook. This was a massive show of emotion for a man not given to expressing any. The smile was something I couldn’t recall seeing more than a couple of times. It did confirm he had teeth, though I was sure he did.

My anger with Coach Bell passed. It was good to be in his presence once more. I’d held a grudge about him leaving ‘his’ team, no matter the cause. He left us with Briscoe, and not bothering to let me know where he had gone. It was difficult forgetting how he confided in me during his tenure as State’s Baseball Coach.

“You called me up?”

I finally realized how I’d gotten to Louisville.

“You didn’t sign the letter.”

“I was in Florida looking at some of my ball players. Much of the starting lineup is getting some seasoning, playing with major league players. We have the makings of a fair team this season.”

“You couldn’t wait until you got back?”

“John, it was on my mind. My infield coach is probably going to play with the Red Sox this season. They’ve been sniffing around him at spring training and now their second baseman has an injury. You were next on my list.”

“Coach?” I said, not ready for the idea.

“Yes, John, you’re one of the best coaching minds I’ve ever come across. Now, you’re younger than many of the guys you’ll be coaching. It shouldn’t be a problem, because you’re my man, but this isn’t college. These guys are trying to make a living playing ball. This is dog eat dog and some guys might resent you being a coach. They don’t know what I know and I know you’ll win over the skeptics.”

“Coach? I won’t be playing?”

“No, I didn’t see you playing. I don’t mind if you want to train with and try out for the team. I better warn you, I’ve got a damn good little shortstop. Pappas is fast, hits for a good average, and his fielding is flawless. I might be able to get you some playing time in the latter innings if that’s what you want.

“I’ve got some naturals here, but holes in the fielding like you’ve never seen. I inherited the previous infield coach and was reluctant to make a change. He came to me asking to try out for the Red Sox. That’s when I thought about you.

“Some of my best hitters think the glove is to sit on to keep their butts from getting sore between innings. Might help the adjustment if you are a player/coach. I wasn’t thinking of that contingency, but it might make your adjustment easier.”

Coach Bell thought of every contingency all the time. It’s why he was an excellent coach. He had the answer before anyone thought up the question.

“Player/coach?”

I tried out the concept.

“How are you, John?” he asked happily, smiling broadly at me.

“I was working steady back home. I figured I was out of ball. The letter didn’t give me much time to think it over. It said report yesterday and I didn’t want to lose a chance to play. I’m fine but all of this is coming at me pretty fast. It isn’t what I expected.”

“I should have been back yesterday but there was a game last night I wanted to see before coming back to Louisville. I should have been here but this has all come up in the last week.”

“No one mentioned your name. Do they know you’re coach?”

Coach Bell laughed and smiled again.

“Yeah, they know. I told them not to say anything about me until I got a chance to talk with you. I wanted to surprise you, John. By the expression on your face…, I’d say you were surprised.”

“Yeah, never gave it a thought. I didn’t know any Sizemore, but it didn’t matter. I’ve been thinking about ball since spring training started. I always thought I could just walk away from the game.”

“Well, John, I didn’t have this job nailed down until over the winter. The team hasn’t been all together yet and Hack and Slip have been here for long enough to keep things under control. I’ll pull the team together once all the pieces are here. You’re welcome to tutor under Hack, when you aren’t working with my fielders. He’s a tough old bird but no better hitting coach in the minors. We’ll see what we can do about you playing, I promise. I called you to coach and that’s your priority.”

“I can’t ask for much more than that, Coach. I’ve never been a good hitter but I’ve got a good glove. I’d like to play if possible. I mean I don’t mind coaching. Coach Martin let me do things for him. He’s a good man, but I missed you.”

“We all resist change, John. I was familiar and leaving the way I did wasn’t easy, but the only way you boys had a chance was for me to get clear of the program. You didn’t let me down. You played as good in the NCAA Championships as you did most of the season.”

“It was your team, Coach. We finished what you started.”

“Well, Coach Martin had a lot to do with it. He was a better fit for you boys than Briscoe, under the circumstances. I got no say in that matter, but it turned out okay.”

“Coach Martin didn’t think so. He knew whose team it was. You should have seen us, Coach. We played damn good ball.”

“What makes you think I didn’t see you, John? I didn’t miss a game. I was in the stands every time you boys were on the field. I couldn’t go near the team but no one said I couldn’t watch. I was proud of you boys. You did yourselves proud and State.”

“I didn’t play that much. It seems like a long time ago. My senior season wasn’t much to write home about.”

“You went ten games without a hit, John. You ended up with a .252 batting average for the season. I’d say you played respectable ball. You made a good comeback, after your injury. It takes courage to stand in front of a ball once you’ve been hit and hurt by one.”

“Well, if I was doing so well, and you know it, play me. I won’t let you down.”

“I can’t do that, John. I’ve got to do what’s best for the team. I’ll give you an equal shot and I’ll see to it Hack helps you with your hitting. I called you up for your coaching skill. I need a fielding coach, and as long as your effort to be a player/coach doesn’t interfere with the coaching part, you have my blessing. I’d like nothing better than having you play for me again.”

“We’ve got a few days before spring training breaks up and our first string players report to Louisville. I figured that would give you time to get your feet wet, and after that you’ll have your hands full with my fielders.”

It was cordial, even though I hadn’t forgiven him for leaving State in the middle of my junior season. It was difficult to be mad at Coach Bell. He knew what he was doing and why, leaving no doubt he was in charge. I was one player and he was responsible for the entire team.

Hack was tough and all business. He didn’t mind yelling orders across the field at someone. He’d coached in the Bigs, since leaving his playing days behind, but he lived in Louisville and that’s where he wanted to be these days.

Slip had begun preparing the pitching staff. He’d pitched a dozen seasons in the big leagues and finished his career with as many wins as losses. Pitchers could relate to him and he to them. These were the most temperamental players. Games rested on their shoulders and they were hard to handle if things weren’t going well. 

It took me a couple of days to get up in front of the batting machine, during a lull one day. I was taking all the practices with the players. I was there as an infielder in my mind. This wasn’t a deception on my part. If I was going to play, these would be the men I had to beat out for a place on the team. I’d like to be the shortstop but I could play any of the infield positions if asked.

Coach Bell seemed convinced I couldn’t make the first squad, and so I did all within my power to shine in his eyes. I could tell by the expression on his face he was pleased with my effort, but the bat would make the difference.

I waited for the batting cage to clear out. I spent a minute finding a bat I liked, I stepped in before the machine ran out of balls. Most of the guys were elsewhere and I’d been waiting for a chance to step into the batter’s box without the audience. I hadn’t been up to the plate in almost a year.

The first pitch whizzed past, bouncing around the inside of the backstop. I was better prepared for the second pitch, more watching the passing than thinking about hitting it. The third pitch I tagged and it hit the pitching machine, knocking it off to one side. The next pitch went over first base to some unseen hitter.

“Jesus, you know what these things cost?” Hack complained, going out to set the machine right, reloading it with balls once he was satisfied.

I hadn’t been aware of him. I didn’t know he had been watching, but immediately we were involved with my at bat.

“Okay, don’t be hitting that thing again,” he ordered, as if I aimed at the machine. “I’ll see we take a new one out of your pay and you don’t make that much.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, becoming accustomed to his salty style.

I had to laugh at Hack’s concern for the machine. One of the players got hit on the elbow the day before and Hack had growled for him to get up and walk it off and quit acting like a little girl. It was plain to see he had more compassion for the machine.

I stroked a few balls between 2nd and 3rd base. Hack was soon standing at the corner of the batting cage, watching me. I had adjusted to the machines pacing immediately.

“Okay, John, turn yourself a little toward 3rd, move your front foot in the same direction by an inch or two. Move your back foot in toward the back of the plate. Keep track of where you are in the box and see where the ball goes.”

The machine threw three pitches past me as Hack was rearranging me in the box. I felt a little awkward not being perfectly squared off in the box. I tagged the ball down the 3rd base foul line and it stayed just fair, bouncing into the far corner of the outfield.

“Nice, stroke. Pull your back foot back a few inches and get the front foot closer to the front of the box. Turn yourself only slightly toward first base and see what we get.”

The next time I hit the ball it went over second base. It was usually all I could do to get my bat on the ball. Worrying about where to keep my feet hadn’t crossed my mind. Chance could put a ball anywhere in the field he wanted with most pitchers. It never occurred to me it had as much to do with his feet as his bat. It was obvious Hack knew his business. I was impressed.

I’d learned something important. It also kept my mind off of being hit by a pitched ball. Focusing on my foot placement allowed me to feel like I had more control over what I was doing. The idea of praying I didn’t strike out had previously been my main hitting technique.

I changed my position in the batter’s box to see what I could do with the pitching machines predictable pitches. Hack seemed fine with the idea I was swinging at the ball, even when I didn’t hit it. I was happy with it too. Fear was no longer my most felt emotion, when I was heading for the plate.

It was a couple of years since I’d been hit in the head and I was older and more mature. I had to make up my mind to pickup the bat the first time at Louisville. A pitcher could still intimidated me, but I gradually lost all fear of the batting machine. If it hit me I had no one to blame but myself. There was a certain exhilaration that came with hitting against the machine.

I spent the first week getting acquainted with a lot of players that were probably destined to disappear or take a seat on the bench. Coach Bell said nothing about being in the middle of practices instead of being like Hack and Slip, instructing instead of participating. This told me these weren’t the guys Coach Bell wanted me to coach.

Hack and Slip had been to the Big Show and I hadn’t, and my best bet was to show that I could play ball first and coach later. Neither Hack or Slip showed any feelings toward me at all. They were there to coach and when they could instruct me how to do something better, they did, as they did to all of the players. 

My roommates were all good guys if a little noisy when they slept. Eight hours of practice a day took much of the energy out of us, so there weren’t a lot of late nights, although the rules said we’d be in the room at 9 p.m. each evening.

As my courage grew each time I stepped in to face the pitching machine, I decided I needed to hit against a real pitcher. The pitchers had returned from spring training two days before and the rookies on the pitching staff were replacing the pitching machine. I wasn’t required to take batting practice if I was content with being a coach, but it was more than just a test to see if the new found courage extended to real live pitchers.

These were a dozen fuzzy face boys with more velocity in their fastballs than I’d ever seen. They had varying amounts of control, which I must admit concerned me. I figured if I was going to have a shot at playing ball, I had to take batting practice.

The level of fear was reduced since I’d been hit in the head, but I still anticipated bailing out if the ball was coming in on me. I was unable to control this response the first few days I came to bat against the pitching staff. There was little time for thinking with the kind of heat the new young pitchers threw. I would need to work on it. I had much less success hitting the balls they pitched, and there was the temptation to bail out on every pitch, but I stood fast, sweating more than the later stages of March in Louisville might be expected.

Glendon Easton was on the mound and had been throwing to Hack, who was catching batting practice, watching where the balls were coming into the plate. Slip would walk out to the mound every few pitches to talk to his pitcher while he looked into the empty outfield.

Glendon was a fireball pitcher. He could throw a breaking fastball but most of his stuff was straight at the plate. If he had a curve I hadn’t seen him throw it and I’d watched him for a long time before I carried my bat toward the batter’s box, getting in the back of the line to face him. The old fear was back.

I stood in, ignoring him for as long as I could. This was my weak spot. Standing in front of a fastball wasn’t my idea of a good time. Hack pounded his glove and waited to squat. At his age it had to be difficult to catch, but he did it anyway, wanting to see the ball being delivered and the batter’s approach to hitting it.

“Strike,” Hack said with only the three of us there paying attention. “Get the damn bat off your shoulder, John. Miss it but at least take a cut.”

I backed out to swing the bat a couple of times. Hack stood up and leaned on the backstop watching me. Glendon dug around the pitcher’s mound, circling it as I was deciding when to move back into the box. I contemplated walking away but of course I couldn’t. I was in the box and I had to get the bat on the ball at least one time. That’s all I wanted and I’d call it a day. I carefully placed my feet in the batter’s box, trying to get my focus off the ball hitting me.

“That’s your plate, son,” Hack said in a matter-of-fact voice. “You can’t let that pitcher take it away from you. That spot out there belong to him. This here plate is yours. You don’t act like it. No, you act like it’s all his for the taking, and I’m here to tell you he can’t have it. Hit the ball, John. Forget about what he’s doing.”

By the time Hack was convinced it was time for me to get busy, he squatted down and I stepped into the batter’s box, finally looking at the pitcher just before he let go of the ball.

It was sailing in and up and coming right at my chin. I fell backward, tripping over my feet. I ended up flat on my ass with Hack shaking his head and looking away as he walked to get the ball.

Just as I was collecting my bruised ego a big hand was thrust down at me. I automatically took it, being pulled onto my feet. I was looking into the wrap around Oakley sun glasses of Evan Lane.

How embarrassing.

“Howdy there, John,” he said cool as a breeze. “I’m Evan Lane and you’re blocking my plate.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, not realizing he’d be bigger and even more handsome in person.

“You can’t let him take the plate away from you, John,” Hack said, standing next to where I stood in front of Evan Lane.

“That’s my plate and I don’t want him to get the idea it’s his, you understand. Why don’t you move out of my way and I’ll get it back for us,” Evan said with confidence.

He offered me a pleasant smile.

He was tall and very well-built with broad powerful shoulders. Of course his uniform was tailored to give him the mobility a power hitter liked. He was maybe six-foot-two and maybe one hundred and eighty tightly fit pounds.

I took a full survey, having already seen his dynamics in the life size poster. He was far more impressive in person.

“You need some sun glasses, sport. It’s not polite to stare and not where you’re staring. Never let a guy see you taking a better look at him than his girl takes. If you must stare, you should hide it behind shades. See me after practice, I have a couple of pair I don’t wear any longer. The manufacturer sends me more than I’ll ever wear. You definitely need a pair.”

“Okay, Lane, if you’re done with the commercial interlude, my pitcher is getting cold,” Hack said unsympathetic.

I backed away processing what he had to say and not able to put it all together yet. When I looked back, Courtney was in his catcher’s gear and Hack stood behind the backstop, watching Lane. I walked behind the backstop to watch Lane’s swing.

“Watch him, John. He’ll show you what you do with a pitcher like that. It’s a question of staking your claim to the plate.”

The bold pitcher who looked larger than life to me, seemed to shrink once Lane took a few practice swings, never taking his eyes off Glendon. Lane made the bat look small in his big hands. He looked casual, even relaxed. When he stepped into the box, he was ready to hit. He looked at his feet before swinging the bat one more time, letting it come to rest on his shoulder as he stared at the pitcher.

Glendon walked around the mound a couple of times. He towed the rubber and went into his windup, delivering yet another fastball. The pitch was high and outside. Lane stuck out his bat to get the fat part of the barrel on the ball, taking advantage of his long arms to reach across the plate for it.

It wasn’t much of a swing but it accomplished what he was after. The speed of the pitch was enough to send it bouncing right at the front of the pitcher’s mound. The hit had Glendon hopping to keep from getting the ball tangled in his legs as it passed over the mound on its way through the infield.

Lane didn’t seem to take any particular pleasure in warning the pitcher he could put the ball anywhere he wanted. The next pitches came outside, low, high, and a few were perfectly placed in Lane’s power zone. He got his entire bat on the pitches in that zone, sending several out into the centerfield bleachers. His bat made a prodigious sound when he hit the really long balls.

“Good at bat, Lane,” Hack announced from beside me.

No one had indicated Lane was to be one of my major projects, after our inauspicious meeting at the plate that day. Hack would tell me later, he needs a peach basket instead of a fielder’s glove. I wondered why such a powerful hitter wasn’t batting in a big league line-up. Lane had a contract for the Bigs, as quick as the retiring right fielder called it a day, but that didn’t make him a better fielder.

Coach Bell had been told it was his job to get Lane fielding at a major league level. Coach Bell was depending on me to deliver a satisfactorily fielding major league power hitter.

Lane was maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. He was easy going, knowing he was big league bound. He had the contract to prove it. No club was going to let a power hitter like Lane get away. They’d keep working with him until he could field at a major league level, but he’d qualify as a designated hitter on most clubs if necessary.

All Lane needed to do was show up and he knew his bank account would grow. He was the proverbial million dollar baby, and I would become responsible for him in the field. It wasn’t the job I expected, but I was back in baseball.

*****

Taz & Kodak are coming to a literary site near you.

A photojournalist, Kodak, wants to cover a war, Vietnam. The cost has never been more weird, when Kodak is made responsible for 1st squad’s misfit soldier, Taz, who drinks too much, and he wets his bed. 

Why does 1st squad put up with such misconduct in a war zone? 

Kodak wants to know, and he's about to find out, why the men of 1st Squad take such good care of Pvt. Tazerski.

*****

Chapter 3

Andy Calling, Remember Me

Things moved fast once the first team was in Louisville. There would be ten days before our first league game but there were preseason games with Memphis, Nashville, Ft. Wayne, and Sheboygan. The 1st team took over all the positions for the first few innings in each game. This was just enough to keep their spring training conditioning from going into decline.

The exception to this concept was pitching. While the starters spent hours warming up every third or fourth day, Coach Bell only used a starter for the first two or three innings of preseason games to keep them honed. He called on lesser known pitchers and left them in even when they were getting hit.

He didn’t care if he won any of these games. He was looking for just one more capable starter. The games were unimportant but this was the golden opportunity for an ineffective pitcher to turn it around. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was worth the effort.

Pitchers knew this was their final opportunity to make the team. Short relief pitchers asked for a start. Even in the minors the starting pitchers were on the top of the heap, but it was difficult to stay there.

A team kept searching for that hidden jewel already in its bullpen. The relief pitchers were originally starters who didn’t make the grade. They could be called into a game at any time. In case of an injury to a starter, they got one more shot at shining. If you weren’t in the bullpen you didn’t get that chance, and that’s where some of the best relief pitchers were born. 

Hack mostly ran the practices and Coach Bell spent a lot of time behind the backstop and on the phone, when he wasn’t out in the bullpen, watching pitchers. He now kept a notepad and jotted down information as it came to him. The notepad was out on his desk when he met with his coaches. He’d go from one topic to another, turning a page in the pad from time to time. 

Our discussions were limited as preparations were being made to field all the positions with the best available talent. The first few preseason games were casual, lacking the intensity that came once the regular season began. Batters came to bat secure with their place on the team. I was free to see it all as it happened.

Starting pitchers gave three quarters of what they had in their limited innings, saving their real stuff for when it counted. This was the time to hone where the pitches went, cutting the corners of the plate, walking more batters than usual, and bringing on their best stuff to get an important out. They were on stage and even in the preseason, when the chips were down, a regular starter turned up the heat if his control wasn’t what he wanted. 

I took particular interest in Brad Pappas, Louisville’s shortstop. He had good moves and fielded cleanly, but I was better. The shortstop to second base double-play combination was okay, but Dooley to Chance was far better. I could see an opening, even if Coach Bell hadn’t seen it yet.

Once I’d seen Pappas bat a few times, he didn’t need me to tell anyone he was good. He was never going to hit for power but he was going to hit. His league batting average for the years he’d played minor league ball was .321. Impressive to say the least, but I didn’t say anything. I imagined one way or another getting playing time.

Pappas had thinning blond hair and was still thin at twenty-five. He’d obviously been playing ball for a long time. He was neither friendly or unfriendly to me. During practices I took time at shortstop and second base. I became familiar with his moves and he saw mine. I got my first smiles out of him, taking any throw he made and turning them into double-play moves.

In the middle of the first week, after the first team was back, we combined to make a nifty double-play. It ended an inning, during our third preseason game. It was the first time Coach Bell let me into a game.

“Do, get your glove and play second next inning,” he said, flipping a page on his pad as he spoke.

“Yes, sir,” I said happily, checking my fly and making sure I’d put on my spikes.

While jogging toward the dugout, Pappas put his hand on my shoulder, surprising me.

“Great move, Do. Sorry about the pepper on my throw. I try to tone it down during games like these, but I get excited.”

“It’s the only way we got the double-play,” I said. “You’re good, Brad. You’re real good.”

It’s not something I wanted to say. The truth often hurts and he was in between me and a starting position in my mind, but Coach Bell wouldn’t let me near the shortstop position.

I did a stint at third and I played a few innings at 1st. I’d never done more than stood at these bases before, taking throws or acting like I could field anything hit my way. Now, I was told to play there. Luckily the few chances he gave me didn’t end with me fucking up. I felt great each time he let me loose on the field.

He called me his utility infielder. Working with the infield in all the practices, it surprised no one. The subject of coaching didn’t come up in any team conversations. Most of the infielders were adequate. Brad was the leader in the infield and he treated my presence with no hostility. I wasn’t seen as a threat to the starting infielders, and I wasn’t, unless Coach Bell changed his mind.

Coach Bell talked openly about me going in late in games to rest one of the regulars. There are always long stretches of double headers and extra inning games in the middle of the season, and you did your best not to wear out your best players. It invited injury. It was more than he told me he’d do for me, but the season hadn’t started yet. I’d been in Louisville three weeks and felt like I’d made the team.

I was being given playing time in the preseason but not much. I came to bat and I had a perfect batting average. Batting seven times, I’d walked three times, struck out twice, and hit two ground balls for outs. It wasn’t encouraging but I had swung at and hit the ball. The fear seemed to have resolved itself somewhere behind my eyes.

“Good eye,” came the yells from the bench, when I trotted down to first, after a walk.

Other than my propensity for working pitchers for a walk, I was hitless. I wasn’t there to win games with my bat. I wasn’t even there to play. I was there to coach and I knew Coach Bell was humoring my ambition as long as it didn’t count. I knew Coach Bell favored me, but if it meant the difference in a game, he’d take me out in a heartbeat.

I watched Evan Lane play the outfield. He had difficulty setting up under any high fly ball. He was a little better with balls hit more directly at him. With a ball on the ground it was like it had grease on it. He fumbled grounders before getting control over it. I knew why he wasn’t playing in the infield. I knew what to show him but I hadn’t been instructed to teach Evan Lane to field yet.

What was he waiting for?

Who had been given the assignment before? Evan Lane was in a key position. Why? Left fielders saw more action than right fielders.

I calculated the team he was going to had a solid right fielder in the lineup and Lane was most likely the heir apparent to a power hitting left fielder. It was Coach Bell’s job to see to it he could field adequately. He was going to make it my job. Anyone could coach his infielders. They were okay. I’d had success with another left fielder, Andy, but that was a fluke. To save my ass I’d said the first thing that came into my mind, ‘he needs glasses’ and I was a genius.

Evan Lane was a handful not to coach. I couldn’t imagine coaching him successfully, but I wasn’t going to have an option if I was to stay at Louisville. I prayed I could do whatever it was Coach Bell had in mind.

Most right handed hitters were going to try to hit it toward Lane on the ground if possible. It might give them a shot at making an extra base. If I knew it by watching him everyone else did. Evan Lane was a million dollar baby with a hole in his fielder’s mit. I did not see what I could do to help him.

Every time I got near Lane, he handed me his sunglasses. He was no Andy. Coach Bell didn’t know what it was all about. Hack had no clue, though he’d witnessed my first run-in with him. No one else seemed to notice the implications of him offering me sunglasses so I could feel free to stare at him unnoticed. There was no worse combination than cocky plus arrogant. Why would he turn my being gay into a joke only between him and I? Most guys would have shot their mouths off to everyone.

Coach Bell had me practicing with his infield but gave me no instruction concerning Lane. It was easy to break into the practices, because Brad treated me like I belonged with his infield. This bought me a pass with the other guys.

Brad Pappas was the longest standing member of Louisville’s infield. He’d been called up to the Bigs once, at the end of the season two years before. He had been sent back to Louisville to start the following season. He’d seen only limited playing time and hadn’t gotten a full shot. That’s the way the story went.

Other major league teams were looking at him and he was the kind of player that could get an offer any time. He kept his name off of contracts to keep his options open. Brad Pappas was a player’s player. He wanted to be in the lineup. It didn’t so much matter where. He was a leader and it was only a matter of time.

Lane, on the other hand, was going to one of the top teams. He was the big gun and even a bad fielding big gun was better than a wonderful fielding also ran. He was cocky and sure of himself and I’d have cut him from my team on attitude alone, but Even Lane wasn’t playing for me. He hardly knew I was alive, except as a joke.

                        *****

   The feel, the smell, the emotion on Louisville’s bench was electric. We started the season in the same mode State achieved late in my junior year, once we reached the NCAA Championships. Louisville started the season with that level of intensity. We were but a hairs breath away from the Bigs and on the first day of the new season it was on everyone’s mind.

It was expectation, passion for the game, the need to excel, and the pride they took in their performance. Playing at State was like being in school. You got up for the big games, prayed the students came out to support you, and died when they didn’t.

Being at Louisville was something like playing for the NCAA Championship. We were that close to the real deal. For me it was like a dream come true, even if I wasn’t ever going to play there.

Our first game was at home against Toledo. It was picture perfect. Ryan Toler pitched a two hitter. Evan Lane hit two home runs. Brad Pappas hit two singles, scored once, further complicating any notion I had about breaking into the lineup at shortstop.

Louisville won 7-0. The game was never in question. I sat on the end of the bench to watch Hack and Slip coach from the foul lines. I hadn’t officially been designated infield coach yet and my assignment was to watch Slip coaching at 1st. Hack controlled all the signs and relayed any signs Coach Bell had for hitters. It was exciting and I got caught up in the victory. I was part of it.

Louisville’s locker room was nothing like State. In fact State’s was far nicer and way newer, but the conversations and reactions were more natural and less controlled. Guys shouted at each other across the locker room and voices cascaded out of the showers to add a comment to a loud conversation.

Hack was in with Coach Bell with the door closed as I passed, the phone was ringing in the  hallway next to the propped open locker room door. I had continued walking in that direction to ditch my still fresh uniform in my locker after the win. This was okay, I thought.

“Hey, rookie, pick up the damn phone. Someone might be calling,” someone said as I passed and then reached back for it.

“Hello. Louisville clubhouse,” I said.

“Do?” I said, trying to get my ear into the receiver so I could hear. “This is Do. Andy? How’d you get this number?”

“There’s a list on the wall next to our locker room phone,” Andy said. “Why haven’t you called me?”

“I’ve been busy, Andy. I’m with Louisville. I got called up.”

“Yeah, so I gather. Never tell your mother to lie to me, Do. She’s very bad at it.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“Why didn’t you let me know?”

“I didn’t know how, Andy. It just happened. I’ve been really busy adjusting to minor league ball.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since we talked, Do?”

“I’m sorry, Andy. I’ve been busy.”

“So have I but I didn’t forget you.”

“Andy, that isn’t fair. I’m trying to break in here.”

“When I broke in here we were on the phone all the time,” Andy complained.

“I know and I’ve been meaning to call, but it takes a lot of change and I never have any. We’re arguing and lets not waste your dime on that. We can figure out how and when to call once things settle down.”

“Yeah, you’re at a triple A club. How’d you swing that? You were out of ball for a year and you go straight to triple A. Who did you bribe?”

“Andy, Coach Bell is here. He wants me to coach the infielders. I’m still learning the system and the guys. We beat Toledo 7-0 today.”

“I could beat Toledo,” Andy said. “We played Wichita. They cleaned our clock. I homered but they beat us by five runs.”

“The team going to be better this year?”

“They say. We picked up a couple of new infielders that seem okay. I’m batting clean up. I had a good spring, but you know that. You’re with a triple A team. That’s good news, Do,” Andy said without sounding like it was good.

“That’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d resent it. I’m not playing, Andy. I may not even get into a game as a player. Coach Bell says maybe if he needs me.”

“Hey, if that’s the Yankees calling for me,” a voice came from the depths of the locker room. “Tell them… tell them….”

“Tell them he’s all wet,” another voice interrupted happily.

“Look, I got to go. My time is up. I don’t have any more change. Call me at the room, after eight one evening. I’m always in after eight. You know the number.”

“I will, Andy,” I assured him, as Evan Lane walked up to place his hand on the wall next to the phone.

He was dripping from his shower and his tight muscular chest shined as the heat from his body made me flush. My eyes dropped down to the space between his thighs.

“I still love you, Do,” Andy said solemnly.

“I know, Andy. I’ve got to go.”

“If that’s your girl tell her you got a buddy with all the right stuff,” Lane barked, holding a substantial package in his fist as my bare forearm felt his warm damp flesh as he leaned closer to the receiver and my fresh uniform.

His flesh rubbing mine was no incidental contact. This was a personal foul. I had gone speechless as I watched his prick get half hard, standing out from between his thick fingers.

The phone had gone dead. My mouth went dry. I was unable to pull my eyes off his slow expansion, as it turned darker the harder he squeezed his handful.

He stood up away from me and the phone, letting his dick hang free. His eyes were on me and mine were on him, or parts thereof. It was as close as I’d been to any action since the last time I was with Andy.

I wasn’t ready for it or Evan Lane.

He’d bet my eyes would betray me and they had. His eyes met my eyes as guys laughed and yelled for Lane to leave me alone. Lane had no intention of letting go of his hole card. As the excitement in his dick diminished, he waited to hit me with his favorite punch line.

“Ops, no sunglasses on me. You really need a pair, John. The eyes tell a story like nothing else can. See me later and we’ll negotiate a pair of my best Oakley shades. They aren’t cheap but I have a feeling we can work something out,” and with “out” he felt his flaccid flesh, watching my eyes follow his hand to the prize.

He turned to head back for the locker room before I could reply. His ass was hard, not big at all, and his legs showed a remarkable amount of definition without being bulky. Evan Lane was a hunk and he might have suspected something the first time we set eyes on each other, but he was sure he knew all he needed to know now.

Why had I stared at him? He was an arrogant jerk.

Andy wasn’t happy with me and I knew we were heading for rough road. I should have called him. He had quite an ego that had been buiding as he’d become the big gun at Lincoln. My jumping past double A ball was an insult to him. He was Mr. Baseball and I was an also ran, who didn’t even make it onto the draft the year I graduated. He went in the first round of the draft and was Lincoln’s Evan Lane.

Andy couldn’t help but have heard Evan on his end of the phone and he wasn’t going to like that either. Andy had never been jealous and I’d always gone to him every time I had a chance, since he’d begun playing at Lincoln.

The next time I called home I would get an earful. My mother would scold me for failing to contact Andy, leaving her to answer the questions and buy me time. I didn’t know how to tell him and now he knew.

There is a time you’ve got to pay up and it was my time and I didn’t know if Andy would see there was a future with both of us playing ball in different parts of the country. Since he’d left school, we’d been separated most of the time. I loved him no less and I didn’t know if he would love me any more.

Louisville didn’t meet Lincoln in any configuration of regular season or playoff games. The minor leagues were a loose configuration of teams from all different kinds of communities around the country. The most successful teams had money and tended to play successful teams with money.

The richer teams were directly affiliated with major league clubs which had their pick of the best players. It wasn’t fair but money breeds money in every business and the man with the gold rules. So it was with baseball at all levels.

There were certain players major league teams laid claim to and these were the untouchables. Evan Lane was one of these. No club would ever trade the rights to Evan Lane. He was a franchise player and the prospect of trading him off to a club you faced several times a year wasn’t bright ball. The talent you traded away was the talent that could come back to bite you in the ass.

I had no interest in anyone but Andy. That hadn’t been in question. While Evan Lane could turn my face red with his bold boasts, he was your basic arrogant asshole. Even if I was in the market for a meat, his would have been the last dick I’d pick. It took more than a big dick to get my interest.

He was a sexy dude. I felt it whenever we were close to each other. I couldn't imagine him standing that close to me, and not feeling the heat too.

Chapter 4

Lane Change

The speculation around when I’d be employed as a coach in front of the team came in the Birmingham game. Up until then my hopes were with the idea Coach Bell hadn’t ruled me out as a player yet. We were 5 and 2, losing twice to Nashville over the previous weekend.

Birmingham jumped out into a 3 nothing lead in their half of the first. When we came to bat, Coach called me over.

“John, you’ll coach first. I’m sending Slip out to the bullpen to get a relief pitcher ready. Look at me John and stand in front of me.”

I was baffled but did as he asked.

“My hand here on the inside of my knee means to hold the runner close. Tug at your ear, but never go right to your ear. Touch your elbow, your hip, which means nothing, but when you go to your ear, the runner gets the sign. When I put my hand on the outside of my right knee means to let the runner take a lead. You rub your index finger under your nose, back and forth like it’s itching and you’re scratching it. Don’t look at the runner. He knows what he’s looking for. You’re just a telegraph machine.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

From that day forward I coached at 1st base, walking up and down just outside the foul line, mostly confining myself to the coaches box there. It was a major change. There wasn’t a lot to do as Hack and Coach Bell had control of the game. I was there to make it easier for the runner to get his sign.

I more managed my infielders than played with them after that. In the game against Birmingham Evan Lane hit a home run, knocking in three runs in the third, but with two men on and one out in Birmingham’s half of the third inning, a ball bounced out of Lane’s glove and skittered away as he awkwardly chased it down. There was no finesse at all as he collided with Jim Busby, our centerfielder, and three runs scored, costing us the game.

This was the event that got me put in charge of Evan Lane. I still coached the infielders, but Brad was so strong a figure in the infield, I felt comfortable leaving him in charge and reporting to me with his suggestions and comments. In this way I didn’t miss anything and Brad felt good about my presence as his superior in a coaching sense.

The first time I was told to coach Lane, I figured it was a mission in futility. Would Coach Bell finally see through me, when I couldn’t yank his problem child into shape?

The day after the Birmingham game I was called into Coach Bell’s office. It was the first time we’d sat across from each other since the first day he’d been at the ballpark. I had no doubt he had his hands full with a new team to learn and hopefully improve.

“He pulled that shit a couple of times in spring training. Just a total lapse of fielding. He seems to be distracted when he does it. I’ve watched him like a hawk, and well, it’s your turn. I don’t have the time for this.”

“I’ll do what I can, Coach.” I assured him.

“Now you’re dealing with a player who has a million dollar contract in his pocket. I’m paying you $14,000 a season and room and board. How is Mrs. Olsen. She taking care of you, John?”

“Yeah, when you cut the squad down she gave me a private room. It’s quiet. She’s nice.”

“She had ballplayers of her own. Two sons played. The club has used her for years to house players trying to hang on here. Just stay out of the card games. A couple of these boys are sharks. Probably not a good idea you get too friendly with the players.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you thinking?” Coach Bell wanted to know.

“I’ll need to watch him. I don’t have anything. I’ve seen what you’ve seen, since I been here. I’ll come up with something. He doesn’t live at Mrs. Olsen’s.”

“Lane, hell, they got him put up in some apartment building across town. Lane goes first class, John. He is waiting for the call. They want him in shape and can’t play him regular yet, so we keep him warm for them, until the regular leftfielder hangs it up.”

“Good life if you can get it,” I said.

“I can’t protect you concerning him, John. I’m asking you to do the impossible and you can’t ruffle his feathers. One miss step and we’ll have franchise administrators down on our ass. You fuck up, John, and they’ll can my ass in a New York minute.”

“He’s under contract to the Yankees?” I blurted.

“I can’t say that to you. He’s under contract to Louisville. What other arrangements the General Manager has for him is none of my business. I’m here as a coach. I give him my wish list and he tells me what he can and can’t do. That’s my business. Where he’ll end up isn’t, but he’ll leave here a better fielder if I have anything to do with it. He could be traded a half dozen times before he sees his first big league at bat.”

“Coach, I’ll do my best. I can’t do miracles. I’ll do nothing to upset him, but if I’m going to coach him, I’ve got to coach him.”

“That’s why you get the big bucks, John. I wouldn’t have called you down here if I didn’t trust you to do the job.”

“This is why you called me?”

“I had a hunch I’d need… I’d need someone to rein him in. I’d heard stories long before I ever saw him play. Evan Lane is an item. He’s probably worth more than all the rest of us combined, but he is a loudmouth arrogant son-of-a-bitch. Those are his good points as far as I can tell.”

“I do this, Coach, well. I want to play for you again.”

“We only have one pinch hitter,” Coach Bell said.

“Coach!” I said, and the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly as he observed my reaction to the prospects of pinch hitting.

“You get Evan Lane to catch a damn ball like a big leaguer and I’ll try to get you playing time where I can. It’s the best I can do, John. I play favorites here and I’ll be looking for a job.”

“That’s good enough. I’d rather be here than on some roof in Statesville,” I said, standing up to head out for practice.

Our first lesson was in how to hold the glove. Lane had an oddball way of fielding and it wasn’t going to be easy to reshape him. Cooperation from him wasn’t expected. He was a one man show and while the players were fine with him, he was a handful. His attention span lasted five seconds on something he didn’t want to be doing.

Someone had failed to help Lane become a competent fielder. Coach Bell came along and decided he had to learn to field. Lane could hit a ton but if he couldn’t field he would cost his team games, which wasn’t satisfactory to Coach Bell.

My job was to figure out what would work to give him what he needed. Getting him to take pride in his fielding was key. Telling him he was a walking disaster as a fielder would get me nowhere. I needed a way to reach him without insulting him. Having that kind of contract made him difficult to coach.

There was a phone in the room where Mrs. Olsen put me. Coach Bell vouched for me and I was given unlimited use of the phone. I could lie on my bed and talk. By the time I had time to talk I needed to lie on my bed to do it. I called my parents once a week and I called Andy on Lincoln’s usual off days.

This helped. Andy had grown restless in Lincoln. He was not happy with me. I don’t know if it was that I was in triple A ball or that I hadn’t called him right away to tell him. By the end of the first phone call he was more like his old self. He’d been in a slump and hadn’t homered in two weeks. He’d burned up the Grapefruit League, while playing with and against major league players.

I told him all was well between us and he wanted to know when we would see each other. We’d have had phone sex that first evening, except he wasn’t alone in his room and it might have been a little rude for him to haul out the lumber and start whacking away. I understood.

It didn’t keep me from getting major wood at the sound of Andy’s voice. He was still soft spoken and pleasant but his frustration was obvious. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for and he wasn’t happy. There was a strain on our relationship and I didn’t know what to do about it.

There was work to do and I was still on shaky ground. I started the following day in the infield, getting a kick out of Hack hitting balls to us. He used Busby and Courtney when he needed a break and it felt wonderful. First base and third needed work and settling on McCormick at second was no contest. I was the one most often at second when McCormick wasn’t on the field, and Brad seemed to like having me there. Second wasn’t my place on the field but it would do.

The outfielders started out with batting practice, after the infield got more than an hour to work up a sweat. Hack told us to take a break and he called the outfields to take the field. There was no time like the present to start attending to business. I trotted out to leftfield without anyone but Lane noticing.

“You lost?” Lane asked. “The infield went that-a-way.”

I kept my glove under my arm and Hack hit three high looping fly balls in a row at Lane. He fielded the first two with little more than a slight hitch in his step. He circled under them like he wasn’t sure of what he was seeing.

On the third of these high fly balls I got what I wanted. Lane did his usual strolling around, tripped over his size fifteen loafers, and I slipped on my glove and stuck it out to catch the ball as he sat on the ground looking up to see where it went.

“You enjoy that?” he asked unpleasantly. “Is that what you came for?”

“It’s called fielding. I do enjoy it. If you pick a spot and stay in it, your feet won’t get in your way.”

“Fuck you, asshole. I been doing this for years. How long you been at it.’

I looked at my watch.

“About three minutes.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Long enough to be able to read a fielding play before it gets to me.”

“Ain’t you special?”

“Good, yes. Special, that’s debatable. About a million guys play ball as good as me.”

“I here you can’t hit a lick,” Lane said, standing to brush off his bottom, while trying to find some fuel.

The bat cracked and before he turned around to see where the ball was heading, I caught it in my glove and tossed it underhand at him. It bounced off the heel of his glove and rolled out in front of him as he watched.

“Get your head out of your ass,” Hack yelled and the words boomed as if he stood ten feet from us.

“You’re distracting me,” Lane complained.

“Funny thing about that. You field the same way distracted as you do when you’re not?”

If looks could kill I’d have been a dead man. Lane didn’t have a response. Hack hit another ball at us.

“Pick a spot and stand there. As the ball starts down, move whichever way that’s required. The more you move your feet the more trouble you create for yourself. You’re clumsy.”

“I am not,” he objected, and the ball dropped down in front of him and bounded into the corner of the field.

“Earth to Lane. Get your head out of your ass,” Hack yelled even more angrily.

“You’re not helping,” Lane argued. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“You’re not paying attention. Listen to what I say. Don’t look at me when I’m saying it. Follow the ball off the bat. Let your brain calculate speed, distance, and trajectory.”

“What?” Lane said.

“Quit worrying about where it might be going. React to it from the time it leaves the bat.”

“Hell, he might not hit it to me for half the game. I’m supposed to stand here and watch the batter?”

“Lane, you’re the left fielder. You’ve got to expect every ball is going to come to you. You focus on the pitcher, follow the pitch, watch the batter, if he swings and connects, let your brain tell you at what point it isn’t coming to your position. You don’t wait until the ball is in the air to decide you might want to get to where it is going before someone yells at you to do it.”

“What makes you so smart?” Lane wanted to know.

“I pay attention, Lane.”

There it was. I’d passed the message and he may have even heard me. Had he understood or paid attention to what I told him about fielding is anybodies guess. I couldn’t read Evan Lane and I didn’t know him well enough to make any firm conclusions. He didn’t seem to have his head in the game and why hadn’t someone gotten it there before he was looking at multi-million dollar contracts.

I backed off, tucking my glove back under my arm as I leaned against the leftfield fence a few dozen feet from where Lane had settled into his position. The next balls went to centerfield and rightfield. Hack ignored Lane as he stood nonchalant, except when the bat cracked, when he looked to see if it might come in his direction. Luckily it didn’t.

I’d spent five minutes instructing him and three quarters of an hour watching him. I was amazed he didn’t fall down when he walked. He had these powerful unpredictable legs under him. I’d seen them up close and they were impressive, except they were useless the way he put them to use.

I knew why he didn’t play football on his high school team. He should have been greased lightning, but of course he wasn’t. His lack of coordination combined with his short attention span made him a one trick pony. The thing he could do was focus on a pitched baseball.

Having a big bat was all anyone cared about. They’d given him a pass on fielding, but now there was no pass. The guy he replaced in leftfield would have two or three more seasons as a designated hitter. Lane wasn’t going anywhere and starting as a designated hitter. In fifteen years, if he could justify staying in the major leagues for that long, he’d become a designated hitter to extend his hitting career.

The man could hit a baseball. I recognized the full easy swing that came from his shoulders. It was effortless. The ball leaped off his bat and soared. Guys like Lane and Andy have this hand eye coordination that gets the bat on the ball a split second faster than the ordinary hitters. They put the wood on the ball at precisely the right time and at the right angle, and the ball just kept on going.

Coach Bell called me into his office after I came in from the field.

“Well, tell me something, John.”

“He’s got big feet,” I said.

“John, I’m not kidding around here. I’m getting pressure.”

“I don’t know. He’s got all the tools. I’d rarely seen anyone with the kind of muscular body he has and he doesn’t seem to work on it. I don’t know, Coach. This is the first day he’s listened to anything I’ve said. Give me a few more days and I might come up with something he won’t object to.”

“I’m depending on you. How many games do you think I can give away with him in leftfield?”

“Give me a few days.”

Lane was drying his short hair in the doorway of the locker room as I left Coach Bell’s office. He immediately came toward me. I watched the pink appendage swinging in front of even pinker balls that looked to me to be the perfect decoration for his thick dick. He shook his head slightly as he caught my eye.

“I can help you, Dooley. You got this weird swing, you know. If you lighten up some, quite tensing before you swing. I can show you.”

“You aren’t going to offer me your sunglasses?”

“You caught me short. No, I wanted to say that, but that don’t mean you don’t need some. I wasn’t going to mention it.”

“You always do,” I said.

“You got to figure it’s my package you’re staring at. That gets me a mention. I never said nothing nasty.”

“You have more than the average bear,” I said, “but don’t read anything into it. You’re a good looking man and people are going to look.”

“Thanks. I’ve been around long enough to know people, guys, even teammates notice things about me. It don’t bother me. I don’t think anything about anything. I was a handsome kid before I was a handsome man. People noticed me.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I attracted the attention of a lot of admirers early on. Not much gets past me these days.”

“Except high fly balls?”

“Now you’re being nasty and I’m trying not to be an asshole here.”

“It’s noticed and appreciated. What were we talking about?”

“Your batting,” he said, and my immediate reaction was to look at the only bat in our vicinity.

“Yeah, well not much chance I’ll be doing much batting. I’m here to coach.”

“You’re too young to coach,” Lane said. “Besides, I’ve watched you in the infield. You’re damn good. You should be playing.”

“Not in my future. I’m here to coach. They just gave you to me.”

“Maybe it will be in your future if I show you how. Slavery went out with Lincoln.”

“You make it sound like it’s easy. I got hit in the head as a junior in college. Standing at the plate and letting someone throw fastballs at my head isn’t my favorite thing.”

“No, but if you know more about what you are doing at the plate, you might forget about the pitcher throwing at your pumpkin.”

“Where are you from, Lane?”

“Paducah, Kentucky.”

“You’re almost home?”

“Hardly. Look, I admit I’m an asshole. We can just agree on that and accept it. I’m not stupid. …I’m not that stupid. I know you are trying to help me. I might be able to help you. If you want to work together on that basis, you got a deal. I’ll curb the cracks and do my best to pay attention, but I do have some difficulty there.”

“You have ADD?” I asked, thinking it was a bit simplistic.

“I don’t know what I got but I’m not as clumsy as I am forgetful. I forget to pay attention to my feet and they get away from me. Some days are worse than others. It’s always been that way.”

“We’re making some progress.”

“We got a deal?” Lane asked.

“Yeah, we got a deal,” I said, not sure what we had decided but thinking it was a good idea to go along with him to hopefully bring peace to Louisville’s outfield.

I thought of Andy as I watched Lane’s ass, as he went back toward the locker room. I sprung a woody on the spot and I don’t know I wouldn’t have nailed Lane if the opportunity arose. Thankfully, I was sure it wouldn’t. There was some comfort in knowing my fantasies about a guy I couldn’t stand until five minutes ago were way out of line.

Chapter 5

Pinch Hit, Do

I’d settled into my roll as infield coach and sometimes coach of Evan Lane. I spent an equal time at each. My infield work was easy and predictable. I played each position in the infield at one time or another, with Brad Pappas and Henry McCormick solid picks for the middle of the infield and Louisville’s leading double play combination.

Of course during practice I played at second every chance I got, because Brad was so steady. If I was subbing during practice for Brad, I didn’t get the same feel playing with McCormick. I could turn a ground ball as quick as anyone, but in practice it was more a matter of routine and not speed. Once all the elements were in the play, speeding it up was made easier when you added adrenaline.

I still liked setting up at shortstop best of all. When Hack was hitting to the infield and I was at short, he seemed to enjoy testing my range of mobility, even though I was a coach. These were the times when McCormick failed to keep up with me. He was often out of position on a hard infield hit that took the shortstop out of position.

I always thanked Hack for letting me feel like an infielder again. I truly missed playing, although I liked teaching the guys too.

Hack told me one day, “It’s my pleasure, John. You’re a damn good infielder. We’ve got to work harder on your hitting.”

That was it but it tickled my fancy. Oh, Hack was no peaches and cream guy. He was a hard nosed player and a hard nosed coach. Giving out compliments wasn’t his style. When Hack said nothing, you knew you were doing okay, but more often than not he was climbing up someone’s ass for dogging it. He wanted 100% all the time and most players weren’t capable of that.

Evan Lane was a man of his word. The arrogant left fielder became more compliant. He listened when I spoke but he still had a propensity to stumble over his own feet. It wasn’t like he couldn’t field; he fielded fine most of the time but he had lapses. If he came straight in on a ball or backed straight back, he was fine. Make him run after the ball, and all bets were off.

I didn’t know what caused it beyond the vague distraction theory. I had him watch my feet as Hack had me run after balls. He looked at me and shrugged as if he didn’t have a clue why he was watching my feet. I persisted. He watched. It changed nothing.

I paid attention to him during games, when balls were hit towards his positing. When he came up with one of his bonehead plays, I didn’t understand and I couldn’t explain it. When he did let a ball get past him, Coach Bell gave me one of his “why haven’t you solved this problem?” looks.

  In discussions I could say nothing for certain, beyond “he gets distracted and trips over his own feet.”

“Well what the hell is distracting the boy? He goes along fine and then all of a sudden he’s screwing the pooch. I want it to stop, John.”

I did too.

These comments were made in a raised voice. Coach Bell viewed my progress with Lane as unsatisfactory. I considered my progress with Lane unsatisfactory. Each day I worked with him, he listened, seemed to understand my words, did nothing out of the ordinary while I worked with him, and then, every few games he’d do it again, which frustrated me, not to mention Coach Bell.

We were on a three game winning streak going into Richmond. It turned into a pitcher’s duel. In the fifth inning Brad hit a hot single past second base. With McCormick coming to bat Coach Bell called him out of the on-deck circle.

“McCormick, take a seat. Dooley, come in here,” Coach Bell yelled at me.

I jogged in from the first base coaches box as Slip jogged out of the dugout to take my place.

“Okay, John, his pitches are coming up. He’s been pitching the right handed hitters down and outside, catching the corner of the plate. His last ten pitches or so have been increasingly further outside. Stand up there and get me a walk. That’s all you got to do. Keep the bat on your shoulder, hug the plate to force his hand, and he’ll walk you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, not having anything to say.

I picked out a light bat and carried it with me, swinging it only once as the umpire was already waiting to see what we were doing.

The first pitch was a ball and then there was a strike right on the corner of the plate. I took some practice swings, moved closer to the plate, and took ball two. After five pitches the count ran to 3-2. I hadn’t moved the bat off my shoulder. If I continued to stand there the guy was going to strike me out. I knew I had to swing at anything over the plate. I looked at Coach Bell to see if he was going to signal me to swing away. He didn’t give me any signal. I was on my own.

The pitcher seemed cool and determined. I watched him take his sign from the catcher and, after checking first base, he delivered the pitch with no windup. I came around on it fast, getting in front of it. I’d set my feet to tag it down past third base if I could get a hold of it, and that’s precisely where it went, rattling around in the corner. Their left fielder had his back turned to the plate, as he tried to fish it out of the corner.

The throw came into 3rd, which made me stop at 2nd, knowing Brad was already too far down the 3rd baseline for a throw to the plate. We were leading 1-0.

I felt magnificent. When I looked at Coach Bell, he was looking down at his lineup card. He was going to pull me, but then who was going to play 2nd base? I was his top utility man and the skill dropped off a lot after me. Our second string fielders were second string for a reason.

Evan Lane came to the plate in his cleanup hitter’s role. He looked massive next to their tiny catcher and the bloated umpire. His shoulders were wide, his waist small, and he swung the bat like he meant business. I took a lead and the pitcher barely noticed me. I noticed this fact and went back to 2nd after he threw up a ball one pitch. With 1st base open and our big gun at bat, it might be an intentional walk.

I took less of a lead the next time. Once again the pitcher failed to check me back to 2nd base. He threw the ball up to Lane and the swing was tight and complete, strike one. I took two steps off 2nd.  Hack stood there with a blank look on his face. He clapped and yelled for Lane to give him a big hit. He didn’t flash me a sign. He wasn’t holding me on base. He saw the pitcher wasn’t checking me on 2nd. I looked at Slip and he was watching Lane.

This time the pitcher went into his windup. His toe was on the pitching rubber and he had to go to the plate. He couldn’t throw to 2nd or he’d balk and I’d automatically get 3rd base. As the pitch was delivered I was on my way to 3rd.

The catcher stood and faked a throw to 3rd, but it was too late. I had taken the bag. Lane had stepped back from the plate to put himself in the way of a direct throw down the 3rd  baseline. He knew exactly what to do to protect me. I felt great. I was playihg ball.

“Heads up play, Dooley. You played this game before?” Hack joked, clapping for Lane to give him a big hit.

I was more careful at 3rd and Hack didn’t need to tell me the pitcher was looking right at me now. He seemed more determined as he delivered the next pitch, I started moving toward the plate.

Once more Lane came around with that smooth complete swing that was a slight upper cut on the ball. He’d gotten it all and it sailed up and up, out of the small park. The crowd groaned and it was 3-0. I’d gotten a hit, batted in a run, and scored. I loved baseball.

I waited at home and shook Lane’s hand as he crossed the plate. We jogged together to the dugout as the players stood to greet us and shake Lane’s hand.

We sat back on the bench and enjoyed our lead. Anderson was pitching and he’d already had two complete games and two of our eleven wins. Our relief pitching was pretty good through the first two relievers, and then it faded some, but it wasn’t bad. Odds were Anderson wasn’t going to give up a lot of runs.

“John, I thought I told you to work him for a walk,” Coach Bell said sarcastically.

“I was running out of pitches, Coach. Had to improvise.”

“Damn nice, John. Nice base running. Get your glove warmed up. I’m putting you in at 2nd.”

I’d played two games at 2nd in the later innings of games for a total of 3 innings. While pinch hitting wasn’t my specialty, it worked out this time.

I came up again in the 8th inning and got my walk. We won the game 3-0 with Anderson going all the way for his third win of the season without a loss.

Louisville was a solid team. It wasn’t anything like State. I can’t explain the difference but the feel of winning at this level gave me a warmth I’d never had before. My place on the team was still ill defined, but I didn’t label myself.

I wasn’t the late inning fill-in at 2nd base, or Brad’s backup, or the coach at 1st base. I was all these things and none of it bothered me. I felt good. I felt, very very good.

                *****

“I got a double, Andy,” I blurted when he called that night.

“I got two homers today,” Andy bragged.

“Yeah, but you’re supposed to hit homers and I’m not. I got to play nearly half the game at second. Man did it feel good.”

“Oh yeah, I saw Chance. He said tell you hello.”

“How’s he doing?” I quizzed.

“Same as me, waiting to go up. He turned two plays at 2nd base today that were spectacular and we’re still trying to get him out. He got three straight hits and walked his last time up. My second homer gave us the win, but Chance is on his way, Do. I haven’t seen a better infielder.”

“Thanks a lot. I love you too. I once played the infield pretty well.”

“You know what I mean. I’m talking pro ball, not kid stuff. He’s the real deal.”

“Yes, I had no doubt.”

“Batting didn’t bother you?” Andy asked.

“I never gave it a thought. Coach Bell told me to take a walk. I tried but once the count was 3-2, well, I spanked that puppy down the 3rd base line and drove in Brad. He’s our shortstop. I told you about him.”

“You sound great, Do. I love you.”

“No one’s home?”

“No, I waited for them to go out for dinner. It’s so nice being able to talk again. I forgot I was pissed off at you.”

“I pissed you off?”

“You know you did, Do. You can’t just stop calling me. I had you meeting someone else, running around on me, leaving me. You can’t do that anymore, Do. It has me thinking about you all the time and I need to be thinking about ball.”

“I know, Andy.  Things were crazy. They still are a little, but I’m settled into a room of my own now, and we can talk as often as you want.”

“You have a room to yourself. How do you rate?”

“Coaches don’t sleep with the players,” I advised him.

“I better not catch you sleeping with any of the players,” Andy blurted firmly.

“I only have eyes for one player, Andy and you’re it. How long have we been together?”

“Going on the sixth year, Do. Jesus, we’re just kids and we’ve been together forever.”

“You think I’ll ever find anyone else I love as much as I love you?” I asked.

“You better not. I got some scouts sniffing around. One talked to me after today’s game. Baltimore and Boston are looking at me. Might be willing to trade for the rights to my contract. They’ve both got great left fielders all ready. I wouldn’t get to start for years. I told them I’d think about listening to an offer. My coach wanted to know what they asked me.”

“Baltimore and Boston! They're big time, Andy. You’re on the way.”

“Not to sit on anyone’s bench I’m not. I got to play, Do. I’ve got to keep batting against good pitching every day. I need to play, not sit, if I’m going to keep my timing.”

“Do you hit against good pitchers every day?”

“No, there’s a lot of dead wood that comes to Lincoln. It is still good for my timing and everything. Do you still love me, Do?”

“You know I do, big guy. Are you naked?”

“How’d you know? Hearing your voice has me harder than my bat.”

“Not quite as big,” I said, kidding him.

“I’m so hot for you I could cum just hearing your voice. I love you, Do. I miss you. We’ve got to get closer to each other.”

“One thing is for sure, Andy, with that bat you’ll always be a home run hitter,” I said.

“Yeah, but I’m so horny for you I can hardly stand it. Oh, fuck, someone’s at the door. Got to go, Do. Love your ass.”

Click!

I felt my erection and knew it would take no more than a minute to get off. Andy’s voice turned me on, but it was connected to a lot of history. Over the years we’d gone at it nearly every night, and now, we couldn’t reach one another. It would be a miracle if we stayed together. One of us was bound to meet someone interesting, someone close, someone totally too sexy to pass on.

Why Evan Lane came to mind at that precise moment, I can’t say, but he did. His arrogance and his bravado and his niceness were all bigger than life. He wasn’t your average bear and I didn’t want to get too close to him.

He was  the kind of guy that could seduce an unsuspecting victim in a New York minute, but I wasn’t unsuspecting. I knew I got hard every time I got close to him. What’s worse, he knew it too. Evan Lane was dangerous and I wasn’t about to be put into a compromising situation that would set Andy off. I loved him too much to hurt him.

                        *****

The pressure went out of my life as I settled into Louisville, once I was able to communicate with Andy on a regular basis. After another error by Lane nearly cost us a game, Coach Bell ordered, “Solve the damn problem and solve it now.”

No one had to tell me who he was talking to. Our once cordial meetings were now highlighted by his frustration over his seriously flawed million dollar baby.

Evan Lane got more press than anyone and he’d become a local hero. No one cared if he couldn’t catch the ball, as long as he hit homers. He had been on a tear that kept him ahead of the runs he gave up with his fielding. It still wasn’t good enough for the big leagues or Coach Bell. It was my job to rectify the situation.

On our day off I tutored him on forgetting about his feet. Taking me at my word, he did, and promptly tripped over them, falling on his right elbow, requiring it to be iced overnight so he’d be ready to play in the next game.

Coach Bell wasn’t smiling or feeling as if it was all in the game. I could only do what I knew how to do.

Standing behind the batting cage as Lane took batting practice before the next day’s game, I watched to see if Lane was able to take his usual swing. He seemed fine, which was more than I could say for Coach Bell. He called me away from the batting cage to yell at me.

“How the hell did you manage to get him falling down on his elbow?” Coach Bell barked, once he heard the story from Hack.

“He can’t keep his feet out of his way, Coach. The ball was hit to his left, which is never good, and he kicked his right ankle with his left foot. He went right down. He’s done it before.”

“Well, I want something done. Put on your thinking cap and get busy. If heads roll mine will go first but yours will be following me out the door. Come up with something that gets his mind out of his ass, John. I’m depending on you.”

I walked back over to the batting cage about the time Lane caught a fat pitch and sent it out into straightaway center field and over the fence. He rubbed his elbow as he stood back from the plate. I cringed. Coach Bell shook his head in exasperation.

“As soon as his arm’s ready, get him busy on his feet,” Coach Bell told me without raising his voice.

“Yes, sir,” I said as he walked away.

The next thing of note that took place came toward the end of the week, when I was staying late for batting practice. Hack had spent some time with me and I’d told the groundskeeper to leave the one pitching machine in place so I could work on my swing.

Keeping my timing down as a hitter was important. I needed to take pitches, and I did. I took batting practice when I wasn’t busy with the fielding practices. I was accustomed to the pacing of the pitching machine and had no difficulty coming around to meet each pitch. Some I hit, some I missed, and my hitting was as inconsistent as ever.

“Here, let me show you something ,” Evan Lane said as he strode up from behind me.

“You’re stiff as a board, Dooley. Relax your back, lean into the plate, keep your eye on the ball, and…a,” crack came the sound of the bat driving the ball to the base of the center field fence. He hadn’t even put anything into his swing. He merely followed through and drove it for what would have been a home run in most parks.

Lane repeated these booming hits as the machine kept offering pitches. My bat was half the weight of the one he used and the idea he could still hit it that far amazed me.

“Okay, I’ll reload it and you take a turn.”

He jogged out with a bucket of balls and loaded up the pitching machine. He walked back to where I stood and nodded for me to stand up to the plate. I swung and missed the first two pitches. I wasn’t able to focus because Lane was standing so close to me.

“Jesus, Dooley, you hit like a girl. Let me show you.”

Lane wrapped his long arms around me, putting his hands on top of my hands. I flinched. Heat ran up to my face like I’d been slapped, hard. Feeling the front of his body pressed against my backside lit me on fire.

“Loosen up. Lean forward. Just let my body control yours.”

The next pitch came and it was like being wedged into a tight spot. The bat went around without even getting close to the ball. Our posture was impossible.

“Loosen up. Lean forward. Just relax and let my body dictate what your body does. Pay attention to my body. You’re all tightened up.”

Pay attention to his body. He was rubbing it all over me. I couldn’t pay attention to anything else. His instructions were lost in the contact between us. I was sweating, shaking, and getting the biggest boner I’d ever had, all at the same time.

“Well, you get the idea,” he said, backing off once he realized we couldn’t hit the ball that way. “You’re way tense and you’ve got to get into your swing. You can’t do that standing straight up and down the way you do. I know you want to be ready to bail out, but you got to forget that, Dooley. If the damn thing hits you, it hits you. You just go on with the game. We all get hit.”

I was so flustered I couldn’t even see the pitches. I backed out and looked at him looking at me.

“What?” he asked, seeing the anger in my eyes.

“You did that on purpose,” I said.

“What?”

“You know what. I don’t appreciate it either.”

“Do, you are trying to make a better fielder out of me. I just wanted to help you to become a better hitter. Yes, I did that on purpose. Like my two left feet, you need work. I’ll try to help you if you let me. That’s all.”

“You girls finished dancing? Costs a lot of dough to keep this park all lit up. Call it a night and I’ll tell Preston to button things up.”

Hack always looked the same and he always talked the same. We were his kids and we didn’t know jack shit and he was putting up with us, because it was his job.

I don’t know what he saw or what he thought of it, because Hack never gave anything away. If he had something to say to you he said it and left it there. You weren’t going to hear something Hack had to say about you from someone else. He put everything on the table.

I was still in my uniform but Lane wore a nice looking blue print shirt with jeans and audacious sneakers. I was wearing my uniform to the boarding house and Lane held the door in the wall of the outfield open for me so we could step out into the darkening street.

“My arms better if you want to coach me tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I’ll be ready for you,” I answered.

“I bet you will,” Lane said, turning to walk toward his car.

I didn’t move as I watched him walk away from me. He looked way younger in street clothes, almost like a big kid. He was confident, sure of himself. I turned away to go across to Mrs. Olsen’s. I was starved.

Chapter 6

Passing Lane 

Evan Lane left an impression on everyone. He’d gone above and beyond anything I thought he was capable of doing. As much as he aggravated me, he fascinated me as well. I didn’t want to be close to him but I couldn’t avoid it if I wanted to stay in Louisville.

Here was a player on the way to the big leagues and he acted more like a high school kid. I’d almost bet that he did it on purpose but there was part of me that said Lane was just a big kid who wasn’t trying to be obnoxious. He used his talent to get him as far as he could go and people who didn’t place limitations on him gave him carte blanche to do whatever he pleased.

`      I didn’t have that luxury. I loved Andy too much to allow Evan Lane to get in between us. Even a misconception could give Andy grief. Before it came to that I had to get Lane to calm down and do what I was hired to get him to do. Both of our futures depended on it.

“Oh, hi Andy,” I said, as the phone rang shortly after I got into the room.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Do, I read you like a book. What’s wrong? You not get any hits today?”

“Nah, day off. No game anyway. I’ve got a problem child I don’t know what to do with,” I said, figuring there was no time like the present.

“What kind of problem?”

“Remember your fielding before you got your glasses?”

“Yeah, I remember. Someone else need glasses?”

“I wish it were that simple. No, actually he’s okay most of the time, but he has lapses. Trips over his own feet. We give the opposition runs we can’t afford to give away.”

“So you bench him,” Andy said, knowing the answer.

“It’s not that easy. He does what you do,” I said.

“He better not be doing what I do with you.”

“Andy, I’m being serious. My job might depend on teaching this guy not to trip over his own feet.”

“No one taught the boy how to field?”

“That’s exactly the problem. They let him get away with it in high school and college.”

“What kind of bozo would let him go without learning to field properly?”

“I told you, he’s a big hitter. His bat was all they cared about. Lots of guys have trouble fielding in school.”

“Who are we talking about anyway? If he’s that big a hitter I’d know him.”

“Evan Lane?”

“Evan Lane. He can’t field? He’s the biggest gun this side of the majors.”

“Now you know why he is still on this side of the majors. Coach Bell wants results and Evan Lane is a problem child.”

“Arrogant and self-absorbed,” Andy quipped.

“How do you know that?”

“Not much doesn’t get around the circuit. I’ve heard about him. I knew he was big power but I didn’t know he couldn’t field.”

“His power makes up for his shortcomings, but you know Coach Bell isn’t going to settle for Lane leaving Louisville without being able to field the way he should.”

“How is the Coach?”

“Tired of me telling him I can’t fix it.”

“That bad, babe?”

“It’s not good, Andy.”

“Well, if you get fired for not being able to work miracles, leave time to come out here and see me. I’m beginning to wonder if we’re still going together or not.”

“That’s not funny,” I said.

“You’re telling me. I want to see you. Tell Coach Bell you need a few days off.”

“Andy!”

“We need some time together, Do. I miss you. I don’t want to be a thousand miles away from you for the rest of my life.”

No, neither of us wanted that. I didn’t figure it would be so hard being at Louisville, while he was in Lincoln. I was closer to him now than when I was in Statesville, but at home I could take time to go to see him and with us both having the same schedules now, it would be close to six months before we would see each other again.

Mrs. Olsen brought me up some of her stew and home made bread. It was terrific but I couldn’t enjoy it knowing Andy was unhappy with me. I wanted to play ball too and he’d been playing all along. It wasn’t fair for me to have to give up ball as soon as I got my ticket punched to get back into ball. I wouldn’t let it destroy our relationship but I wasn’t ready to walk away yet. I still had a job to do and I wanted to get it done.

Our next game went pretty well. We won again. Lane hit another home run and we out-played a lesser Little Rock club. With two days in Memphis, all I could do was, in general, work with Lane in the field. Half the time he was fine, followed by another lapse or two, without him hurting himself under my instruction.

We split with Memphis, played one game in Nashville and finally beat them after they’d swept us in the previous two games we’d played against them. They were still the only club who had an edge on us in head to head competition. We came home with 3 wins and a loss on the road and we had a five game home stand with two days off.

Lane was in rare form and wanted to kid around while I wanted to work on his fielding. He had become way nicer than I wanted, which made me feel like I was cheating on Andy. I suppose the attraction to a nice Evan Lane was greater than I wanted to admit.

It was on our first day off that I got to work with Lane on his fielding again. It was still an exercise in futility. He was fine and then he did it again. He didn’t fall but there was no reason why he didn’t. One day he was going to fall and fall wrong, and he was going to break his arm or worse. It was unavoidable in my mind.

While in the kitchen waiting for Mrs. Olsen to dish me out some more of her meatballs and noodles, I remembered something Hack had said. I saw Mrs. Olsen as the answer that might solve the problem.

“Do you dance, Mrs. Olsen?”

“Why yes, I do, John. You going to ask me to go dancing with you. What would your girlfriend say?”

“Not me, Mrs. Olsen. How would you like to help Louisville’s best hitter stop tripping over his own feet?”

“Evan Lane? He is tripping over his feet?”

“Yes, he is, and I’m supposed to solve the problem. I’m not going to dance with him, but if you could spend a little time with him and we get him to learn to dance, it might be just the thing he needs.”

“Anything for Mr. Bell or you, but I haven’t danced since Mr. Olsen passed a dozen years ago. We use to go on Saturday nights and dance at church with our friends.”

“Do you have any music? Records? To dance by?”

“I think so. I’ll look to see if we have something put away. I’m sure we can come up with something.”

It was on the following off day that Lane ended up in my room, dancing with Mrs. Olsen. He was actually bashful and had more left feet than usual. For a first time, it was a start. I couldn’t be sure it would work, but at this point I’d try anything. I didn’t mention it to Coach Bell and wouldn’t mention it to anyone else.

I was the DJ and went through waltzes, jazz, and some big band tunes. There were several rock & roll records and this helped save Mrs. Olsen’s feet, as they stayed further a part when she was showing him how to move.

We were well into our second dance session when Mrs. Olsen had had enough.

“Oh, Mr. Lane, I’ve got to work on my feet all day and if you keep walking on them, I won’t get anything done tomorrow.”

Mrs. Olsen smiled half-heartedly and left my room. Lane shrugged as if he wasn’t sure what he’d done, but his feet were way too big to keep under control. He was a little sheepish at having done damage to his dance instructor. I thought we were onto something.

“I was just starting to feel like I was learning something,” Lane said, as he grabbed my arm and started to dance with me.

The music wasn’t particularly conducive to dancing and I was no Mrs. Olsen. As he swung me around, I let go of his arm and he sank back on the bed.

Timing being what it is, as I went to turn the record player off, the phone rang.

“Do’s Dance club, Lane speaking,” he said into the receiver.

“Shit,” I said, grabbing the phone out of his hand.

“Ops!” he said, handing me the dead phone. “Andy is?”

“My boyfriend.”

“Ops! Ops! I can’t keep my feet out of my way, and I’ve got a big mouth,” Lane confessed most of his sins.

“You go. I’ve got to call him back.”

Lane carried the record player back downstairs and I called Andy back. The phone rang and rang but no one picked up. I figured he might have been somewhere else when he called, or he was in the room alone and wasn’t picking up because he didn’t want to talk to me.

This was something I didn’t need. Andy and I were hanging on, waiting for a better time, when we could be in the same town all the time. I wasn’t sure baseball was worth losing him. How far was I going to go? What did I want to accomplish? What price was I willing to pay?

I tried Andy several times that night and when someone did pick up, they said, “Andy, he’s not here. Anyone know where Andy is? …Sorry, he’s not here and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

It was late and I had to be at the ballpark early for a coaches meeting. If there was anyone suffering from lapses the next day, it was me. I don’t know what was discussed in the coaches meeting, after trying to get a hold of Andy a couple more times with no success.

I hadn’t marked down his games for that week, so I didn’t know if they were at home or away, but his phone did nothing but ring. Our game was an agonizing pitcher’s duel. There were few hits and I stood aimlessly lost in the coach’s box at first. Without runners I didn’t have much to do but my mind was on Andy. My inability to reach him had me worried.

We lost one to nothing and the next day we had a snoozer against Toledo. If I had nothing to do in the box the day before I made up for it. We got 15 hits, 9 runs, and beat them 9-2. There was someone on base all the time but there wasn’t any pressure, because we led from the first inning until the game was over, but we always beat Toledo.

Coach Bell had let me use his phone after the game, while he was giving a pep talk to the troops. It was exciting and we were leading our division by three games. Everything was peaches and cream if someone didn’t care about Evan Lane’s fielding. He’d been fine for two games and I couldn’t hope a couple of dance lessons solved the problem.

Being off the next day, Lane and I walked together out to the door in the wall of the outfield that let us out onto the street behind the stadium. He held the door open for me and he was commiserating with me over my inability to contact Andy, since he inadvertently  answered the phone a few days before.

“Well, he’s got to play ball. It’s his job,” I said, as Lane apologized again. “He’s probably there and doesn’t want to talk to me. I don’t know how he’ll explain that to his roomies.”

Lane looked at me curiously as something else had caught his attention. Just as I was becoming aware of him being distracted, there was a flash of humanity that came pummeling into Lane, knocking him up against the wall.

He and Andy fell onto the ground with Lane looking like he’d been hit by lighting or at least a runaway train.

“Andy!” I yelled, as he rolled onto his back to look up at me.

It reminded me of when I was a kid and the two biggest kids couldn't keep stay out of each other's way. It didn't prove their manhood. It only proved they were still butt heads.

Chapter 7

Dance With Me Andy 

“Don’t tell me. You’re Andy?” Lane said, undaunted by his collision with the stadium’s outer wall. “What did you do to your arm?” 

“Andy!” I shouted after my initial surprise passed.

I imagined Louisville without Evan Lane, and me unemployed. As happy as I was to see Andy on one hand, this wasn’t how I imagined it on the other.

Andy rolled off Lane’s lap, sitting beside him with his back up against the stadium wall. Lane gently picked up Andy’s right hand. The one with the cast below his elbow.

“I broke my wrist,” Andy explained.

“And what did we hit?” Lane sang as if he’d done it at one time or another. “Nasty looking knuckles you got there, slugger. You should stick to baseball. Me thinks your fighting career is limited at best.”

“I hit my door if you’ve got to know,” Andy said, somewhat sullen as he, too, looked at the hand in Lane’s hand.

“Andy, what do you think you’re doing?” I asked, after the two of them stopped talking.

“What’s this guy doing in your bedroom? Answering your phone?”

“You want to tell him, Lane? I’m not talking to him at the moment.”

“No, no, I ain’t no fool. He’s your boyfriend. You tell him. I outgrew my immaturity ages ago.”

“What, when you turned thirty?” Andy snapped, still wanting to pick a fight.

“Ouch!” Lane said, flinching as if he’d been slapped. “You do play rough.”

“Well?” Andy said to me, waiting for an answer.

“Remember how I helped you with your fielding?”

“You didn’t help me. You told Coach Bell I needed glasses because you could think fast enough to come up with anything else.”

“True, and I’m having the same kind of luck with Lane. He trips over his own feet while trying to field a fly ball. I’m supposed to get him to stop it.”

“Fine; and what’s he doing in your room? That’s a mighty small field for fielding practice.”

“He’s got you there, Dooley. I wondered about that too.”

“You’re not helping, Lane,” I snapped, suddenly pissed off at both of them.

“Your bedroom? Fielding practice?” Andy waited.

“I’m trying to get him to dance. You know, be more graceful. Be aware of where his big feet are.”

“Oh!” Lane objected.

“You don’t mean to….”

“Mrs. Olsen. He’s been dancing with Mrs. Olsen. I’m just the DJ. I figure you must have met her since you knew where to come looking for me.”

“Yeah, she told me when you would be in and where you left the ballpark. You and him aren’t…?” Andy growled.

“No, no, we aren’t…, we won’t…, I’m not,” Lane said in rapid response. “I’ve been around enough gay guys to know one when I see one.”

“What’s that crack mean?” I said not sure I hadn’t been insulted.

“Who you calling gay?” Andy said with hostility, rejecting labels that went beyond power hitting left fielder.

“No one, Tonto. I’m just sitting here enjoying another fine Louisville evening. I don’t get in between lovers. No future in it. You want to bail me out here, Dooley?”

“Who you calling lovers?” I asked, still working on the crack about knowing a gay guy when he sees one.

“Hey, you two, knock it off. I’m here to play baseball. You take your lover’s quarrel somewhere else. As for gay guys, I was raised by two. My father took off once he got a good look at me. My mother was doing her best, but she was sick and could barely keep the rent paid. Two guys that lived in my building fed me, bought my school clothes, even bought me my first baseball glove. I didn’t think they knew baseball from volleyball.

“I wasn’t gay then. I’m not gay now, but I do know what guys are looking at when they look at me. They either want to fight, Andy, or they’re checking out the package. It’s not difficult knowing which is doing which.”

“You were checking him out?” Andy snapped angrily.

“Hey, you want to break that other wrist? I’ve had about enough of you, Tonto. Ain’t nothing going on here outside your addled brain. Get over it. You were wrong when you got here and you’re still wrong, except now you’re making a fool out of yourself.”

Lane stood and reached for Andy’s hand to pull him onto his feet. They made quite a pair. Lane was taller, built stronger with substantially more weight than Andy. Andy’s shoulders were wider and his body was bigger in general, but he looked like a high school kid next to Lane.

For a minute they stood face to face without speaking or making their intentions clear. I could tell Andy was embarrassed. He believed Lane. I believed Lane. The story was too real to be an instant invention. Lane had a big mouth and he could make you feel small fast with no effort at all, but I never knew him to lie. It did explain a lot.

Hearing about the two gay guys that helped raise him made me feel different about him. It also explained his total awareness of my attraction to him. It hadn’t seemed to bother him. Like he wasn’t unaccustomed to having men admire him.

“I’m a coach. I teach fielding. Coach Bell told me to get Lane’s feet coordinated or both of us will be out of work. I’m at work, Andy. I’m doing my job. What the hell are you doing?”

“Well, I thought….”

“How long you out of action, slugger?” Lane asked.

“Six weeks. I begin rehab next Monday. They said I can pinch hit if it goes well in about a month.”

“How’d you get here?” I asked.

“I borrowed a car.”

“What is the going rate for punching out a door these days? You get a fine or just scolded?” Lane asked.

“Suspended for thirty days without pay.”

“Gee, convenient how that corresponds with when you’ll be able to pinch hit. They say ball clubs don’t have a sense of humor,” Lane said joyfully.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“When I bang it against something like that wall. It’s still sore.”

“Oh, Andy,” I said exasperated, afraid he’d done more damage.

“You boys come in the house. I’ve got dinner ready for you,” Mrs. Olsen said, her voice echoing off the back of the stadium.

“You hungry?” I asked Andy.

“Yeah, she fed me a pie a little while ago but I haven’t eaten since I left Iowa early this morning.”

“I think she is including her dance date,” I told Lane, although he hadn’t said he was coming over.

Mrs. Olsen usually had dinner ready for me when I got in after practices or after a home game. Obviously she knew Andy was there to see me and she was always asking Lane to eat. Since the regular season had started, the roomers had slowly disappeared. I was the final boarder, and she was delighted I had no plans to lodge elsewhere.

“I’ve got a roast. Grilled potatoes and broccoli, with gravy. I had a fresh pie I baked earlier, but Andrew ate that after he came in,” she said, looking sympathetically at Andy as she considered his belly full of apple pie.

“Ah, Mrs. Olsen, let me help,” Lane offered, reaching for the roast and setting it in the middle of the table. “Fine looking gravy, Mrs. Olsen. You have any mushrooms?”

“Why yes, Mr. Lane. I’ve got some small cans in the cupboard over the stove. I never gave them a thought. Some boys are fussy about the taste of mushrooms.”

“I’ll get them. You sit down,” Lane said, popping a small can of B&B Mushrooms out of the cupboard, running it through the electric can opener, draining the liquid into the sink.

“Anyone object?” Lane asked, holding the mushrooms over the saucepan with the bubbling gravy.

Everyone agreed with the addition and Lane stirred in the mushrooms, being careful not to let the gravy get too hot as the mushrooms blended in with it.

Mrs. Olsen watched, pleased to have boys in the house. Andy watched for other reasons. I was just surprised he knew what a saucepan was. I was surprised by a lot of things lately and I couldn’t wait to get Andy into my room.

The roast was tender and Andy couldn’t get enough, having a sandwich as soon as dinner was done. Mrs. Olsen kept asking him if he wanted something else.

Lane ate modestly and my stomach was still upset from the incident outside the park. It was a nice dinner and having Andy at my elbow was even better. It had been way too long.

Good food always reminded me of my mom and how lucky I had been in the selection of my parents compared to Andy or Lane. Good families didn’t seem to grow on trees, and I’d been lucky to have a father and mother who adored me.

It gave me another level of understanding for Andy and Lane, but it didn’t excuse Andy’s leap into lunacy. I intended to let him know about it as soon as I got him alone. We were in this together and if he didn’t trust me I wanted to know it. If I could trust me was still a question I had.

I wasn’t aware of how insecure Andy had become. We knew this was going to be hard. We’d agreed it was what we both wanted. At least when Andy went away to play ball we agreed to the arrangement. Once I got back into ball, the agreement wasn’t enough for him. I wanted to understand and accept Andy loved me and that this would pass. I loved him, and even under the circumstances I was pretty happy to see him, even if I didn’t know how I was going to pay to feed him. I envisioned a call to my parents for help to get him back to Lincoln and keep him fed for the duration of his suspension.

As Mrs. Olsen brought us coffee in the small living room, we were treated to some cookies she’d baked over the weekend. Once again Andy cleaned the plate up after Lane and I had a couple. I’d never seen him so hungry. Mrs. Olsen just smiled and brought back more than he could eat the second time. He finally sat back and stopped chewing.

“I’ve changed the bed in Randolph’s room. He’s got a place near where the girl he is dating lives. Andy can sleep in there.”

“No, Mrs. Olsen, Andy will sleep in my room. You are not to put yourself out,” I insisted firmly.

“Oh, John, there’s no extra charge. I’m just glad to have something to do.”

“We’ll pay for the extra food and he’ll sleep in my room, Mrs. Olsen. I won’t create work for you. You’ve been like a mom to me.”

“I enjoy having nice boys here with me. It’s like having my sons home.”

“And we’re glad of it, but I’m not creating extra work. Andy and I roomed together all through college. We’re used to each other.”

“Yes, but that bed….”

“Mrs. Olsen, don’t argue with these two. I’ve already made that mistake and it isn’t pretty. I’d just go along with them and be thankful to avoid a fistfight.”

“Well…, okay. It’s no trouble for me. Really.”

“I appreciate it. I’ll take out a loan so we can feed Andy,” I said.

“Oh, he doesn’t eat that much. He’s a growing boy,” she said with admiration. “Nice to have a hungry boy back in the house.”

“I’ll have to hope he doesn’t grow too much more or I might have to go into training the next time he comes,” Lane said.

“It was just a misunderstanding,” Andy confessed. “I’m tired. Where do we sleep,” he said directly to me.

“Come on,” I said.

“How are your feet, Mrs. Olsen?” Lane asked.

“Not well enough for both of us to use them tonight, Mr. Lane. I’ve got a pair of tennis shoes that might help some. We’ll give it a try tomorrow evening if you like.”

“Must be time for me to go,” Lane announced. “Wonderful meal, Mrs. Olsen. You’ll make me regret fast food if you keep making me eat good healthy food.”

“I cook every night for John. You’re welcome any night you want to come by. Nothing like watching healthy boys eat,” she bragged with a pleasant smile.

“Good night,” I said, pushing Andy in front of me.

We went up the stairs and I led him into my room, shutting the door behind us. I pushed his back against the door.

“What in the hell did you think you were doing?” I said, renewing my anger.

“I love you too, Do,” he said low in his throat as he pulled me close and I ran into the tent in his pants.

I wrapped my arms around him, loving the feel of the warmth his body furnished mine. Our lips met and all the anxiety and frustration of months of separation faded out of our lives.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he said, between kisses, kissing me again, holding me close with his cast solidly planted against my back.

“I love you so much, Andy. You can’t get mad at me for doing my job. This doesn’t have anything to do with Lane.”

“You bet it don’t,” he said, looking at my face and kissing me more passionately.

“Tell me it won’t happen again. Lane is not an issue.”

“I know. He’s cool. I was wrong. I lost my head, thinking of him here with you and me… me in fucking Lincoln. I miss you, Do. I want you with me. We can’t spend the rest of our lives halfway across the country from each other. I can’t stand it any longer.”

We kissed again and ended up on the bed, kicking our shoes off with a thump before undressing each other. His skin was hot and he needed a shower, but not now. It would have to wait. His body against mine lit me on fire. Being with him again, our bodies pressed together, had me never wanting to let him go.

It’s almost impossible to remember what being with someone is like when you are away from each other for so long, and then, in a few seconds, it’s all perfect, the best it has ever been, all you can ask for, more than you can imagine. I loved Andy with my heart and soul and being with him was heaven.

The fact he had driven straight through didn’t curb his lust in the least. He couldn’t wait and a minute later we were building back up  again. Even my erection refused to relinquish any enthusiasm, until after our second round. He was more passionate than he’d ever been. It had been a long time coming but it was worth the wait.

After almost an hour he needed to pee out some of the coffee Mrs. Olsen kept pouring for him after dinner. It took some convincing that Mrs. Olsen wouldn’t come upstairs after we’d gone to bed and it was safe for him to go naked into the bathroom.

He flipped on the light and I admired the more defined body that seemed to be a work in progress. Each time I saw him he was stronger and thicker. His cock stayed pointed toward the ceiling as he returned with his small gathering of blond pubes the perfect decoration for the thick lumber he packed.

Flipping off the light, he was back in my arms in a minute and we kissed, touched, massaged, and stroked each other as our mouths searched for the ultimate truth.

It was another hour before our pace slowed and Andy laid on his back with his hands behind his head. I bathed his body until I got back down to the business end of his passion. I lit his fuse with my tongue and it grew stiff under a major frontal assault. He’d never had a chance.

Moaning in rhythmic tones, I licked and sucked and admired him from stem to stern. I knew when his big hand locked on the back of my head that we were ready to rock and roll. We were well on our way to lift off. With two of my fingers filling his sweet spot and my throat full, he achieved liftoff, arching his back, his body shivered for a minute or more as I finished him off with gusto, not spilling a drop.

Before I completely disengaged he was snoring softly as he did when exhaustion forced sleep on him. We hadn’t made up for lost time but he had four more days with me and we’d do our best to spend as much time in passionate pursuits as time permitted.

Something had been missing in my life, even when I was where I wanted to be, doing what I wanted to do. It was never quite right. I loved being in Louisville. I loved baseball, but until Andy came, it was only half a loaf. Being together made it perfect.

Chapter 8

Breaking In

Andy often left me alone, jumping up out of bed in the morning at school, racing to the shower or to finish a paper that was due yesterday. I’d lie in bed watching him, wanting him. I got usedto it, feeling content with being in the same room together those mornings.

The morning after Andy came to Mrs. Olsen’s, he was in my arms when I woke up. It was long past daylight. We had an afternoon game and I wasn’t expected at the park until after noon. Lying in bed holding Andy was a luxury. I nuzzled my face into his neck. My arms were wrapped around him just below his chest, my hands dipping low on his torso to hold his ever stiff cock. When I squeezed it pulsed in my fingers, my cock pulsing against his butt in response. This was the natural order of things.

I lingered on the edge of sleep for a long time, having no desire to break my hold on him. If it was a dream I didn’t want to wake up and if it was real, I wanted to hang on to him for the rest of time. His physical absence from my life was a significant burden on my heart.

Knowing what I wanted and what was best for us weren’t the same thing. It didn’t matter just then. I had what I wanted. I’d be a major distraction to his career if I moved to Lincoln. I’d have been in Lincoln long ago, but ball was ball and at this level you were either in the game or you weren’t. There had been a little fallout from my reentry back into ball, but it was a misunderstanding and no more. Andy’s reaction caught me completely by surprise. As well as I knew him I never saw this coming.

Many guys got married while still in the minors, but I’d bet more of them don’t make it to the big show than do. Marriage and the responsibility that goes with it is too much of a distraction. Love should be done with all your energy, and if you’re playing ball, you needed to give all your energy to playing ball.

Most of the scouts watching the talent marked it down on the pad the moment a player tied the knot. Then he drew a line under it and what he wrote under that line would make or break a baseball career. No scout would ever write under Andy’s name, boyfriend has come to stay.

No one else might ever read that note but the guy who wrote it knew it was there. If the player continued to field and hit it would never come up again. He’d be told once he was called up, ‘Be discrete. Don’t do anything to embarrass the team. Otherwise, you do what you want.’

Everyone knew there was a lot more diversity on a team than anyone talked about. As long as it stayed out of the news, no one cared. You hit and catch big league ball and your job is safe as long as you ‘keep your nose clean.’

There were no moral’s clauses or legalese to get a club out of a contract. That was too obvious and would subtract big time from a player’s value if implemented. You fail to live up to your potential and fulfill you obligation to the team and you find yourself on wavers and word goes out you are on the trading block before you can pack your bag. Even superstars know there is a line you dare not cross.

Everything else was fair game and the writers could write their hearts out and the management could shake their heads in everlasting exasperation, complaining anytime a microphone is stuck in their face, but as long as it didn’t alter the game or turn the fans off, most times it would slip by with a, ‘no comment.’

How many gay baseball players have come and gone is unknown. There have been some. Statistics don’t lie and being gay doesn’t really have anything to do with being a man if you don’t subscribe to it. All guys are men first and gay afterward. If you define yourself as a gay man, then you get to do that, but don’t sell men short. Many are all men and loving men has nothing to do with playing baseball.

If there are rumors, hints, or suggestions about someone’s sexuality on a big time pro team, you might expect some discomfort expressed in the clubhouse. Actually, the success of a team is a precarious balance. You’ll find most players more interested in winning than gossip. The bottom line is the end game and a player pulling his weight is worth his weight in gold.

I’d suspect there are more gay football players than baseball players. On the matter of principle an athlete that’s gay has something extra to prove. There’s a matter of proving you are as good a football player as any. It’s a physical and brutal test of wills. No football player is a gay man. He’s a man who is gay.

I was gay as a boy and I must admit that I came to baseball for different reasons than most. My parents could have gotten me through college and would have, but they’d have scrimped and scrapped the entire four years. I had a unique talent that I developed because of losing my first love. I needed to focus on something. I picked up a baseball glove and nine years later I was a coach in Louisville, lying in my bed with my lover in my arms.

How many coaches have been gay? How many coaches never played a minute of pro ball before becoming a coach? I can’t answer either question. I was coaching without ever playing pro ball. I learned my craft well and the right people entered my life at the right time, and I was coaching in Louisville with my love lying in my arms across the street from the ball park. I don’t know how many people have done that either, but I was happy to be doing it.

Yeah, I wanted to play ball. I liked ball. I liked coaching. I loved Andy and I wanted to be with him. I liked the players I coached, especially the infielders, who listened to my tips and took me seriously. I liked Hack and Slip, because they didn’t question my credentials and treated me like I belonged at Louisville.

I was making next to nothing, living in a room paid for by the club, and eating food mostly provided out of the goodness of my landlady’s heart. Indeed I was lucky not to be on a roof in Statesville, sweating my ass off, and no future in it.

No, I wanted to be in Louisville. I wanted to be with Andy. I wanted to play ball. I wanted… I wanted… I wanted.

How much future there was at Louisville, I didn’t know. I figured as long as Coach Bell was there I had a job, even if it came down to sweeping up the clubhouse if I’d do it.

There was a connection between Coach Bell and I. I didn’t know how to account for it or what led to its developing. I was merely there and he did the rest. There would be nothing but the roofs of Statesville if not for that fortuitous happenstance. We didn’t have the same relationship at Louisville, but Louisville wasn’t State. I had a job and I did it. Our time together at State was a long time ago.

Never in my wildest dreams, when I went to school at State, did I see myself as playing ball regularly. I knew I’d be lucky to be a utility infielder, because I was a good fielder. I couldn’t hit, but what Coach Bell saw in me had nothing to do with how I hit a pitched ball.

Andy and I would be together until Sunday. We’d be in Davenport, Iowa for games Saturday and Sunday. Friday was a travel day and this afternoon we played Lexington at home. It wasn’t a lot of time together. It wasn’t even enough time, but we were together and that was very very good for both of us.

I was angry when I thought of Andy hurting himself because of me, but I wasn’t a fool. I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. No, I’d hold on to him, make love to him, and be glad we had the time we had. It would help us get through the season on separate teams in separate cities.

While it was unfortunate circumstances that brought him to town, the result worked for now as the future was in the process of writing itself. These days together would make our eeparation more tolerable later in the season.

“You awake?” Andy asked in a drowsy uncharacteristic voice.

“Yeah,” I said, not wanting to break the mood or my hold on him.

“I just had the weirdest dream ever. I wasn’t really awake, but I could smell you. I thought I was back at State. I thought we were in bed together in the dorm. I opened my eyes and it scared the shit out of me. I didn’t know where I was. I’ve never had that happen.”

“Smell is a powerful stimulant for memories,” I said, having heard it somewhere.

“You telling me. My arm hurts,” he said.

“Jesus, Andy, I’ll see if our trainer will take a look at it,” I said.

“I hurt it when I jammed it against the wall over across the street.”

“Don’t remind me. Not one of your brighter moves,” I said.

“I didn’t know what to think. Some strange damn dude is answering your phone. I thought….”

“You thought wrong. You made an ass out of yourself.”

“I love you too, babe. I did it for you,” he tried tentatively.

“The hell you did. You jumped to a conclusion and it bit you on the ass.”

“Yeah, but it ain’t my ass that’s hurting.”

“I’m surprised Lane took it so well. You really knocked the wind out of him. He’s capable of being a real jerk. Let’s don’t argue. I want to make the most of having my hands on you.”

“I would kiss you, except I need to brush my teeth,” Andy said.

“You remembered to bring your toothbrush?”

“Ops! I don’t guess you got an extra?”

“No, we’ll stop at Broadway Market. They should carry them.”

“Do they carry underwear? I didn’t pack a bag. I need a shower and a change of clothes.”

“Bingo, we do have a shower. The rest is up in the air. Maybe Lane has an extra pair of underwear he can lend us. You’re a lot closer to his size than mine.”

“I just met him. Getting into his underwear after only one date never entered my mind.”

“You, asshole,” I said, realizing Andy was not one to crack jokes about his circumstances. The fact he cracked one about Lane was a good sign.

Of course the kiss led to kisses and the kisses led to more lusty ideas, leading us to being locked in a loving embrace. The feel of him was worth all the pain and frustration coming from our being a part from one another for so long.

It renewed the intensity of our love. I had no question about his devotion to me or mine to him. It was often on my mind. Feeling him, seeing him, indeed smelling him was instant intoxication. I was liberated by love. It gave my life meaning beyond my own narrow spectrum. Loving Andy was the best thing I’d ever done, but I’d get better. Practice makes perfect.

As Andy got ready to jump in the shower, I ran into Mrs. Olsen coming up the stairs to do her morning dust up.

“Morning, John, I’ve got breakfast ready to go. You boys say when. It’ll only take a few minutes. I made fresh biscuits for you.”

“You’re a doll, Mrs. Olsen,” I said.

“Oh, John,” she blushed.

“Toothbrush. Where can I buy Andy a toothbrush?”

“I keep all those toilet item for my boys. I’ll bring one right back. Have him put his clothes out by the bathroom door. I’m about to do laundry. I’ll toss his in and have them ready before it’s time to go over to the park. I’ll get him one of Mr. Olsen’s robes. He can wear that while I’m getting his things ready.”

“You’re one of a kind Mrs. Olsen. I think I might want to stay here forever.”

“You’d be welcome, John. You’re a fine boy.”

We had a breakfast of bacon, eggs, biscuits, and some homemade blackberry jam Mrs. Olsen put up in the summer. Andy liked her strawberry, which smelled like heaven, but I didn’t like mixing my preserves.

“These smell great,” Andy said, as we walked across the street to the press box to get Andy a ticket for the game.

They always had a handful they shared when players wanted to get someone in. We were way early and I had dressed at Mrs. Olsen’s, because she did my uniforms up for me. I took Andy down through the tunnel and stopped at Coach Bell’s door.

“Hey, Coach,” I said, sticking my head in the door.

“I got work to do, John. See me after the game,” Coach Bell explained.

“Hell you say,” Andy said, pushing his way around me.

“Lord have mercy. Look what the cat drug in.”

“Oh, I drove out to see Do.”

“What did you do to your arm?” Coach Bell asked, focusing in on the cast under Andy’s jacket.

“It’s a long story, Coach.”

“Well what about Lincoln? I didn’t hear anything aobut you leaving there.”

“No, I’ll start rehab Monday. I’ll be able to pinch hit in a month.”

“What’s the damage, Andy?” Coach Bell asked concerned.

“Broke my wrist?”

Coach Bell shook his head and took Andy’s fingers in his dusky hand.

“Flex your fingers,” he said, feeling ever so gently as Andy wiggled his fingers. “I want you to see my trainer. Dr. Wells is a wonderful bone and joint man. His specialty was sports injuries. You realize a wrist injury can end your career, don’t you?”

“No, no one said that to me. It’s just my wrist.”

“Your swing, son. That wrist heals wrong and your swing will change. You’ve got one of the most natural eye hand coordination I’ve ever seen. You rank with some of the best sluggers I’ve ever seen. There’s something about the eyesight, angle, and velocity that all matches up together to launch a ball off the bat. You’re a natural. You alter any of it and you’ll change it. You change it and you might not like the result. You let my trainer see it and do what he tells you.”

“Yes, sir,” Andy said, a lot more troubled than when he arrived.

“I’ll have a chair put in the dugout for you. You’ll sit next to me,” Coach Bell said.

“I’ve got a ticket, Coach,” Andy explained.

“You aren’t listening to me, son. You still hard headed?”

“No, sir. Chair in the dugout. Thanks.”

“Get out of here. I’ve got some business to take care of,” Coach Bell ordered, walking us into the hall.

Chapter 9

Do You Want To Dance

For the first time since I arrived in Louisville, Coach Bell seemed like his old self. He chatted with Andy as warm-ups went on nearby. There was relaxation, a renewal, coming from a connection to our mutual past. It demonstrated the pressure he felt from his job.

His concern for Andy’s injury had him on the phone, scheduling a meeting with Louisville’s volunteer trainer, who retired from Chicago baseball some years ago. He was a Louisville native, while still devoted to the game of baseball.

I clapped my hands and wandered around the coaches box at first, keeping an eye on Andy as I did so. Our players were ready and it was a cool cloudy day with no hint the sun might shine. It was still early spring and putting the jacket back on for a few days didn’t surprise me. There was no threat of rain That afternoon.

As the game started, we faced Lexington’s ace lefthander. He was always held back a start or two when Lexington was going to face us. They weren’t in our league talent wise, but the pitcher was on his way up, one of those guys who pitched better under pressure.

It was a predictable first few innings, with neither team mounting a scoring threat. The pitchers had their way with the hitters until the 5th inning. McCormick came up and took two quick strikes, not moving the bat off his shoulder. The third straight strike was right down the center of the plate, and McCormick tagged it sharply past 2nd base. He stopped as he rounded first base.

“Nice hit,” I said, admiring the way he could smack the ball around the infield to get on base.

“Thanks,” he said, watching Coach Bell and then me as he took a small lead, waiting for something to develop.

McCormick was quick. Most shortstops could dash in an instant toward the next base. Cat like reflexes were standard equipment for a shortstop. For a runner like him there was no stop sign most of the time. Strategy required he hold tight. It’s what I expected.

It wasn’t wise to run through a hold sign. You take off on your own and get cut down stealing, your butt is going to get chewed on by the  base coach closest to the event. Then the head coach gets a piece of it for good measure.  McCormick wasn’t likely to make a dash he wasn’t sure he could manage, but the hold sign was put on by Coach Bell. I relayed it to McCormick, and he only took one step off the bag. Even then the pitcher was always aware of him.

This is a coaches call, because he sees the game in larger terms than a player sees it. We’d run every time for the glory of stealing on a pitcher, but it often came up short with an extra out instead of an extra base the result. McCormick leaned toward 2nd without moving. The count went to 2-1 on Brad Pappas as he stood in on the plate.

Pappas hit about a hundred points less than McCormick. He could take a walk now and then, but this pitcher wasn’t walking anyone. His pitches hadn’t lost any gusto since the first batter, and   0-0 was what a good pitcher lived for, believing he could keep the goose egg on the competition.

The fourth pitch curved in over the edge of the plate. Pappas hesitated, then swung, looking bad doing it. The strike out brought up Lane. He’d struck out in the second. He gave the pitcher a couple of practice swings to look at.

Damn he was impressive.

The first pitch was low and outside but Lane rocked back on his heels as he held nothing back on the swing. The ball popped against the leather in the catcher’s glove. The crowd gasped.

Lane tapped his bat twice on the plate, took two practices swings, and set himself for the next pitch, unperturbed by the swing and miss.

The pitcher knew he had a handful and he took his time, shaking off two signs before nodding at the same sign he was given first. The cat-and-mouse game was on as the pitcher controlled the pace of the game. He did a half windup motion before firing his fastest pitch at the plate. McCormick was gone. I was so busy watching Lane, I didn’t know I hadn’t missed a sign, but the hold had been on. I looked at  Coach Bell, confused.

Being fooled by something a player did wasn’t smart, but I was so interested in the pitcher’s duel with Lane that I forgot I was the coach. Like most mistakes, no one knew but me.

When the sound of the bat cracking against the ball echoed around the infield, carrying out, out, out through the stands, Lane was already rounding first, smacking my hand for good measure as the ball had already left the stadium a few dozen yards north of Mrs. Olsen’s house. I pictured her in her Nike tennis shoes, circling under the ball on the street that ran in front of her house.

Louisville 2 Lexington 0.

I moved down toward the plate to greet McCormick. These were the moments I lived for. I walked behind Lane as he headed for the bench, hat off, waving to the cheers of the crowd as he went. For a Thursday afternoon game there was a nice crowd of several thousand fans who skipped out of work early to watch baseball.

“Impressive,” Andy said, giving a high-five to Lane as he stepped into the dugout.

Everyone stood to slap Lane’s ass and shake his hand. It was a game winning hit if not for it being the midway point in the game. Of course, it was what the crowd came to see and they all stood for their million dollar baby, applauding madly as they had known all the time it would be Lane who broke the scoreless tie.

We’d been losing as much as we’d been winning recently and Lexington’s pitcher was the key to the game. He walked the next batter and then struck out the side. Lexington’s pitcher never faltered after Lane’s hit. Ours did.

A succession of three relief pitchers gave up five runs in the 8th and 9th inning. We ended up with four hits and two runs. McCormick got two of the hits and raised his average to .343, second in our league in batting average, first in runs scored, thanks to Lane. Individual success at this level was important, but it didn’t alter what losing did to you.

Everyone was dressed quickly and ready to go home to pack for Davenport. The team bus would leave the following morning at ten o’clock for the eight hour ride. The Saturday one o’clock start made it doable without wearing our team out.

I stood with Andy and Coach Bell in the clinic, where the Dr. Mangstrum did his stuff. He’d wet-read Andy’s X-rays and we watched him stare into the light behind it. He studied it for what seemed like a long time. He sat back behind his desk.

“It’s wet and I can only give you a preliminary read. I’m not treating you so it’s my professional opinion for a visiting player. The break is clean. There is some inflammation that shouldn’t be there. I don’t like it. I’ve got a bottle of antibiotic I’ll give you for that. Take them all as instructed on the bottle. Take them allk! Tt should take care of the inflammation.

“There’s swelling that shouldn’t be there. What have you been doing with this arm? If you want to continue playing professional ball, and Coach Bell tells me that’s a strong possibility, you better take care of yourself, son. Your swing should be fine once the inflammation and swelling has dissipated.

“Tell the doctor there that I’ve seen it, and I’m well versed in any sports injury if he wants to speak with me. Otherwise, keep it out of the way and quit doing whatever it is you’ve been doing with it, or instead of a bat you’ll be swinging a tin cup.

“My wife’s got dinner waiting for me. Here’s my card if you think of anything you want to know. Good luck and good evening, gentlemen.”

Coach Bell agreed to let me drive Andy to Davenport in his borrowed car, which optimized our time together. I’d have a room to myself and Andy would stay with me, until Sunday, when he’d head back to Lincoln and I’d board the bus back to Louisville with the team.

Coach Bell dropped us in front of Mrs. Olsen’s and Evan Lane was sitting in the living room eating cookies and drinking coffee.

“How’s the arm?” Lane wanted to know.

“The wrist is broken and it may fall off if he doesn’t give up on a fighting career,” I said with sadness.

“I knew his fighting career was over,” Lane said, as if he was an expert on the topic.

“It’ll be fine,” Andy said, not interested in anything anyone else had to say.

“Well, I’ve asked my dance partner to accompany me to dinner. If you want to join us and bring your dance partner, I’d enjoy it,” Lane said, as Andy only began to object to the reference, then didn’t.

“Hell of a hit, Lane. You do have a sweet swing,” Andy said with admiration.

“Thanks, kid. For an old man I can still lift the lumber,” Lane smiled as he spoke.

“You can’t afford to be taking us out,” I objected. “You and Mrs. Olsen go ahead.”

“You’re really in the dark. My new contract just kicked in. I’m dialed into six figures this season, to keep me from window shopping. I can afford dinner. Next year, I’ll buy us a restaurant,” Lane said with certainty, laughing happily at his prospects.

I lacked knowledge on how the big league clubs kept minor league players in line. Lane was waiting to take over in left field, when it was his time. No one wanted him riding a bench and they were paying him to stay in Louisville to play every day.

I was there to see to it when the call came, he was ready to field at a big league level. He was guaranteed a seven figure bonus when he went up and way more in salary. Even Lane was set, except for his inability to keep his big feet out of the way, and that could derail a career that could be worth millions. I had work to do and failure wasn’t an option if I wanted to stay in baseball.

Lane went for Italian, antipasto for four overflowed the plate, and the spaghetti came with sausage, meat balls, and a sauce so smooth it slid down my throat.

I got my first look at Lane the personality. He signed autographs, smiled, and posed for pictures with little kids and grandmothers. The owner of Sal’s came out and poured all of us red wine from his wine cellar. The chef came out with a baseball and posed with Lane and the owner for a series of pictures.

When it came time to pay up and leave, the owner took the check, stuffing it in his pocket, taking a hug for the tons of food we’d devoured, while enjoying the kind of experience none of us had ever had before, except for Lane, who blushed with boyish charm over the attention.

“Man, I can’t move,” Andy said as we sat in the back of the big Buick, another of Lane’s perks I knew nothing about, although he did commercials all over town for pocket money.

“That was lovely, Mr. Lane,” Mrs. Olsen said. “I’ve rarely had a better time going out to eat. Thank you for taking me.”

“Mrs. Olsen, thank you for making me feel at home in your house. I’ve almost never had a home of my own,” he revealed. “A warm friendly place like yours is a vacation for a kid from the inner-city.”

The car got quiet quick.

I didn’t know what would happen to Lane. It was none of my business. His deals and contracts were his business. My misgivings about him were gone, replaced by the admiration of  one ball player for another. He was a genuine guy, who needed real people to keep his feet on the ground, while his career headed for the stratosphere.

My job was to keep his feet out of his way. By nine, after more cookies and coffee, plus two roast beef sandwiches for Andy, Mrs. Olsen put on Benny Goodman and Jimmy Dorsey ‘albums.’ She called it swing and she gave us an example of how at some time in her life she swung to the same music.

Oh, Mrs. Olsen grew up with rock and roll. She confessed to shake and bake with heavy metal, but for dancing, she and Mr. Olsen liked the big band sound from the 40s and 50s.

I must admit it got my toes tapping. My parents liked Pink Floyd and Queen as the music of their youth, and I listened to whatever came on the radio.

Lane did okay with some of the music, concentrating on keeping his feet off of Mrs. Olsen’s without a lot of success. True to form, she’d come up with a pair of Nike tennis shoes that were bright orange and black. Her feet did last a little longer this time but before ten o’clock she had collapsed into her easy chair.

“Mr. Lane, Mrs. Olsen is toast. You’ll have to come up with another plan. I’m ready to call it an evening.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Olsen,” Lane said. “Sorry about the feet. I’m doing a little better, aren’t I?”

“Well, Mr. Lane, maybe a little. We’ll keep at it after I rest my aching tootsies a day or two. John, you’ll need to carry on without me,” she said, leaving us in the small sitting room with swing swinging in the background.

“Time to call it a night, I guess,” Lane said.

“Hardly,” I answered. “Andy, put your dancing shoes on. We’re just getting started. Glad you didn’t break your ankle.”

“What?” Andy said surprised.

“One of us is going to have to spend a little while longer dancing with Lane. You saw him bat at his best, we’re going to give him the fleetest feet in the Bigs. Either you or me are going to dance with him.”

“Don’t I get a choice?” Lane asked with a smirk.

“No,” Andy said.

The swing wasn’t a problem in getting them to move together in something that could be described as a sort of dance. The waltz I put on had them both looking at me with some trepidation, but Andy knew I was going to dance with Lane if he didn’t, so he reluctantly moved up close as they danced together in tight circles that the living room could accommodate. Lane seemed amused.

I thought they enjoyed it a little too much, but I also think they were toying with me and didn’t complain. It was easier to make a joke out of it and Andy bowed to Lane, as the record ended.

By that time I was content and my dinner was almost digested, we bid Lane goodnight. I let Andy lead me upstairs to my room. I hadn’t once given any thought to having Andy in my arms all day, but I couldn’t think of anything else once I closed the door on Lane. My desire for Andy was right there on the surface and there was no question that my interest was poking out in front of me.

Andy laughed and squeezed, kissing me slow and easy. It was like we were the only two people in the world. I’d rate it as one of the best evenings of my life, and that was before I got Andy out of his clothes and into my bed.

Chapter 10

Andy Time

Waking up the second morning with Andy in my arms was better than the first. It did seem a little like we were back at State. Feeling him against me had me devoted to our togetherness. Andy slept on long after I woke up and it allowed me to enjoy the quiet. Love had never been so warm and wonderful.

The eight hour drive on the bus with scheduled stops for the usual body functions began at ten in the morning. In a car we could make it in closer to six hours and we would stop if we pleased. The plan was for me to drive, once we got up and on our way.

Andy woke up and rolled over to face me, wanting to kiss me. Our bodies rubbed easily in each other’s arms. His warmth and smell always intoxicated me. His absence always frustrated me and his presence always delighted me.

“Do you know how much I love you?”

“No, tell me,” I demanded, and he put his mouth on mine and we didn’t come up for air for how long, I can’t say.

“He’s a nice guy,” Andy said, lying on his back with his arms behind his head, after the loving had subsided for a few minutes.

“Coach Bell. Fine man. He was my coach at State. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“Very funny, Do. Lane is a pretty cool dude.”

“Ruggedly handsome… maybe. Pretty… I doubt it.”

“He’s pretty, built like a Greek god, and he even has a personality. You know I want to hate him?”

“Andy, who in the hell are you in bed with?”

“Yeah, and after Sunday, when are we going to be in bed together again? How far away will I be? How close will he be? All that personality and the way he swings a bat, he’s on the way, you know?”

“Yeah, I know now. I didn’t know much before he told us at dinner. I’ve never asked. I’m his coach. He’s my responsibility, when it comes to fielding. Anything else is inappropriate.”

“It’s not his fielding I’m worried about. He’d turn my head if I wasn’t in love with you. I’m not sure I could turn him down. I bet his hung like a small farm pony.”

“A big farm horse,” I said, giggling at my knowledge and knowing it was going to get him angry over the fact.

“Bigger than me?” he demanded, feeling his manhood being threatened.

“Only wider and longer,” I said, giggling some more. “I’ve never seen it in action but Lane takes a backseat to no one in the dick department. He’s a big guy. If size were my only interest, he’d take the prize, Andy, but what you have is perfect for me. Just right. It’s what I like and Lane is a big tease, as you’ve seen. I know more about the size of his feet and how poorly he’s been trained to use them in the outfield. He’s another big bat. Fielding was optional to all the bozos that saw him hit and knew he was a power hitting dream.”

“I don’t like he’s here with you and I’m… I’m in fucking Lincoln.”

“Well, it’ll give you incentive to come see me if you get a break from therapy. Borrow the car again and you can drive it straight through and we’ll have a couple of days if you do it over a weekend.”

“Yeah, I didn’t have any trouble getting the car. The coach seemed happy to make me happy. He was pissed when he found out about my wrist, but once he accepted it, he was okay. He didn’t want to lose my bat. We aren’t the team Louisville is. I can come back to see you maybe one more time. Can you arrange for me to dance with Lane some more?”

“No, I think you like it too much. I have no doubt you and Lane would be like two brute trucks in a demolition dery in bed, but I wouldn’t want to take that chance. My luck, you’d both decide bigger is better and dancing is a walk in the park.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Do. You hold your own in the dick department.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t seen Lane nude. He would make most women weak in the knees imagining the possibilities. If I wasn’t going with you it might be tempting.”

“Oh, now the truth comes out. It’s okay for you to be following Lane around, but when I might want some time with him, you get nervous.”

“I’m not interested in Lane, dancing or prancing. He’s cool. He’s fun to be around. As a date, I don’t think so. Not for me and certainly not for you.”

“You’ve got me trained to respond to you. I have no desire to break in another lover. Bigger in most cases is not necessarily better. Nice decoration but relatively useless under many circumstances.”

“Want to prove it?” I asked.

“Want to hold me?” he asked.

It was my favorite position. Holding Andy from behind gave me the full feel of his body. The way he’d tightened up and toughened up was obvious to me as I examined his body, each muscle, and every new centimeter he’d added in a professional program.

He got quiet and swelled to a familiar solid thickness, throbbing and oozing out pleasure, once I eased to the depths of bliss he provided by his very willingness to have me inside him.

The nicest part of a mid-morning go-round, it took me a bit to reach the height of ecstasy and I hung there for some time before the need to climax overtook my ardor for loving him in a way no one else could.

His chest expanded, his muscles tightened, and as I gasped out my everlasting devotion to him, he loaded my hand up with his joy for our favorite thing in the world of loving each other. Losing all connection to the world around us, Andy was all there was. His body, his enthusiasm, and his total relaxation against me once he’d drained himself in our latest linking.

He dozed and I held him, feeling him go from monumentally hard to half-hard to softening flesh in my fingers. It was rare for me to feel him soft. Andy’s dick was a barometer and it was always hot and getting hotter when we were within reach of one another. I had no trouble believing he wasn’t getting anything on the side.

Back at State, once we’d come back together after a summer a part from one another, it took two weeks for him not to want sex every time he saw me. It was this devotion to me and how he soothed the savage beast within me that told me we were going to be an item for as long as I wanted to hang in there.

Andy was not a great romantic. That’s not to say he didn’t demonstrate his love for me in a lot of ways, but he didn’t come from an affectionate family, which made affection hard for him, except in the act of sex. Then, all bets were off.

His needs were many and his devotion without question if he knew I was in the room and he had an hour to spare. We’d often been late for practice, getting him in shape to last for a few hours, after going all day away from one another.

Andy was my man. Lane was nice and good for my eyes, but Evan Lane was never going to be devoted to anyone but Evan Lane. As nice a guy as he was, he could have anyone any time he wanted, so there was no desperation in him, when it came to desire. A wink, a point of his thick index finger, and most women and many men, straight or not, would gladly take him on. He was walking talking charisma with a bankroll. No, I’d never have tied myself to a man like him for love or money, but he was something to look at.

Who could blame him for taking advantage of what was offered him?    

We got up close to the time the bus was leaving and Mrs. Olsen was ready with lots of coffee, bacon, and eggs. She packed roast beef sandwiches for Andy and tuna sandwiches for me with carrot and celery sticks and a bag full of V-8 juice drinks. She hugged ‘Andrew’ goodbye with tears in her eyes and told him to take care of his arm and not tackle anyone else, until after it healed.

Mrs. Olsen reminded me of the old fashion house mothers you see in movies from the days of house mothers in Frat houses. All her boarders became her boys and when one left, it was emotional for her.

In only a couple of days she’d happily adopted Andy, willing to go that extra mile to meet his needs, no matter what they were, except for dancing with Lane, after her feet were battered and bruised by the experience. She giggled when she looked in on Andy and Lane waltzing around the small sitting room.

She was a delight.

I was surprised Andy put up with the dancing. My determination to have him walk a mile in my shoes did nothing for his feet. Lane was an all purpose foot cruncher, having difficulty avoiding anything under his size fifteen shoes. If he was clumsy on the playing field, he was deadly on the dance floor. Both he and Andy took it all in good cheer.

The car drove fine as we were immediately on Route 65 heading north. West of Indianapolis on Route 70 west, we passed the bus in a rest area. There were Louisville ball players everywhere. It would take an hour to get them all back in the bus, I figured. At 70 miles an hour and no stops scheduled, we’d be in our room near the I-80 Truck Stop outside of Davenport by five.

Andy sat silent for the first half of the ride. He cradled the broken wrist in his left hand and I suspected it was giving him a little pain. He said nothing about it and he held my hand before we left Indiana for Illinois. He kissed my cheek outside of Champagne-Urbana, looking at me with passionate eyes.

“Let’s wait until we get to the motel. Then we’ll have until tomorrow morning to roll around in a nice soft bed.”

“Obviously Louisville sleeps in better motels than Lincoln. All the rooms we stay in smell like mildew and the beds are like riding a swayback horse.”

“What does it matter as long as we’re together?” I said.

He kissed my cheek again. We turned north to intersect      Route 80 in the middle of Illinois. I brushed his neatly trimmed hair back off his forehead. He leaned his face against my shoulder and went to sleep as we passed the fertile Illinois farmland newly planted.

It was going to be hard to watch him drive away from me. I realized my few days of heaven were coming to an end, and once more I’d need to endure being separated from the man I love. My heart fluttered and I fought back the tears. I hated this part of our lives. We were both exactly where we wanted to be, only we weren’t together and how great could anywhere be if we were a part?

I kissed the top of his head and he squeezed my arm, snoring gently in the way he did, when he had fallen into a deep sleep.

I did love him so.

Chapter 11

Davenport Blues

By the time the team bus rolled up in front of the motel, Andy and I were refreshed from a nap and a shower. We went with the team to dinner and enjoyed a free-spirited conversation with McCormack and Pappas, after they sought out our table to get to know Andy and chat with me over Louisville’s prospects for the weekend.

My roll as a full time coach was best received by these two. We viewed the game from the same perspective and even though I was younger than both players, they accepted my fielding ability as equal to their own. Some team members weren’t as easy to win over but when any of them decided to give me some grief by not following my instructions or respecting my authority over them, Hack was fast in having them running endless laps, until they saw the error of their ways.

We hadn’t exactly been burning the league down, but we were still leading our league without any distance between the top three teams, making it too close for comfort. Minor league teams were in constant flux, as their big brothers might dip into a team’s ranks and carry off the best player without notice, because they could. No lead in league standings was ever safe. Only after the final game was played could you be sure of where you stood. Tthen before the playoffs began, you still might lose players to the majors.

Sitting in Davenport Andy was more than halfway home and he seemed more relaxed. He needed to be back in Lincoln Monday morning at ten. He didn’t talk much but he did answer the questions put to him. Andy had looked for where Lane was sitting, but he’d gone into Davenport for interviews on a couple of the sports shows on local television. Even out of Louisville, he was the guy everyone wanted to talk to. Everyone in the league wanted to see him hit homers. One sportscaster claimed that when Lane showed up the crowd doubled for Davenport’s home games.

Once we went back in the room, both McCormick and Pappas came in to sit. When the evening news came on, we caught Lane in a two minute interview and There was a short clip of him entering the studio, with several microphones being shoved in his face by the local  station's competition. Even in Davenport, the frenzy to trump the other guy was the accepted code of conduct, no matter how rude it looked.

Lane took it all in stride, and seemed quick on his feet when  questions were fired at him by the waiting group of reporters. He’d probably had the same questions asked in every town we’d ever been to, but this was the first time I’d watched him in action. 

It was the dinner with Mrs. Olsen and Andy that alerted me to Lane’s legend. He seemed bigger than life that night. Before that, he’d been the outfielder whose fielding I was responsible for. My interest and perspective went no further than that and it was no longer possible to see Lane as a problem I had.

Never once did he tell me to get off his back because he was some kind of big deal in Louisville. No, he took it all in stride,  but he was always ready to make me pay for the pressure I put on him with a joke or a few well chosen words to embarrass me. Lane played a different game from mine, and I knew it by Davenport. I would never view him as just another player again.

The sky over the Davenport stadium was hugely blue. The air was fresh and crisp. The field was well trimmed, the lines drawn precisely by someone that took pride in his work. The slight smell of manure reminded me I was in farm country. In fact, Indiana and Illinois were covered in farmland we passed on the way to Davenport. Because even in April you can get a freeze that far north, the corn was just being planted.

When we came back during the summer, the corn would be growing high and it would be all you could see from the Interstate. This time of year, the rich dark soil spread out as far as the eye could see as you drove.

Davenport was a fair team. They ran hot and cold, not that we hadn’t. We won often early in the season but lost as often as we won lately. We came to Davenport to sweep the two games and we had the horses to do it.

Coaching wasn’t difficult the first few innings. The two pitchers were locked in a no hit, no run game. It was a pitcher’s duel which I might ordinarily have enjoyed, except by the third inning I was bored and catching glimpses of Andy, who was sitting in the stands beside first base.

The game was televised in Davenport, and Andy didn’t want any pictures of him sitting in Louisville’s dugout next to Louisville’s coach, making their way onto local television in Lincoln, as they did the nightly baseball run down. It wouldn’t go over well, since Andy was already in the doghouse. Pictures had a way of showing up where you least expect these days and Andy was taking no chances.

There were no signs given and nothing to look for, as one batter after another struck out if they didn’t ground out. I don’t think a single ball left the infield in three innings. I yawned. The biggest excitement was the peanut vender yelling, ‘Peanuts, get your peanuts.’  I’d have liked some peanuts, and maybe a cold one to wash them down.

Morgan walked in the fifth for our first base runner. With one out, I watched carefully for Coach Bell’s sign. The runner needed to hold. We couldn’t afford to lose our first base runner on a pick-off play. Sharp hit the ball hard to the Davenport shortstop. He shoveled it to second, and the throw to first was in time for the double play. 0-0 after five; no hits, no runs, no errors. It was all goose eggs. I loved a good pitching match and I had the best seat in the house, even though I had to stand up to watch.

McCormick got our first hit in the 8th inning.  Lane came to bat with two outs, and a man on 1st. He hit a long, towering fly ball into center field. The center fielder caught it, and the inning ended. In Davenport's half of the 8th  the first man drew a walk. With two outs and a 2-2 count on the batter, he hit a breaking ball out of the park. 2-0 Davenport. Even sitting on the bench it took the air out of me. This game wasn’t going to end well for Louisville.

That was it. We ended the game with only one hit. It was a quiet ride back to the motel. We had one game Sunday to redeem ourselves. We’d head back to Louisville early Sunday night, and Monday was an off day. If we lost the second game it was going to be an even quieter ride home.

Without Andy my thoughts wouldn’t be on baseball. I’d wonder if he got home okay. I’d wonder what he was doing. But we had one more night together, and the only thing on my mind was getting McCormick, Pappas, Lane, and our other visitors out of there, so Andy and I could go extra innings if we wanted. It was amazing how well Andy fit in with my teammates.

It was actually more holding and kissing, once the room was cleared. Andy remarked that Lane’s long fly ball was just an out but it would have been a homer in Louisville’s shorter center field. That would have made the game 2-2 and it would have gone on, but baseball was played on different fields all season,  and a hit in one ball park was an out in another.

Yankee Stadium, ‘The House Ruth Built,’ had a 325 foot right field fence before you reached the stands. It is where Ruth lofted many a home runs. The center field fence was a hundred feet deeper, to keep long fly balls in the park.

Minor league teams usually didn’t keep the best players long enough to build stadiums for their style of play, but each had a personality of its own. You had to stay alert if you wanted to stay out of trouble when you were on the road.

The second game began with McCormick getting a hit in the first, Morgan struck out, and Lane doubled to left center field, driving the run in. Louisville 1-0. Davenport went down in order in their half of the first. There were two more hits, and another run in the second. Louisville 2-0.

McCormick got a hit in the third and was left on base. Louisville 2-0. In the fifth inning, McCormick got his third straight single. I clapped my hands, watched for a sign, and held McCormick close to the bag.

“Nice hit. You have your stroke down today, Henry,” I told him, as their first baseman glared at me and I smiled real nice for him.

Coach Bell had the hold sign on, and I made sure McCormick was looking at me when I put the hold on him after each pitch. Morgan struck out again. Lane came up swinging his bats. He was beautiful. He took a controlled swing at a high pitch across the plate for strike one. He backed out of the box, giving his bat a few swings before stepping back in to take the next pitch.

I looked at Coach Bell. It was the hold. I made sure McCormick saw the sign. I went back to admiring Lane. The next thing I know McCormick isn’t there, and I saw him dashing for second. I looked at Coach Bell to see if I missed another fucking sign.

Coach Bell stood up, confusing me further. He shows me nothing . McCormick is safe and as I look at him, he isn’t getting up. By this time Coach Bell is crossing the first base line as I’m trying to figure out what the hell McCormick is thinking with Lane at the plate.

Two umpires have gone to second base. McCormick is lying on his back, not making any attempt to get up. The second baseman is over talking to the shortstop and Coach Bell joins the umpires.

“What the fuck?” I said to myself, not having any idea what was going on.

Everyone else knew. Everyone but me saw it, and I’m still wondering, ‘where the hell did he go?’

I follow Coach Bell to second base and stand beside him. Now Davenport’s trainer is between the umpires, kneeling over McCormick. Just as I was about to ask Coach Bell what the hell was going on, the trainer answered my question.

“Ankle’s broken. Call the EMT’s to secure his ankle before we can move him.”

I reached down for McCormick’s hand as they were getting him ready to go on the gurney. I was stunned. His had a death grip on my hand. He held on for dear life, watching them prepare his leg to be moved. I could tell by the expression on his face that he was in some discomfort. With one hand behind his head, he didn’t take his eyes off the medics.

I didn’t know what to do. My mind was intent on wanting to help the guy, and I couldn’t help him. I was closest to McCormick, except for Lane, and seeing him disabled rang no bell, didn’t have my mind working on the larger picture. My only concern was for my friend, and as a coach, was I suppose to feel he was my friend, or was there something else a coach should do?

“Come on, John,” Coach Bell said. “Come to the bench with me.”

“Good luck,” I said to McCormick, knowing nothing but that I felt terrible for the guy.

Then he said something I didn’t understand.

“Good luck, John. Knock ‘em dead.”

He was running out of time to make it to the big leagues and a broken ankle could well have been the end of his career and he’s wishing me luck. When I let go of his hand they were lifting him up on a gurney.

As Coach Bell crossed back over the first base line, he shouted angrily, “Bradshaw, run for McCormick.”

“Did I miss the sign, Coach?” I asked, thinking he was mad at me and I was about to get it.

“Slip, take over at first,” Coach Bell ordered.

Slip jogged out to the coach's box. My coach's box. I didn’t know what I’d done.

“No, John, you didn’t do anything. Look, this isn’t how either of us wanted it, but you’re my shortstop now. Get your glove, and go out with the team once our half of the inning is over. Your coaching days just ended. You got anything to say, say it now.”

“No, sir,” I said, picturing McCormick’s face in my mind, felling like I’d just stabbed him in the back.

I genuinely felt sad for McCormick. No, I didn’t expect to ever play regular at Louisville, but I was going to play. I didn’t plan to stop playing once I started. I didn’t like feeling that way. I would stay a player, or hang up my spikes and go find a job in Lincoln, Nebraska, or whereever Andy went to play.

I was in shock about going out to play. I still couldn’t get McCormick’s face out of my brain. I liked the guy. I hated seeing him get hurt, and to make matters worse, I missed Lane hitting a monster homerun out over the center field wall, over the bleachers, and out into the cornfield behind the stadium. I thought about Mrs. Olsen circling in the street in front of her house, waiting to catch a Lane homer. This one wasn’t quite that long.

“John,” Coach Bell bellowed.

The team was taking the field and my mind wandered to nonsense images. I tripped going up the step, caught myself with my glove hand, and ran to the shortstop position. McCormick was gone. The position belonged to me. The whole damn infield was now mine.

We led 5-0 and our starting pitcher was still firing heat. There was a strike-out, a grounder to first, and another strike-out to get me back on the bench. I wish I’d had a ball hit to me. Waiting to make my first play only made matters worse.

“You all right, John?” Coach Bell worried out loud.

“Yeah,” I said, still not having my head in the game.

The next inning was an eye opener and set my brain straight. My mind would be in the game every inning I played after getting my first minor league game under my belt.

With one out, a sharp ground ball bounced right in front of me. It was no easy play, but it was a play I’d made a million times. I’d made it so many times I was turning to make my throw before I had the ball in my glove.

The ball bounced over the heel of my glove, hit my chest, hit my chin, and fell between my feet. I picked it up and fired it at first base, throwing it two feet over Morgan’s glove. He gave me a hard glare as the runner happily took second.

They had their first base runner on second base. It was all on me. Maybe he’d have been safe at first even if I made a clean play, but I knew better. I’d have gotten him out if I had been in the play. The generous scorer gave me an error for my poor fielding and another error on my throw.

“It’s okay. We got these guys cold, Do,” Pappas said, wrapping his glove hand around my neck as if I’d been playing next to him all our lives. “Let’s get these guys. Let’s show them who Louisville is.”

“You got it,” I said confidently, shaking off the impact of the ball.

My head was definitely in the game.

I wasn’t about to blow another play that day. My focus came back as if I’d been playing ball every day for years. All my teaching and coaching was part of honing my skills as an excellent glove man, and no one had to remind me what I was out there to do. I kept my mind off McCormick and took care of business.

The side was retired without me taking another ball, and we held on to a 5-0 lead. I fielded two more grounders that day, making the throw to first base as if I’d done it before.

I came up in the ninth inning,  but only after Coach Bell had me come over so he could plaster a band-aid on my damaged chin.

“Don’t want to let the umpire see you bleeding, John,” he said, patting my back when I turned to pick a bat.

The first pitch was low, but across the plate. The second pitch was outside and still low. I didn’t like either and I left them alone. We had the game all but won and I wasn’t going to get my panties in a bunch over one at bat. The third pitch curved in on the plate. I didn’t give it a thought as I spanked it out past second base. I stopped  at first. Morgan walked, and Lane came to the plate as I stood on second, watching him swing several bats before tossing all but the one he wanted down. I’d never seen a player more in command of a game. The stadium was quiet and even the peanut man stopped, turning to watch Lane’s at bat.

He swung casually as he worked his way up to the plate. He didn’t get much time to get used to being there. He hit the first pitch in the same place where he’d hit his last homer. I was watching him closely and I didn’t miss this one. I took my time enjoying riding Lane’s hit home.

We won 8-0. I had one at-bat, one hit, scored one run, and made two errors on one play. It wasn’t my usual game but I’d take it. Winning meant everything to me that day.

Saying goodbye to Andy was worse than fucking up at shortstop. I reached into my pocket and gave him the one hundred and forty three dollars I’d taken out of my bank account. He said no and I closed his hand around the cash. He was suspended and had no pay to eat on. At least I had Mrs. Olsen between pay checks.

In a small way I wanted to fail. I wanted to go with him and I still wanted to play ball. I had my life. I wanted to live Andy’s life. I wanted so much with only one lifetime to fit it into. That was the trouble with being a baseball player, you only had so long and then one day your time was up. That would keep me playing ball, until I was put out of the game.

Coach Bell went to the hospital, and flew back to Louisville on Monday. Hack took charge of his team and got us all on the bus, unable to reconcile the missing man, until Slip marked McCormick’s name off the lineup card.

 McCormick would never return to Louisville. He did come back and he did play for a couple of teams, but he never got his chance in the Bigs.

The lineup posted on the clubhouse door for our Tuesday home game against Toledo listed, at SS, John Dooley. My picture appeared beside McCormick’s picture. He had been on the Louisville squad third longest. He was gone.

Chapter 12

Long Distance

I didn’t feel any differently as I sat at Mrs. Olsen’s table, drinking coffee and chatting about me being in the Louisville starting line-up. My lapse in fielding had lasted for one play and if there was one thing I knew it was how to field at shortstop. I suffered no loss of confidence.

I’d yet to call my parents to advise them things had changed. I suppose I needed to get adjusted to playing before I spoke with them. Dad would have already seen the box score in the Davenport game. He’d have run his finger down the Louisville line-up. He’d have stopped at my name, recognizing it as his name, John Dooley, shortstop.

Dad might or might not have told mom. He may have thought he’d let me call to tell them I had played in a regular season game, after I’d said I probably wouldn’t, because Henry McCormick was such a fine shortstop.

Maybe I was superstitious and wanted to get a few games under my belt before risking it by making it known I was the starting shortstop. Dad would know I knew he followed the box scores, receiving the Louisville paper a few days after it appeared in Louisville. I’d have to call before he received the copy of McCormick and I on the front of the sports page.

It told of McCormick’s injury and the hopes he’d return before the end of the season of what would certainly be a playoff season. My place on the team was relatively obscure. At first I was the player subbing for McCormick. You didn’t come out and mention a name previously unknown to the fans, when one of their favorites was injured. It was best to speak in indefinite terms of when he would return. By mid-season his absence would be fact and I’d either be seen as his logical replacement or as a pretender and no replacement at all.

At State I was almost immediately in the game. I’d found myself playing unexpectedly as a freshman and I was slowly drawn into a personal relationship with my coach. My trials and tribulations were such that I was never confident I’d remain in the starting line-up at State. My ability to field and win over older boys, who admired my glove work, made my time at State easy until Coach Bell left.

Once I was a senior, I gave up the idea I’d ever see or play for Coach Bell again. My future in baseball was non-existent. I didn’t like it but I accepted my last year at State was my last year in ball.

Appearing in the starting line-up in Louisville was a startling occurrence. I wasn’t prepared to make the transition. I missed McCormick but couldhardly remember his face. Maybe it was better that way. This was the game I played and this was how careers were made and how careers ended.

The fact I was not only a shortstop but the most likely replacement for McCormick, never came to mind, when I looked into his face at Davenport. I had pretty much given up the idea of playing regularly back at State. When Coach Bell put me into pre-season games at Louisville, I regarded it as him doing me a favor. Letting one of his coaches feel the game he loved just one more time. I didn’t think he might be measuring me for the shortstop job.

Starting shortstop at Louisville was not the same as when I was a school icon in college. Athletics was the coin of the realm in school,  and I was rich with talent and easily recognized even off the field.

My first at bat in Louisville passed with not even a buzz from the several thousand fans in the stands. My name was announced, I went through my routine, stood in the box taking 3 balls before the first called strike. I walked on five pitches. Morgan struck out and Lane grounded out to end the inning.

Of everyone in the clubhouse, Lane was my biggest supporter. He would not give up on getting his feet straight and he looked to me to get that done. Nothing changed there. No one said I shoulod continue with Lane, but I did. No one told me to stop either.

We fielded together with Hack driving all kinds of balls in our direction. I asked Pappas to stay for extra infield practice and I put Lane between us, fielding Hack’s spicy ground balls. Lane came over in the evening twice a week, usually off-nights, to dance with Mrs. Olsen and then me, after having Mrs. Olsen’s home cooked dinner.

Lane was quite the diplomat, never minding anything. He asked questions and pondered whatever answer I gave him, even when my answers were less than clear. I was as committed to helping Lane as I was distracted by my role as starting shortstop.

Lane went into a slump and didn’t hit a home run the whole first week I was in the line-up. I was on base in each of the following four games, one at home before three away, and I remained there, after Lane sat back down. We lost thee of the four games, after going 2-2 my first four games.

We slipped below .500 and out of the league lead. We were 3 wins and 5 loses with me at shortstop. Not a stellar record.

Andy called almost every day. He wanted a rundown on a game as soon as I was home. He wanted to know how I did. He’d figured out the time difference and kept track of what time the game started, calculating out how long the game would run and when he should call. If I didn’t answer my phone, he called Mrs. Olsen’s phone and talked to her, until I showed up.

My lover had way too much time on his hands.

Andy was close to his family in relative terms. He felt a responsibility toward his younger brothers and sisters,  and he did his best to be an example for them. He wasn’t particularly close to his mother, although it was apparent he loved her. His reaction to Mrs. Olsen told me she represented what Andy would have liked his mother to have been. It was another example of where my life had been so much better than his.

Poor all his life, the rigors of a Spartan existence in pro-ball was no earth shaking change for him, and now there were several representatives of big league ball clubs hanging around the rehabilitation center in Lincoln. It demonstrated Andy had been discovered, and these men were anxious to report Andy once more being in playing condition.

Andy's suspension meant he could talk to anyone he wanted. The team wasn’t paying him, so there was no binding obligation not to examine his prospects. That was, until the Lincoln club got wind of the obvious baseball types sniffing around their biggest power hitter. He was quickly reinstated and offered a better contract to sit on the bench each day, where they could keep an eye on him. It wasn’t six figures, but it beat the hell out of the four figure contract, which did included room and board, but it told Andy he was in a good position.

Andy seemed pleased with himself, and curious about Lane and me. He compared my answers to Mrs. Olsen’s answers to his prying, and there was never any difference worth noting. When Lane came home with me, Andy spent more time talking baseball with him than he did with me.

When he got his new improved paycheck, he sent me my $143.00 back and a beautiful arrangement of flowers. The flowers were for Mrs. Olsen, and with the flowers came a strange request.

‘pick a rose out and give it to Lane for me.’

I’d known Andy for a long time and I knew he was strangely attracted to his counterpart.  Lane seemed equally fond of Andy and I figured it was what they did. Each man approaches the game from his own perspective. Andy and Lane approached it as sluggers. But when Andy wanted to fight Lane, Lane wasn’t having anything to do with it. Lane had fought all his life and it was no longer necessary.

It was in a Monday afternoon make-up game that a South Bend player got his bat on a fat pitch, hitting it deep into left center field. It was a certain double and perhaps a triple. Lane took off as soon as it left the bat and caught up with the ball a few feet in front of the fence and three steps in front of our center fielder Sharp.

Lane caught the ball. I led the applause from shortstop and Coach Bell came up out of the dugout to clap for the best fielding play Evan Lane had ever made. It was one of the best fielding plays of the season. He was all smiles when he came in at the end of the inning.

I waited to pat his ass as he ran past. He looped his arm over my shoulder as we ran together to the dugout. The crowd went wild.

“Damn nice play, Lane,” I bragged as we trotted together.

“Yeah, was nice,” he admitted. “I been practicing, you know?”

I don’t know how chemistry works. I know it is a fact that after making a terrific fielding play, the player often comes to bat the next inning. We were losing 1-0 to South Bend and Lane’s catch saved it from getting worse.

I batted second and smacked the first pitch between first and second and stopped at 1st base. Morgan walked after fouling off a half dozen pitches. Lane came to the plate and got a bigger than usual reception from the fans. Had Lane not caught the ball in their half of the inning, the score may well have gone to 3-0 South Bend. They let him know they appreciated him.

He tipped his hat to the crowd before stepping into the batter’s box.

With a count of 2-2 Lane got the pitch he was waiting for and hit a line drive into the right center field stands. The crowd went crazy, and it was Louisville 3-1. Lane’s longest home run drought of the season ended and he seemed very relaxed after the game.

We were still one game out of taking back the league lead, but the team wasn’t concerned. Coach Bell spoke positively of what we were doing and of how the team was playing. Lane was always the key to Louisville. If he slumped, Louisville slumped, and we’d been losing more than we were winning, but we were still close to the league lead.

My conversation with my parents went well.  I knew they’d be full of happy talk and encourage me to make the most of the chance I had. I didn’t know why that talk was so hard to have. I knew what they’d say and what’s worse, I knew my responses. It was all the kind of predictability that annoyed me. It had nothing to do with my parents. It had nothing to do with me. It just was what it was and I wanted to get on with playing ball and talking about it less.

Of course dad knew everything about what I was doing.

“Do, you’re hitting over .300.”

“I know, Dad.”

“That’s great. You’ve never hit that well.”

“It’s early in the season, Dad. This is a different game. I’m taking my cuts and that’s about it.”

He was excited but understood my need to be reserved on the topic. I wanted to play one game at a time and do the best I could do. Getting excited about one aspect of the game wasn’t productive but Lane certainly was.

We had three consecutive games at home, after Lane broke out of  his slump. In each of the three games, he rewarded his loyal fans with a home run. Twice I scored in front of him and at the news conference, after beating Bloomington, he called me over to brag about the two double plays I started that nipped Bloomington’s top notch hitting attack in the bud.

On the front of the sports page the following day was a picture of ‘Lane and Louisville’s fine fielding shortstop.’

I knew Lane didn’t need to share the limelight with anyone but he had gone out of his way to put me on center stage with him. I wanted to be one of the guys and not stand out in any way, but things didn’t always go the way I saw them.

The infield had immediately accepted me in their midst. Pappas and Morgan were both good fielders and they recognized that I wouldn’t let them down. Most of the rest of the team was indifferent to me. I was one of two dozen baseball players and I’d done nothing to separate myself from the crowd. As a coach I was simply a taskmaster. As a player, I was a relatively unknown quantity.

My relationship with the coaching staff meant they were happy to have me playing. Coach Bell didn’t need to say anything. His fondness for me was obvious, and while we weren’t as close as when I was at State, he never treated me like I was just another player. It was less for me to worry about, because Coach Bell knew me inside out and I couldn’t fool him if I tried.

My hitting surprised and pleased him, but he never spoke of it. I had to go on the looks he gave me, after I hit, scored, or came in from making a play in the field. Coach Bell was not a man given to showing a lot of emotion, but he gave me enough to let me know I was doing fine.

It may well have been fine but I was ill at ease, even when I played. There was something going on inside me and I’d yet to put my finger on it. I did my job and never again screwed up the way I did that first day. Since that day I hadn’t made an error and things were going smoothly as far as baseball was concerned.

Lane kept hitting. I was lucky enough to be on base enough to score a lot of runs, and Louisville retook the league lead by mid-May and we didn’t give it up this time. Lane’s fielding had improved and he made some very good plays. He rarely got caught flat-footed, and never tripped over his own feet, though he still came to Mrs. Olsen’s for dinner once or twice a week. Preferring that to the constant upheaval that followed him into restaurants all over town.  He’d stopped enjoying fast food early in his minor league career.

It was in May that Andy first pinch hit, after his injury had healed well enough for him to swing a bat. He wore a thick brace on the wrist to protect it from the ball if he should take a hit where the break had happened. By June 1st he was back in the line-up, to the cheers of the Lincoln fans.

The phone calls went back to once or twice a week. Usually Saturday evenings and Mondays, because those were times we were both likely to be in and resting. Andy’s spirits improved and even though he never seemed all that happy over my playing ball regularly, he asked about my progress and wanted to know about Lane.

The interest in Andy by the big league scouts had slacked off. The broken wrist had everyone in extreme caution mode. No one knew the story behind the broken wrist, so the worry of an unstable athlete didn’t surface and his injury was written off as weak spot in the power hitters armor that needed watching.

Andy wasn’t prone to slumps. He picked up hitting homers as quick as he was back in the line-up. He didn’t hit one home run the three weeks he pinch hit. He hit four the first week he was back, and Lincoln’s home crowd roared with approval. Andy had yet to attain the fame of Evan Lane, but there was no doubt they were in the same league.

By July we led our league by five games.  Lane led the league in homers, runs-batted-in, and was hitting at a .325 clip. He’d made four fielding errors that season and they’d all come before May. The complete player New York was looking for had grown up in Louisville.

When Lane took Mrs. Olsen and I out to eat, the chaos was  enough to give me indigestion. He always smiled, signed, posed with kids, and kissed restaurant owners on the cheek, men and women, if they picked up the check, which they often did. Everyone in Louisville was Evan Lane insane. He was a local hero, and there were no skeletons or scandals to distract from the hero worship.

It amazed me and I wondered if Andy would one day be faced with this kind of attention. He would never handle it as casual as Lane. I certainly wouldn’t look forward to a loss of privacy. For  me it was about the game and always had been. Even in the earliest days at State, my interest in ball was about an education.

It was difficult to say how I’d gotten here from there. I was on the same team as Lane, but I was not in the same league with him. Fielding talents were never seen in the same light as power hitters. Fielders were about mechanics. Sluggers were about glory. Each was important to the final outcome for any team, but only the power hitter caught the imagination of the fans.

Only a lover of the game could appreciate the fielding techniques that kept a game under control and set the stage for winning rather than losing. If you had a mechanically sound team, you didn’t give away runs, and therefore you needed less runs to win. With Evan Lane in the line-up, the fielders kept the game in check, and he won it with his bat.

It wasn’t that easy for me. I wasn’t plagued by any particular doubts, but I didn’t feel I necessarily belonged in Louisville. If Andy begin to field offers to go to the big leagues, I might have to hang up my glove and follow him to keep his mind on the game.

I wanted to play. I wanted to play every day, but I knew my career would need to take a backseat to Andy’s. He would be the headliner and I was just a face in the crowd. Amusing myself playing minor league ball wasn’t a reason to deny Andy the kind of life he deserved. I would give up my career for him.

It hadn’t even been a question when I took the job as coach. I would go with Andy where ever he went, once he got to the Bigs. McCormick’s injury had put me back in the game. I did love playing every day and I hated the idea I’d one day need to give it up, but it was an inescapable fact. I’d give up ball to be with the man I loved.

Chapter 13

Playing the Game

In the middle of June we got hot. We won nine games in a row and I was batting .312. Coach Bell moved me to the third batting spot in front of Lane. Pappas would bat second,  and Morgan became our lead off batter.

If there was any one thing to account for the winning streak, it was Evan Lane. By late June he had 21 home runs and 65 runs-batted-in. He was hitting 345,  hadn’t made an error since May, and he had saved a couple of runs with his fielding. It was the best of both worlds for me, and Coach Bell smiled at me a lot. The team had come together.

By the first of July we led our league by five games. Our clubhouse was a great place to be and my life had become something I’d never dared dream it could become.

I’d never played the game better and maturing accounted for a dedication in the infield that had us on the top of  our game. After McCormick left, I was considered the leader of the infield. No one remembered I’d coached them a few months before. No one cared what I’d done before, once we’d started to roll.

We still spent our off days going through practices to keep ourselves tuned up. We no longer strained in the heat and shortly after noon, we were hitting the showers, or in my case, going across the street to my air conditioned room.

“I’m home, Mrs. Olsen,” I said, coming in through the front door and announcing myself so I didn’t give her a heart attack.

“Oh, John,” she said, holding the phone. “It’s Andy.”

“Have him call me upstairs. I don’t want to bother you,” I said, wondering how Andy was so often on the phone when I came in.

“John, don’t make him call you back. He’s lonely. Talk to him,” she said, holding out the phone for me to take from her.

I took it and sat beside the table with the phone on it in the hallway next tothe kitchen.

“How you doing, Slugger?” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic and not hot and tired.

“Fine, Do. How are you?”

“Hot, sweaty. I just came in from practice.”

“Yeah, I know. Mrs. Olsen said so. Not often we get the same day off. I figured you’d be getting in about this time.”

“No, not often. How’s Lincoln doing these days?”

“Terrible. We can’t hit our way out of a wet paper bag. I’m beginning to get tired of this place. I miss you, Do,” he said, letting my name hang out in the air for a minute.

“I miss you,” I said, wanting to sound convincing for his sake.

“Are you okay? Are we okay?” Andy asked, a strange insecurity in his voice.

“We’re fine, Andy. I had a night game last night. We went 12 innings and I just came in from practice. I’m tired, hot, and I don’t sound excited, because I’m tired and hot. You know I love hearing from you any time.”

“I’m sorry, Do. Mrs. Olsen said you’d come in late last night. I just wanted to hear your voice. It’s been so long since we’ve been together. I don’t like being here alone. It isn’t getting any easier.”

“Andy, you know what the deal is. If I wasn’t here, I’d be there, but I am here and I’ve got to do this. It’s the deal we made.”

“I know. I never said you shouldn’t. I said I don’t like it.”

“Here, John,” Mrs. Olsen said, handing me a large glass of iced tea and putting a tuna sandwich down beside the phone. “He’s lonely, John. Don’t be short with him. You boys shouldn’t be that way.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, putting my hand over the bottom of the phone to answer her and take a big gulp of tea to cool my throat.

“Look, I’m going to have a sandwich, some iced tea, and I’m going up to hop in the shower. You home?”

“Yeah, I’m home. I’m off today.”

“Give me a half-an-hour if you’re going to be there, and I’ll call you as quick as I’m out of the shower. We’ll talk as long as you want.”

“Cool. I’ll be here. Mrs. Olsen is sweet. Don’t be getting short with her on my account, Do. She’s a nice lady. She cares a lot about you.”

“I won’t, Andy. I’m fine. I’ll call you in a few, okay? That way we can really talk.”

“I’d like that.”

I waited for his phone to click and I hung up the receiver. I sighed and let out all the air from my lungs before inhaling and sipping some more of the cool tea.

“Thank you, Mrs. Olsen,” I said loud enough for her to hear me in the kitchen.

She walked to the door with an equally large glass of tea in her hand. She stood for a second and looked at my wet uniform.

“Put your uniform out by the bathroom door. I’ll have it cleaned and ironed before tomorrow’s game. Who do we play tomorrow?”

“Gary,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be sharp. I’m tired.”

“It’s been terribly warm. I turned your air conditioner on before Andy called. It should be cool up there before the sun gets down on your window. It’s hard to cool once it warms up in there, with the sun setting on that side of the house.”

“You don’t have the air on down here. It’s pretty warm in here.”

“Meatloaf tonight, John. Kitchen is too hot for the air to do any good. I’ll have the stove off before long and it’ll cool off in no time. I thought it would be nice for you to have sandwiches.”

“You are a peach, Mrs. Olsen. I don’t deserve to be treated as well as you treat me. I don’t pay all that much.”

“I’d let you stay for free if they didn’t pay me, John. I like having baseball players in the house. It makes me feel useful.”

“You treat me like I’m your son. You treat me like my mom does. I’ve always had it good and you spoil me; I don’t pay enough for the food you buy.”

“If I couldn’t afford to feed you I’d ask for more. You pay your share and that’s all I ask. Keeping you well fed and healthy means you’ll take care of business with Louisville and we’ll both be happy about that. We are on a hot streak.”

“Yes, we will, Mrs. Olsen. That was good. I’ll take the glass up with me. How long did you talk to Andy?”

Mrs. Olsen looked at me, considering something other than the truth before saying, “A half-an-hour or so. He’s so lonely without you. I can hear it in his voice and how he sounds when I tell him you’re home. He really liked it here. I guess he didn’t want to leave you.”

“He calls more often than when he talks to me?”

“Yes, he does. He needs someone to talk to when something good happens, or something bad. You’re gone so much. Now that you’re home, maybe call him more often. I don’t mind because he’s such a nice boy, but I’m not who he wants to talk to and you need to do whatever it takes to keep him from feeling so sad.”

“I guess I do, Mrs. Olsen. Thank you,” I said, handing her the plate and kissing her cheek before taking the steps two at a time.

Andy was in a batting slump. He hadn’t stopped hitting home runs but his average had dropped from .330 to .282 since he’d injured his wrist. He’d hit two monster home runs in the last week but neither had added up to a win and Lincoln was in a nosedive that could be tracked directly back to his injury and suspension. His return to the lineup hadn’t stopped the freefall.

So there were some hard feelings and controversy that accompanied his return to the team. He still had scouts standing to watch his every at bat and this didn’t always please his teammates. The fact he was a home run hitter was one thing, but not hitting up to his potential was another. It didn’t bother anyone looking at him as a power hitter, but Andy wasn’t back to normal and he knew it.

I listened, and told him that his timing was off because of the games he missed and it was no more than that. Once he’d been batting every day for a while, he’d be back on top of his game. He’d never hit under .300 in his career and it made him think he was losing his edge. This was never good for an athlete. I had a hunch our separation also had more to do with it than he indicated. I could read him like a book and the reading was a little depressing.

There’s nothing worse than a loss of confidence. I don’t think coming to Louisville did him a bit of good. As great as it was seeing each other, the separation made our lives even more miserable, serving to remind us of how bad it felt living a part, and we did and would, probably for years to come.

He didn’t like the fact Lane was my friend, although he liked the idea of Lane as his friend, and I scolded him for being silly. Not that it did any good. Lane did let many people close to him. I got a pass, because I was made responsible for him. Andy got a pass because he was with me and a slugger to boot.

We agreed that we loved each other and nothing had changed, and we both hated the separation. Right now he hated it more than I hated it, because his team was not doing well, and my team was. Winning is the best antidote for heartache for a ball player. It is way hard to get down when everything has you flying higher than ever before. Andy was not flying and he was not happy.

I tried to sympathize with him without encouraging it, and he spoke of punching another door with his other hand to get another few days with me. As hard as we tried to calculate some way to meet, when our teams got as close to one another as they get, the logistics were impossible. Transportation was never direct from one modest size town to another. By the time we could get to where we could hook up, it would be time to turn around to get where the next game was played.

I felt good about my life, about baseball, about where I was in both. I was positive it was going to work out for me and I felt bad about it. I wanted to miss Andy as much as he missed me, but I didn’t have time. My schedule was full and when I wasn’t playing or practicing, there was a function or some obligation the club arranged for us. An orphanage needed to make extra funds to provide for their kids. A charity game on a day off would do the trick. A bowling tournament where fans came and paid to see us do something we couldn’t do very well, making us more human.

Evan Lane was a first class bowler and never failed to win the charity events. One of the gay guys who helped raise him took him bowling on Saturday mornings. A dozen games or more and he hadn’t lost his touch.

We bowled against other Louisville athletic teams. I mostly watched, because my bowling skills were far from perfected. I was notorious for my remarkable ability to throw gutter balls. Keeping score was more up my alley, and holding Lane’s bowling ball as he was interviewed, photographed, and paid more attention than the Pope or the President. Lane was King in Louisville and his fans couldn’t get enough.

Lane loved Louisville and any charity event he showed up for was well attended. Other local celebrities showed up to be photographed with him. The biggest shock I ever got was when I turned around, after packing up his ball, and witnessed his sparing with Mohammed Ali. There were never two more beloved Louisville icons and the cameras couldn’t get enough of them.

Mr. Ali was gone before I could get near him but the pictures taken hung in the clubhouse for my entire time at Louisville. The caption under it read, “Two Louisville Sluggers”, and not a single bat in the picture.

The most amazing thing was what happened in that room when Ali was in it. Every eye, all the attention, as well as the energy shifted in deference to him, a one of a kind experience, even for Lane, who was speechless, when he realized the man knew of him.

Coach Bell told me Ali was his hero as a boy. Meeting him and merely being in the same place where he was became the highlight of his life. With Louisville nine games out in front of the rest of our league at the time, he was having a very good year.

Coach Bell was celebrated in the local press as the genius behind Louisville’s success. Several times in that part of the season, there were pictures with Lane on one side of him with me on the other. The caption under one read, ‘the heart of Louisville’s winning ways.’

It was great to be held in high esteem where I played, but I wasn’t in Lane’s league. I was a shortstop doing the best job I could and I had no complaints.

When I was the center of attention at State, it was no big deal. For one thing I never felt I deserved it. Now, I wasn’t sure I didn’t deserve some recognition. It gave me cause to look back to the day my mother came to get me off a Statesville roof with the cry,

“Louisville wants you.”

It was quite a shock. I wasn’t out of the game. That was nice, because I loved baseball. Even making half what I did on the roofs of Statesville, standing in the first base coaches box was the greatest thing since I got to go to college, because I played ball.

There was no indication that by accepting the offer it would put me on the fast track back into a playing career. The only negative part of my rise to playing status, someone had to get hurt to make it possible.

I was where I wanted to be. No, it wasn’t perfect. I knew there were glitches and that there would be tough times. My future was now and while I missed Andy every single day and wanted to be with him just as often, I needed to play ball, and as long as he was playing ball, we were both doing what we wanted to do and that got us by. The price was high but we had agreed to pay it.

We continued winning enough to maintain the nine game lead in our league. We were as far out front as ten and a half games and fell back to an 8 game lead one time. Our playing stayed consistent and I kept hitting for a .303 average. I scored in front of Lane often enough to like it a lot.

No one was able to keep up with Lane’s home run output or his RBIs. He was the only team member to score more runs than I did but he was often right behind me when I scored. The team settled on one lineup and stuck with it, even when someone wasn’t hitting up to expectation. Enough of us were playing well enough to keep us out front.

Each time Andy hit a homer, he wanted to know about Lane’s last homer, and it was a difficult pace to keep up with. Lane rarely asked about Andy’s slugging, but I gave him the figures from time to time so he was aware of what Andy was doing.

It didn’t hurt to promote my man, and maybe Lane would mention him to someone he didn’t intend to sign with but who was looking for a power hitting outfielder. It was all in the game.

Chapter 14

Ins & Outs

Once the season passed the half-way point, I was one of the guys. My success as a starting shortstop in the minor league had never been part of my plan. It made doing it all the sweeter. Louisville’s success made the sweetness even more delicious.

I wasn’t really alive when I wasn’t at the park. There it was sight, sound, smell, and an osmosis of the game to me. Baseball had always been something I was more a part of than a game I played. Coming back to it was similar to coming back to Andy, each time we were separated for any length of time. Spending time with him was the best thing I did, but baseball wasn’t far behind, maybe because I was out of it before I was allowed back in.

After playing as long as I played, I didn’t know how not to play. Coaching wasn’t so much a vocation as it was a picture I’d been placed into. Demonstrating what I did with my glove was second nature, and it was what drew me to Coach Bell in the first place.

Even as a freshman in college, I had a poise with the glove he appreciated. He immediately had me showing others my technique. Coaching kept me linked to the game when there seemed little else I could offer.

Louisville was amazing. We could tie it all to a certain power- hitting outfielder, who could hit a ton and field respectably. I smiled a lot at the mention of Lane’s improved fielding. It was noticed in the newspaper and the scouts chatted about his ‘improved defensive play,’ while salivating over the massive homers he hit.

Lane was walked often as a countermeasure to his power, but I was getting on base with walks and hits, and batting just before Lane meant considering between putting two men on base or pitching to Lane to get out of the inning. Either choice was hazardous, because of the way we were hitting.

Louisville picked up steam as the season progressed and the other teams knew we were always a threat to score if we got men on base. Putting both Lane and I on base had proved to be a bad plan on most occasions. I never liked it when Lane walked. That meant no home run and it was nice being on base when he hit one.

When I scored in front of him, I waited for him to reach the plate and we ran to the dugout together. The pictures of me greeting him at the plate, after one of his longer homers, were a staple on the front of the sports page. It game me a feeling of accomplishment.

“Louisville Rolls!”

We were rolling. Minor league baseball didn’t offer great competition at all times. Some teams were pretty good and some weren’t pretty at all. On our easy days late in the season, Coach Bell began resting some of his regular lineup. I didn’t mind sitting down from time to time, but I got nervous when I had to sit and watch a game from the bench.

My first days in Louisville I enjoyed the coaches box and having a view of the game I’d never seen before. I’d never experienced sitting on the bench. If my backup blew a play I would have made or failed to hit in the clutch, I felt like I failed because I let Coach Bell rest me, but he was going to rest me if he decided to rest me. He didn’t ask me.

I suppose becoming too comfortable is never a good idea. I was comfortable and having the time of my life. I was back in the game. I was playing every day. Having fun, playing well, hitting well, it was perfect, better than perfect. I came to work on a high and went home higher, because more often than not I went home a winner.

It was in the first week of September, change came to Louisville. There couldn’t be any bigger change. Seeing the head scout for the Reds sitting in the clubhouse, where Coach Bell forbid them to go, told me something was going to happen. I wasn’t the only one who came to work and made uneasy by the happy fat man in our midst.

It was a late afternoon game but it was laundry day and most players didn’t have landlady’s washing and ironing their uniform, so they brought their dirty uniforms. I was there because the players were there and there would be a team meeting. There might even be coffee and donuts, but never scouts, except this particular Friday.

“Gentlemen, we’ll be saying goodbye to Evan Lane. He’s going up for the rest of the season. I won’t dwell on how much we’ll miss you or what you’ve meant to me in my time at Louisville. I know you won’t be back, because you’ve played at a major league level all year. We wish you well and thanks for giving us a chance to see you work,” Coach Bell said, no enthusiasm or joy in his words. “I won’t be holding a team meeting today before the game. Just relax and say goodbye to Lane, men.”

Lane was in one of the suits he wore to official events. He smiled but there was no enthusiasm on his face, when he faced us. Oh, he was happy, this was the moment he had been waiting for. We all knew it was coming, but no one was ready to see him go. Even Lane seemed somewhat sad.

The scout, and now the man responsible for his transition, went over to shake Lane’s hand to make it official. To say the air went out of us would be an understatement.

Louisville was on top of the world and we had just crashed.

There was no preparation. We all knew but didn’t trouble ourselves with how it might hit us. Lane was Louisville. His face was on the team. We might be able to hold our own without him, but our dominance of the league was over. With a nine game lead we probably would win the league title, but it wouldn’t be by nine games.

I was thrilled for Evan Lane and miserable for myself. Lane was the man on the team I was closest to and would miss most. He maintained his same level head, but I recalled what he'd said about his life being chaos and baseball saving it. He had now gone all the way.

It suddenly seemed like forever ago that I decided to go out for my high school baseball team. My heart was broken, and I had to do something or die. While I didn’t even like baseball, it was baseball season and I could play the game , so I’d go out for the team.

I’d never looked back. I was never a star, but I held my own. It took time for me to become a starter, but my glove got me on the field. My broken heart didn’t so much mend as it grew accustomed to the pain. Love wasn’t easy at fifteen and with love at my back, I was sure I’d never love again. It hurt way too much for me to want another taste and baseball distracted me, and so I played ball.

Little did I know the plans life had for me. I just showed up every day, wanting to get through it and come back tomorrow, and one day at a time I did what was there in front of me to do. I took pride in my fielding if I couldn’t hit, which in high school wasn’t all that big a deal.

Shortstop is the key to the infield and a slow hitting fine fielding shortstop is okay if other boys hit well enough to keep the team from sinking. Individual play in high school was as important as, or more important than, where the team finishes. Many players get looked at, when a team is a lost cause. I never knew anyone looked at me and I didn’t even think about it. I showed up every day to do what I do.

I was never all that excited by ball, but I had to do something, and playing ball was what I did. I wanted to be a good player, but would have to settle for fielding well and hitting less. The ups and downs of the game kept me guessing about it and me. Even the idea I could get a scholarship to State astounded me, when the offer came.

Why would anyone offer me a full ride?

It was the only way I could go to college without bankrupting my parents, and playing the game a little longer didn’t bother me. I gave up baseball more than once, thinking this is as far as I go, but I was never out of ball for long.

The roller coaster ride that was the game never stopped. Loving Andy and having a coach who saw something in me I couldn’t for the life of me see in myself, made baseball good for me at last. There were great days, not so great days, and days I thought I was out of the game. It built character if nothing else.

Andy went off on his way to the Big Show and I went on, without him or the coach who made the game special. Once again my playing days seemed numbered with leaving the game part of my plan as a college graduate. I’d make a living, wait for Andy to settle, and we’d set up housekeeping once his future was secure. It didn’t mean signed to a big league contract but at least secure and on his way up.

It wasn’t a difficult plan. Andy had been watched from his junior year at State by clubs interested in his every swing. You could see the power in Andy. His batting stroke wasn’t something big league scouts would miss. Evan Lane's was a slightly more natural swing than Andy's, but he’d been in the minors three years when Andy spent his first season at Lincoln. Even Lane knew Andy was the real deal.

Upsetting my applecart was like being blindsided. My place as third batter in the Louisville lineup was secure because I got on base. It didn’t matter we didn’t have another clutch hitter to take Lane’s place. Nick Blassingham could field and he could hit, but he wasn’t going to find his picture on the front of the sports page and he wasn’t going to the Bigs. He was a stopgap player so our hemorrhaging didn’t get out of hand. I still got on base just as often and as often as not was left there, when the inning ended.

Ball is ball. It’s all in the game, but when your life depends on the game and it happens to you, it isn’t easy to accept. I was overjoyed that Lane was getting his shot but I wasn’t happy about losing a friend or our best bat. He was taking the last step up to the Bigs and Louisville was heading in a different direction.

It was all quite easy. Lane disappeared like McCormick had. They went in different directions but gone was gone.

The joy of the game was reduced in a way I can’t describe. Oh, I went to play and my performance didn’t suffer, but when I looked at Nick in the on-deck circle when I stood at the plate, I didn’t get the thrill I got when Lane followed me to the plate. It was different and the game became a job.

I wanted to do everything within my power to be on base when Lane stepped in the batter’s box. With Nick I didn’t want anything. If I got on base or not, it didn’t make much difference. He didn’t drive in runs and he hit few homers. The magic and sheer joy of playing with Evan Lane was over and I had to create my own excitement.

We won two games directly after Lane left. Okay, it wasn’t going to be so bad. We lost five in a row and fell behind in a sixth, losing 7-1. We were at home and the crowd had begun to diminish. Fans missed Evan Lane even more than I did. We led our league by five games, with fifteen games to play, and entering the final week of the season, we led by three games with five to play.

It was anyone’s guess whether we could hold on to the league lead. Our best pitchers continued to win and with that came the risk of losing one of them to a major league team heading for the playoffs, wanting one more pitcher for good measure.

By the final week of the season we were down to a 3 game lead and that held into the final weekend and our final three games were at home. All we had to do was win one out of three to finish on top. I got to the park early, wanting to get it over with. The odds were on our side but we hadn’t exactly been strutting our stuff the last few weeks. Friday always had activities, a team meeting, and something to eat to make us feel loved.

Trying to stay positive and believe we could win the title wasn’t a big leap of faith. Feeling it had importance was. We’d been torpedoed a month too early to keep us cruising and the confidence of Louisville was in the toilet.

Guys argued and didn’t speak to each other, and Coach Bell spent the time watching Louisville’s league lead slipping away. With a three game lead and three to play, even he couldn’t wait for the season to come to an end. Each day he posted the league standings and each day players stood to look to see how close the second place team was coming. Our momentum was gone and there was no way to get it back.

I came dressed, so I sat on the bench in the dugout, waiting to do some warm up drills to waste some time. I kept an eye on the table in the clubhouse, until the donuts showed up and I had one for each of my hands, requiring I tuck my glove under my arm as I sat alone on the bench, waiting.

I was somewhere else when Mr. Townsend walked over to see me.

“Mr. Dooley, sir, I got a gentlemen sitting up there in the stands. I don’t know how he got in, but he says he’s waiting for you. He’s a site, sir. Needs a shave, looks like he slept in them clothes, and he smells some. I don’t want to be causing no one trouble, and I don’t know if he knows you or not. I don’t expect you’d like to go see if you know him?”

“Sure Mr. Townsend. I’ll go see. Thanks. You didn’t call security?”

“No, sir. He says he knows you and Lord knows I don’t want to be causing no trouble for you. If you’d just go take a look-see.”

I put on my hat and followed Mr. Townsend up into the stands behind the plate. We walked deep into the shadows until we neared the top row. Mr. Townsend stepped to one side.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” I asked, not ready for any more upheaval in my life.

“Figured I’d come see you,” he said, moving his feet down from the seat in front of him and pushing his Lincoln baseball cap back up off his face.

“What happened, Andy?” I asked, checking him for casts or bandaging. “Why aren’t you at Lincoln? The season isn’t over yet.”

“Because I’m not with Lincoln any more.”

“What?” I shouted.

“Should I call security, Mr. Dooley?” Mr. Townsend asked.

“No, Mr. Townsend, he’s mine. Thank you. I’ll take care of him myself,” I said, not at all happy. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said, standing up and making sure Mr. Townsend’s back was turned to us before he kissed my cheek. “Happy to see you too, love.”

“Andy, I’m not in the mood for this. We’re sinking fast and I’ve got to keep my head in the game. What have you done?”

“Well, Lincoln and I have agreed we can’t go any further together.”

“What are you planning to do?”

“After I spend time with you, my love, report to Indianapolis for spring training. They told me to rest my arm and not play winter ball. Lincoln cut me loose a week early, because we weren’t going anywhere and I had a pretty good backup waiting to play.”

“Indianapolis? Triple AAA ball?”

“Indianapolis with a contract. We’re on the way, Do. I got the contract We’ve been waiting for. I’m looking for a house somewhere between there and here. We can live there in the off-season and see each other on days off, during the regular season, or when our clubs play each other. I figure somewhere near three hours between here and there if you don’t stop for a pee break. If we get a house around halfway, we’re in business. Our separation is over.”

“You’re making enough to buy a house?” I almost squealed.

“They’ll sign on the dotted line for a house in the vicinity of Indianapolis. They’ve got me for two years. I don’t go to the Big Show in two seasons, I’m free to negotiate with any club I like. I couldn’t think of anything else to ask for. They offered it to me if I signed.”

I had to hug him once I found out it wasn’t anything bad. At first I could see only the worst possible reason that my love showed up before Lincoln’s final game. It demonstrated I didn’t know everything and it was best not to let a sour feeling over one major change was anything more than a random single event and not a trend.

“How did you get here? Why didn’t you come to Mrs. Olsen’s?”

“I took the bus. Man was that a mistake. I had a six hour layover in Chicago and the bus stopped in every town between there and here. I got here about first light, the grounds crew was coming in and no ne was watching the gate. I followed them in and came up here, waiting for you.”

“A bus? Why didn’t you fly? You got a contract?”

“A contract ain’t money, Do. I had enough to take a bus. The bus I took from downtown dropped me off in the front of Slugger Stadium and here I am.”

“Come on. I’ll take you over to Mrs. Olsen’s. She’ll feed you and you can chat, until you want to lay down. You might want to take a shower and change. You are a little aromatic.”

“You mean I stink. You ever spent two days on a bus?”

I took Andy over and left him in good hands.

My sour mood sweetened. I was stuck with a smile that made me look a little like a fool for a guy on a team in a tailspin. I had the feeling the rest of the guys wanted to ask me what the hell was wrong with me. Nothing like a smile to make people suspicious.

Chapter 15

Home Sweet Home

Andy was dealing with people in Indianapolis, when he came to Louisville in his new Impala. He came to take me to see what he said was going to be our home. Now, I knew Andy, and I would have really liked seeing it before he committed us to live there for the next few years, and possibly for years to come, if we both stayed in ball.

He called, saying, “I’m on the way,” and we were.

Mrs. Olsen cooked a roast beef for dinner the night before, wrapping us a half dozen sandwiches for the excursion. One for me and five for Andy, because he couldn’t resist the roast beef that melted in your mouth.

We each kissed a cheek in appreciation for our second mom and we were off on a big adventure. I admit I was apprehensive. Andy was impulsive. The Impala would be his car and that wasn’t a surprise. I’d need to have a car of my own, once the next baseball season started, and we went in different directions.

By all admission we were heading for ‘the middle of nowhere,’ and it sounded isolated. I’d always lived around people, but I understood we wanted to keep a low profile, after seeing the way Evan Lane drew people like flies.

Living out of the reach of most folks would be necessary, once Andy started attracting the kind of attention Lane attracted. Knowing what we needed to do didn’t make it easy for me to do it.

“It’s a bit rural, Do. It is almost halfway between Louisville and Indianapolis. It was what I asked to see. I figured it may as well have property, but up that way there is nothing but property. This was a small farm, and it’s been on the market for about a year. I saw it yesterday and I really think you’re going to like it,” Andy said. “It has charm.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” I said, knowing we’d spend the off seasons there together.

Then we’d make arrangements to sleep there as often as we were both close enough at the same time to make it possible. Our schedules the following season would dictate that. Indianapolis played in Louisville 6 times a season and Louisville played in Indianapolis 6 times a season, and we’d be together on those nights regardless of where it was.

I was keeping the room at Mrs. Olsen’s because I couldn’t find a better place, although I'd have to pay for it myself. Mrs. Olsen would have been insulted if I hadn’t stayed there during the regular season, but that was all decided before Andy found the place where he said he wanted to live. Knowing it was his career that would pay the bills, I wasn’t going to give him a hard time.

“It’s quiet, Do. No idiots yelling and chasing each other around my room.”

“Just me chasing you,” I observed.

“That’s hardly the same.”

“No, I hope not,” I said, holding his hand and smiling as he sat, tall and handsome, behind the wheel of the silver Chevy.

It was good highway all the way to the spot that could qualify as the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t a house or a business for miles before he exited the highway, only to drive more miles on the rural road that passed in front of our new home.

The gravel crunched under the tires as we turned into the driveway. It went for a half mile before we came to the house. There were huge Weeping Willow trees shading the car all the way.

The front porch went all the way across the front of the house. The white railing was freshly painted, but the house was no spring chicken, as houses go. There were two floors and the main bedroom looked over the front yard that stretched out until trees interrupted it a few hundred yards away.

The porch had some fresh wooden planks, obvious replacements for not so new boards. The rest of the porch was well aged but solid. A swing faced the expansive front yard. It was a two seater, hanging from the ceiling of the porch with several thick sections of chain.

The wooden floors in the house shined like they’d just been refinished and polished. We spoke of some rugs to protect the main walkways but had no desire to cover such beautiful wood, and we took our shoes off, deciding to keep slippers by the front door for us and any visitors who came.

The stone fireplace dominated the living room and looked well used. The ceilings were high and I wondered about the heating bills in a rural Indiana winter. The windows were also humungous affairs, with yet another nice view of the front yard.

The house looked to be fifty years old. It had been well constructed and the floors were solid, as were the stairs. The back of the house opened up onto another huge yard with more trees, some as big or bigger than the ones lining our driveway. There were two big windows in the kitchen and another smaller one over the sink. Light cascaded in and there was no need to turn on any lights.

The kitchen was filled with closets. One door led downstairs to where a washer and dryer once sat. The floor was concrete and the walls were unfinished. It was very cool in the basement for a relatively warm day. The furnace was old and had been converted from coal to oil at some point, and a huge oil tank sat just outside a door that led us into the backyard. It was nicely disguised with bushes and a trellis covered in growth. Nothing could hide $4.00 a gallon oil.

The backyard was beautiful. The people who had lived there were elderly and were too old to keep up the house. It was simply too much work, but they had made it into a picturesque space before then.

There were ten acres of fields behind the landscaping in the rear of the house. There was a tree line with a brook and manmade pond between the house and the field. It hadn’t been farmed in years, but the furrows were still obvious in the earth.. The huge rocks and places to sit indicated the pond was a center of activity. The brook flowed in above the pond, and came out below it. It made a relaxing sound.

“We can swim in there,” Andy said, smiling at me.

“Yeah,” I said, “It looks inviting.”

There was a lot of property and the house was a bit big for two, but I suspected a family with kids lived there for a long time before everyone had grown older and gave it up.

Andy didn’t ask many questions, knowing the price was right, when the Indians said they’d co-sign. It was Andy’s home until he sold it and then if there was money owed to the club, they had the property as collateral. If the club was confident it was a good buy I wasn’t going to argue.

The entire deal went down without me needing to do anything. It was like walking into a dream with the man I loved at my side. It gave us the privacy we desired and closeness to the two ball clubs where our loyalties lie. It was a good balance for what we both needed. The house wasn’t quite a two hour drive from Louisville’s Slugger field.

I’d always root for Andy to win, except when he played Louisville, and then we’d pretend it was the game and our respective club we liked best. The house represented Andy was on his way and one day I’d leave ball to be with him full time.

We went around to the front of the house and sat on the swing, looking out at the front yard now bathed in bright sunlight. A soft breeze kept it from seeming too warm. It was unseasonably warm for that time of year.

I felt like a kid out on his own for the first time.

“We’re moving pretty fast on this house deal,” I said.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, I love it. I figured I didn’t want to appear too easy. You just showed up in Louisville, jobless, a couple of days ago, and now we’re buying a house.”

“Bought,” Andy corrected. “The only thing that can stop it is you saying you hate it. Then we own a house where we won’t live.”

“I can’t say that. I couldn’t picture us having a place as nice as this,” I said. “I don’t suppose I’ve had a chance to get this far in my mind, and here we are.”

“Work on it,” he said, kissing me. “Welcome home, Do.”

As we embraced for a proper house warming kiss, a beautiful Collie came up on the porch, walked over to the swing and lay down beside us as if he’d done it a million times.

“You didn’t buy a dog already?” I asked, looking down at the Collie.

“No, not without you, love.”

“You’ll buy a house without me but not a dog?”

“The house was on the market and if I didn’t say yes when they said yes, it might have gone to someone else. Even the club said it was a bargain. It was the right move at the time.”

“You don’t have to sell me on it. I love it. You did good. I want an azalea garden right there,” I pointed at a place in front of the porch.

“I’ll instruct the gardener, sir,” he said in the voice of an English butler.

“I’ll plant tulips in front of the porch and we’ll put in some bushes that bloom in the spring along the driveway. I want to come home to flowers after we’re away.”

“You are in charge of the flower department. They all look alike to me,” he said, more down to earth.

Andy had ordered a bed and a dresser and the people that showed him the farm showed him a thrift store in a nearby town that had almost anything you could want for next to nothing. We picked out an overstuffed couch, two easy chairs, some tables for the living room and night tables for the bedroom. He picked out two oval rugs that looked braided, befitting a rustic setting. The knotty pine dinning table and chairs was perfect for the kitchen, and I bought pots, pans, utensils, and dishes as well.

We carried the stuff we could fit in the back of the Impala and went back to the house, after having a nice lunch in a tiny diner next to the thrift store. The town was about ten miles from the exit to the house, far enough away for privacy and close enough for shopping.

The Collie ran along side the car once we drove into the driveway. He barked as if he was welcoming us back home. He stayed close as we carried stuff into the house, always stopping at the door and waiting on the porch for us.

After taking enough time to set up the nightstands so the delivery men would know where to put the bed, I went down to find Andy sitting in the front seat of the car feeding the dog one of our roast beef sandwiches.

It had to be love for Andy to give up his roast beef.

“He belongs here, Do,” Andy said, patting his head as the dog chewed happily.

“A dog belongs anywhere someone will feed him roast beef, Andy.”

“He seems like he knows this place. He’s hungry.”

“Of course he’s hungry, love, you’re feeding him roast beef. I’m hungry watching him.”

“Can we keep him? I’ll call him Lassie,” Andy said with a smirk.

“He belongs to someone, Andy. He’s brushed and he’s clean as a whistle. Even if you could keep him, you can’t call him Lassie. I think that name is taken.”

“We can call him Chance,” Andy decided with a big smile.

“Yeah, we could, but he’s not our dog, my love. People out here kill over their dogs. It’s worse than being a horse thief.”

“I guess you’re right. If he’s still here when we come back tomorrow, can we keep him?” Andy smiled, petting the dog as he licked the roast beef juice off of Andy’s hand.

“Andy, he belongs to someone.”

“I know, but he likes me.”

We were back in Louisville in time for dinner and Andy wanted to go to the Italian place Lane took us to and take Mrs. Olsen. She was always thrilled when we included her, but she was so sweet we didn’t think of going out without her.

She insisted on know all about the house and she spent the evening after dinner fixing us the first meal Andy and I would eat in our new home.

I must confess I wasn’t looking forward to burning something I saw my mother make a thousand times and only remembered half the recipe. I imagined I’d be sending Andy to the market every few minutes for one more item I didn’t have. I figured I’d keep it simple for the first few meals and not get fancy until I figured out what I was doing.

Mrs. Olsen said that she’d teach me some tricks and the easy way to do some of the things I would want to do. She did everything by hand and from scratch, but she told me to buy a food processor and some gadgets to cut down on preparation. She had nothing but time and loved making meals for those of us who loved eating them.

The bed was to be delivered some time in the afternoon and the furniture from the thrift store would come shortly after noon, giving us plenty of time to get our rest and get up there.

It was another very warm day and we drove with the windows down once we turned off the Interstate. The air was fresh and being out of town was a nice change. We would have 5 months of nothing but privacy and the first life that actually belonged to us and there was no one to get in our way, except Chance, who seemed to understand we were moving in. He was lying on the porch next to the swing when we arrived.

“Told you he belongs here,” Andy said.

“When we go shopping we’ll pick up some dog food. He lives somewhere that they take care of him, so don’t get too attached to him, Andy, and don’t feed him our dinner.”

“I won’t,” he said, stooping to pet the dog, who licked his hand even without the roast beef juice.

We went up to see if the bed had been delivered and were surprised it had. We rolled around on it to make sure it would hold up in the best of times. The dog barked and ran down the driveway as the thrift store furniture truck arrived. Maybe the dog was a good idea. Maybe we could buy it from whoever owned it?

“It belongs here. I told you. It’s a watchdog,” Andy bragged, putting on his shoes.

“It’s a Collie,” I said. “A German Shepard is a watchdog.”

“You want to get one of those too? Lassie needs company,” Andy said, seeing no obstacles to anything that came to mind.

“Chance, and he’s not our dog.”

“He belongs here.”

We spent the next few hours arranging furniture. I didn’t want the couch under the windows and we decided to set it facing the window with one of the round rugs in front of it, with a coffee table we could eat off of in front, and an easy chair on each side.

It only took two hours for us to finally decide on the arrangement we liked. The couch was heavy and even after opening the windows it was warm, and I was sweating. We ended up sitting on the couch, looking out the window, exhausted.

“We could go up and see how strong the springs on the bed are,” Andy said, holding my hand.

“I smell. I forgot towels. I forgot soap. I forgot shampoo. We need toothbrushes.”

“Come on. We’ll go to the store. We’ve got all the deliveries for today,” he said.

“Maybe that pond. I bet that would really cool us off and wash the stink off at the same time. I don’t want to go to town smelling,” I said.

“A plunge in the pond sounds good to me. We’ve got all that food Mrs. Olsen made for us in the fridge.”

“Yes, we do. We need sheets, pillows, and pillow cases, and a quilt. We need a quilt. Why didn’t I think of all tht stuff?”

“We got all the big stuff. We need a list,” Andy said and I nodded.

“We don’t have any paper or a pencil,” I remembered.

We went through the backyard and down the path to the pond.

“We need bathing suits,” Andy said, as he looked into the water.

“No we don’t. No one wears a suit on a farm. We’re going to rough it.”

I pulled off my jeans and T-shirt and stripped out of my boxers, stepping into the pond near where the brook fed into it. The water was cool but the water coming into it was warmer, heated by the hot afternoon sun. Andy followed me and we were soon in an embrace, kissing up a storm.

“Oh, you must be the ball players,” I heard a woman say.

“Shit” Andy said, shocked, as we casually broke the hold we had on each other.

“I’m Luz and this is Penny. We’re from the farm next door. We do organic farming. We just got finished picking spinach to take to town tomorrow. We usually take a dip when it’s this warm. Do you mind if we join you?”

“Ah, we don’t…. We’re not….” Andy stuttered.

Luz yanked off her top and kicked off her jeans, stepping naked into the water. Penny followed her in and for good measure they embraced as they got mostly submerged.

“Don’t let us interrupt you,” Luz said, smiling as the two women held onto one another. “This is such a lovely spot. Cooling off on a day like this is great.”

Andy and I laughed and wondered what the odds were. We all got properly washed off and we invited them to the house.

“Hi, Tommy. I wondered where you got off to,” Penny said, petting the Collie as we came up on the front porch.

“Told you,” I said to Andy.

“He’s yours?” Andy said, disappointed.

“No, the Lancasters couldn’t take him. We told them we’d feed him and take care of him, but he keeps coming back home.”

“Told you,” Andy said to me. “He lived here?”

“He thinks he still does. He’ll probably be over here a lot. The Lancasters had him for three or four years. They’d always had Collies for the kids. The whole Lassie thing from back in the 50s, you know.”

“The Lancasters must have been old?”

“Yes, they’d raised all their kids and he farmed up until about ten years ago. We came six years ago. We bought the land next to this property. It was all his property at one time. They sold it off to have money to live on, once he stopped farming.

“They moved closer to their oldest son. He found them a nice retirement place in a country setting. They couldn’t take Tommy. You don’t mind him coming to visit, I hope.”

“I love Collies. We were hoping he didn’t belong to anyone,” Andy said. “Weren’t we, Do.”

“Yes, we were,” I agreed. “He’s a pretty dog. Have you eaten? We have a very nice dinner we’re ready to eat. You’re welcome to join us,” I said.

“Yeah, you’ll be our first guests,” Andy said. “Besides Tommy.”

“Well yes. That’s an invitation we can’t turn down. Men who cook,” Luz said admirably.

“No, my landlady fixed it up for us. She can cook.”

“Do, we’ve got to go to town to get sheets and pillow cases, soap and toothbrushes,” Andy reminded me.

“Queen size bed I bet?” Penny asked.

“Yeah,” Andy said. “How’d you know?”

“Good guess. We have stuff we’ve never used. A couple of pillows, sheets, pillow cases, and Luz’s mom brings a new quilt every time she visits. How’d you like a quilt? Brown? Green? Blue?”

“Just what the doctor ordered,” I said. “We’ll figure out how much you want for it.”

“Posh,” Luz said. “We’re neighbors. You’re about to feed us. You’ll need us to look after things when you’re gone and we’ll need you to do the same for us. We don’t stand on ceremony out here. We got to stick together and having folks like you next door is a dream come true. The Lancasters sort of looked down their noses at us. Don’t worry, we won’t just drop in without an invitation.”

We had mashed potatoes, corn, peas, and fried chicken, with biscuits, which was all in aluminum containers wrapped in aluminum foil. It heated up without any trouble. We had just enough silverware and plates to go around. We didn’t have glasses or coffee or cups, so Luz and Penny said they’d bring us over enough to get us through.

By the time we were ready to turn in we felt as if we’d made our first friends away from ball. Luz spoke of having barter arrangements with many of the merchants in town. They furnished fresh organic food and milk for the services and products the local merchants provided.

They asked us about the land behind the pond that Lancaster hadn’t farmed in some years. He refused to let them have access to it, when they could have put it to work growing a few crops a year.

A deal was sealed for them to make use of it, because we couldn’t. The food would save us a lot of money and the land would have just sat otherwise.

Tommy stayed on the front porch as Andy and I went up to spend our first night in our new house.

It took a while before we realized, we were finally home.

Chapter 16

Living the Love

Over the following week, we only went out to shop, preferring the comfort of staying at home together. We got all the little things that make a house a home and some pads and pencils to write things down as they came to mind. We had all the time in the world.

We ate twice at the small diner next to the Thrift Store the following week, where we were greeted with smiles. The food made the experience worthwhile. While it could never be confused with the love and care Mrs. Olsen put into her meals, it was good country cooking.

I knew I had to learn to cook better because it wasn’t anything that interested Andy whatsoever. So after our second trip to the diner that week,, I steered Andy back next door to buy 5 cookbooks I picked out. The one for soups, stews, and casseroles seemed the most logical. It told you what to use and you tossed it all into a pot and let ‘er rip.

I bought a slow cooker for five ninety-five on my next trip into town, figuring I’d be lucky if it worked, but it worked fine. Our first home cooked meal was a stew with lots of carrots and loads of beef, because it was beef stew. The different veggies mostly came from Luz, who brought a bussel basket full for me to pick from.

Andy’s usual response to when I asked him, “Do you like this?” was a non-committal shrug. He preferred store brought bread with my first stew, instead of the lumpy cornbread I needed to work on. He went back for seconds on the stew, but that’s all there was.

Andy took off with Tommy and went to the local lumber yard and bought a gate for the driveway. He wanted it to be known that no one came up without making arrangements to visit. He was serious about our privacy and Luz and Penny agreed to only visit on assigned days at assigned times. They weren’t in the least bit insulted by this request.

They invited us to drop in as we liked, but Andy immediately objected, saying he didn’t believe in just dropping in on someone. We could be friends, have a dinner night together each week, meet at the pond when the weather warmed up again and the pond became more inviting. We weren’t going to withdraw from the civilized world in the off season. We have control over our house and our time.

We drove to Indianapolis to repeat Andy’s signing ceremony with his new Indiana home. I was his friend, Do. There was no mention of me playing ball and I stood in the background and listened to Andy’s interview by one of the local sports jocks. It was all very relaxed and cordial. Andy was officially an Indian.

“How’s the arm?”

“The wrist is fine.”

“You hit 29 home runs last season. Will you hit more at Indy?”

“I only played three full months and part of that time I was rehabbing my wrist. I don’t see any reason why I won’t hit close to 50 homers next season.”

“Good Golly Miss Molly! 50! You’re predicting you’ll hit 50 homers for the Indians?”

“No, I don’t predict. I’m capable of hitting 50. I’ll do my best to stay healthy, and there’s no reason I can’t have my best season ever. Ask me this time next year and I’ll tell you how exactly how many I can hit.”

“You’ve been playing AA ball, Andy. You really think you’ll adjust that easily to triple A?”

“Yes!” Andy said without hesitating.

“You’re confident, Andy. I’ve seen you play. I’ve watched you swing. You bring to mind Evan Lane and Wayne Swanson. Both of them were called up at the end of last season. What do you think?”

“I think I bring myself to mind. I play my game the best way I know how. While Evan is probably the best hitter to come out of triple A ball in some years, I don’t fancy myself to be the kind of ballplayer he is. I’ve got to focus on playing for Indy and not worry about what the other power around baseball is doing.”

“You sound like you know him,” the interviewer interjected.

“Yeah, we know each other. I’ve watched him play. He’s good. He’s got a wonderful career ahead of him, and he’s worked hard to get there.”

“You have a wonderful career ahead of you, Andy?”

“We’ll just have to wait and see how it goes, won’t we? I’ll see you at the ballpark. Time to rock and roll,” Andy said, standing.

He left the microphone they’d clipped to his collar on the desk in front of the sports jock, who seemed somewhat shocked at Andy calling the interview complete.

I headed out toward the car so he didn’t need to look for me. In a few minutes he appeared, unbuttoning his shirt and yanking it off, revealing a sparkling clean white T-shirt I’d washed and hung out the day before. I found myself admiring his strong arms and powerful chest pressing against the white fabric. Andy spent even more time in the weight room after injuring his wrist and meeting up with Evan Lane.

In the months since, my lover had matured remarkably. I was looking at a fully grown man and not the boy I fell in love with back at State. He was beautiful and he was mine

He gave me a big self-assured smile and he seemed satisfied no one following him out of the television studio. The word from the ball club was, after the signing they’d see him again at spring training in March. Andy had become his own man without me around to see him finish growing into the role of heavy hitting outfielder, who would be welcomed by half the major league clubs.

Outfielders were plentiful and even the biggest home run hitters had to wait for a space to open up. Changing personnel just to be changing it disrupted a team. Most clubs didn’t do it unless it was necessary or unless you had a guy like Evan Lane knocking down the fences and knocking on the door. That’s where Andy was heading, but he still needed to do some seasoning.

Evan had one more year left on the contract that held him in place, but the Reds weren’t taking any chances on losing him, while they snoozed. They called him up from Louisville to pinch hit. It took him until the final week for him to get untracked, pinch-hitting five times the final week and hit three homers. The Reds were salivating, and their starting left fielder was looking for another club where he’d be able to play.

Andy didn’t create the rave around him Lane could. Andy was sexy and he looked good as hell in my mind. With Lane you got movie star handsome, cockiness, and he exuded confidence. Evan Lane had something Andy would never have, but I got the impression Andy was happy the way he was. I sure was.

Andy was always pushing harder, wanting to be better. Lane was already better and all he had to do was walk up to the plate and he was in the zone. If he wasn’t in the zone he was inside the pitcher’s head, which was just as good. I saw Andy noticing this and he wasn’t sure he’d ever have that kind of killer instinct, but he still respected it.

Andy drove us back toward the house. I bragged about how good he looked and how good he sounded. He blushed a little, held my hand and smiled. We stole polite kisses as we drove, when we figured we weren’t likely to cause a multi-car pileup up on Interstate 65.

Neither of us were much on performing in public or flaunting who it was we were. Of course our careers could be ruined by the wrong person seeing the wrong thing at the wrong time. We were cautious without restricting our affection for one another for too long.

The front gate was another level of privacy. When I jumped out to unlock and open it, Tommy came barking his welcome home greeting, when he heard us. Andy opened the backdoor so he could ride the rest of the way to the house with us.

He licked the side of Andy’s face, making him laugh. I patted his head and gave him a quick hug. Tommy, not Andy, I’d do a lot more than hug him later.

As quick as the car was parked, Andy was out on the lawn, rolling around with the happy Collie. He was built like a man with the heart of a boy who loved his dog. It was nice to be home.

I went in to check on the slow cooker. We were having chili with big chunks of ground chuck. I figured adding more beef meant Andy wasn’t as finicky about the flavor.. My goal was to gain some control over the flavor I couldn’t yet capture, as I went along. More meat meant less room for criticism. I’d work on it.

In the last few minutes before we left that morning, I used two cans of Bush’s Chili beans, two cans of tomatoes, two pounds of ground chuck, and two packets of chili seasoning, medium. I cut up an onion, chopped two cloves of garlic, and threw it all into the slow cooker as we went out the door.

The smell was fine and I went about getting a pan ready for another stab at cornbread, after bringing in the sun tea from the back porch. These were all things Andy liked without me having the skill to make them something he wanted me to fix. I had a closet full of beef stew if the chili flopped.

Tommy came running in, wanting fresh water. Andy followed him in and wanted the same thing. I gave Tommy a bowl and Andy got a glass. He drained it two time before he got around to kissing me. I put out some ice and the sugar bowl, pouring us both tea over ice.

“Cornbread,” he asked, checking the pan I just filled with batter.

“Uh huh. I beat the batter better this time,” I assured him.

“Oh, it was fine,” Andy lied badly.

“You ate bread,” I said.

“Yeah, I like bread.”

“I cheated and bought the small boxes of Jiffy Cornbread Mix. Just add an egg and milk, beat the batter, and put it in the overn.”

“Sounds delicious,” he said, lifting the lid off the chili and sniffing.

It was a positive sign.

Tommy went to his bed beside the backdoor, lying down to watch us, happy we were home. Happy to have Andy run him a little. I was surprised at how easily he’d settled in with us. He was happy to be home and was at home with us. I’d never been big on pets until Tommy. Andy seemed like he’d been waiting for such a dog.

Luz called the following day to invite us over to dinner. We accepted. It saved me from testing my culinary skills for one evening. We were expecting a quiet dining experience.

Were we ever surprised.

Luz and Penny had six children. Two belonged to each of them and two were foster kids. The dinner table was a little like it must have been in the Coliseum in Rome. The kids were of varying ages and there was Penny’s sister to boot, who was divorcing her husband and had come to live with Luz and Penny, until she could recover.

She didn’t have kids of her own but took care of the kids to allow Luz and Penny to spend as much time in the fields as was required. After dinner, needing some peace and quiet,  Luz took us on a tour of the barns and the dairy cows. She offered us all the milk we could drink, along with the vegetables she left at the gate for us when they went out in the morning. They had chickens, so we got the freshest eggs known to man. Our diet proved to be quite varied and healthy, thanks to our neighbors.

For all this we gave Luz and Penny the back ten acres to plant whatever they pleased. It wasn’t a piece of land we had plans for. It was just attached to what Andy bought. The agreement would go from year to year, but Andy thought we were getting the best of the deal. We didn’t do a damn bit of work and reaped the benefit of the organic farmers in our midst.

When we invited Luz and Penny to our place to dinner the following week, we explained we were the biggest beneficiaries of their generosity. They were to think of dinner nights outs as a break from child rearing and farming. They were not to feel obligated to invite us to their place for dinner in return. They had enough mouths to feed without us adding to the chaos. We didn’t tell them that we weren’t having children for a reason, but by the twinkle in Luz’s eye, she understood the entire message without feeling insulted. 

The following day we took them with us to the Thrift Store, where I was looking for more cooking gear necessary to try other tasty recipes I found in my cookbooks. We stopped at the diner and treated them to lunch. We all settled on the meatloaf special at three dollars a pop. Drink and dessert were included for one more buck a piece.

Luz and Penny laughed and said they’d only eaten there once and the help looked at them like they had two heads. This time everyone was polite and smiley and couldn’t’ do enough to make our stay in their diner as comfortable as could be.

“They think we’re dating,” Luz whispered. “They clocked Penny and me as a couple of dykes from the get go. You’ve done wonders for our reputation in rural Indiana.”

“Don’t you deliver to them?” I asked. “They’ve got to use a ton of fresh stuff.”

“No, they acted like we were from Venus. I didn’t waste my time talking business with them.”

“Do you want them as a customer?” I asked.

“The more the merrier in the world of organic farmers. We give away a lot of produce in Indianapolis in the poor part of the city. We have so much left over and there is no point not planting the fields. We keep thinking we’ll find more clients. Some crops are gone before they’re grown, but the veggies usually exceed any outlet we have at present.”

“Is the owner here, per chance?” I asked, as the waitress left the bill.

“Yes, sir, I’m the owner. What can I do for you?” a short balding middle-aged man asked.

“We’re farming out at the old Lancaster place. We’re selling produce in town to different merchants and at restaurants along the Interstate. We can deliver to you and give you a good price if you’re interested in locally grown produce, milk, and eggs?”

“I’ve seen the ladies bring things in their truck. You gentlemen are associates?”

“Yes, we’ve established a partnership to supply prime produce to establishments in the area. It would be a shame to come into town and not serve you. I generally let the ladies do customer service. We’re busy on the farm, while they’re out delivering,” I said, making it up as I went along.

Mr. Buckner asked them to bring their truck by the next time they delivered in town and he’d see if they had some things he needed at a good price. I thanked him for his business as if it was my business. Luz and Penny could hardly contain their amusement.

When asked about how easily I handled Mr. Buckner, I explained my business in Statesville was dealing with rednecks. You approached them with the idea of keeping their minds on the business at hand and only the business at hand, and off peripheral issues that for some reason attained major significance to them, while having nothing to do with them. All I did was keep him focused.

“While I’ve known men like Buckner forever, don’t think I’m not aware of the hard work it takes to do what you two do. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t know where to start. Giver me a readneck, and I can draw you a map,” I explained.

We laughed and sang on the way back and we dropped them at their door, heading back home early enough for me to consider what I might want to prepare for our supper with the new gadgets we now owned.

It was a fine day and Andy found a riding lawnmower in an out buildings. He had it out and running in no time. A straw hat on his head, he mowed the backyard with Tommy running back and forth, barking as the machine roared and the grass flew.

By dark, after a so so tuna casserole, we got a fire going in the fireplace. Tommy lay in front of it on one of the small round rugs. Andy and i turned our easy chairs to face it. I read and Andy made popcorn.

The nights were beginning to get more chilly, and a fire in the fireplace had the upstairs warm as toast when we went to bed. As the fire burned down the upstairs cooled, and sleeping was wonderful.

We went into Indianapolis and got a down comforter, feather pillows the size of all out doors, and an electric blanket to make certain the night didn’t become too cool. We got an electric space heater for the bedroom for the deep winter nights.

I found some heavy drapes at the Thrift Store. They blocked out all light in the early morning, for when we stayed up late and wanted to sleep in. If we closed the bedroom door it let in no light at all, until the curtains were opened.

We settled into the wonderful little house and if there is such a thing as total peace and harmony, that’s what my life was then. Andy seemed as happy as could be and nothing bothered him that first year. We were content to leave ball behind us and save that passion for when the new season started.

We didn’t change how we loved each other. We were able to do it more often and with reckless abandon. At night we found ourselves in each other’s arms.

This would be the most difficult thing to give up once the time came. Being held by Andy, holding him, was the best thing of all. Waking with his smell in my nose, him in my arms, my lips on his warm smooth skin, was as good as life got, and life was very good.

Chapter 17

Child Harold

As October faded away our T-shirts were covered by a jacket. The trees began to shed their leaves and the last of the fall gave way to the pending winter. Andy mowed the lawn for the last time and put the mower away, until spring, when our time away from home would exceed our time there.

How we’d manage the house while we were away wasn’t yet clear to us but we’d only lived there a month. We were happy to be home together, fixing it up to our liking. We were in no hurry and once the main rooms were furnished to make them functional, we took our time picking out things we’d add one at a time.

One evening, after dinner, as I started preparing a stew for the following day, I watched as Andy got up, pulled out the big frying pan, pouring in oil before turning on the burner under it. I’d placed the package of beef for the stew on the counter next to the stove, and Andy opened that and once he was satisfied with the heat of the pan, he began to toss in the chunks of beef.

“What are you doing?” I inquired as I chopped vegetables, which I would add to the tomatoes I’d already installed in the crock pot.

“I’m browning the meat,” he said. “It’ll give it a better flavor. I asked Mrs. Olsen about it. You know how damn good her stew is and I asked her how to do it in a slow cooker.”

“Browning the meat comes first? I think my mother does that.”

“She said brown the meat and the onions, even cook the carrots and potatoes a little. It’ll make the flavors blend together better,” he explained, confident with what he was doing.

“When did you talk to Mrs. Olsen?” I asked.

“Monday,” he said. “I worry about her being alone there.”

“And you were complaining about my cooking?” I asked.

“Your stew doesn’t have as much flavor as hers. When I told her you used the slow cooker, she told me about browning items to release the flavors.”

“I didn’t know you paid attention to how I cook,” I said.

“Sure I do. I’ve never cooked but if you can do it I can,” he said.

“Yes, you can,” I agreed, not having any desire to discourage him.

I put a bowl of onions over next to his elbow once I finished chopping them. He poured the beef fat into the can we kept to add to Tommy’s food. He wiped the inside of the pan with a paper towel, poured in a tables spoon of oil and began to brown the onions. This was more than I could have expected.

It didn’t take me any longer to have all the ingredients chopped to bite size than usual, and Andy cooked each to his satisfaction before dumping them into the pot. He seemed dedicated to his role. I was happy to be spending the time together.

I must admit the flavor was better using Andy’s method. I tried my hand at biscuits, using biscuit mix to get something eatable. It was a nice addition to the stew and Andy polished off enough to make me think they couldn’t be all that bad. There was less than half the pot of stew left once we’d finished dinner the next evening.

I wasn’t a great chef, learning as I went along. I figured I’d get better in time but we got better together, once Andy took an interest in our meals. Our kitchen was the warmest room in the house in the evenings and we made a point of getting all the food preparation done at the same time to avoid wasting the heat.

We’d get the fire going in the fireplace after dinner and we’d drink coffee or tea as I read a book and Andy checked out the sports pages and the comics to keep up with life in Indianapolis. There was little written on baseball as the Colts dominated that time of year. Would they go undefeated? Would they make it to the Super Bowl? Would the Colt’s Manning become the greatest quarterback of all time? Would beer sales in the stands be up or down?

I was more interested in the news from Louisville but we didn’t get the paper from there. Life didn’t move as fast in Louisville. I had no fear I could catch up on what I issed pretty fast, once I went back.

One afternoon, when Penny wasn’t feeling well, Luz asked us to ride along, as she delivered what extras she had from that week in Indianapolis, after servicing their regular customers. It was a ten wheel truck with a couple dozen bushel baskets on the floor in the back. Each basket was filled with some vegetable they’d grown. It was the same kinds Luz brought us.

I’d just picked up a warmer coat and it was a good thing I did. The day was bleak and downright cold. It looked like it could rain and it felt like the rain might be snow. The overcast hung low without complicating the trip by raining, but the stiff breeze made it impossible to get warm.

We got inside the Indianapolis loop, drove down some main boulevards before turning off into a residential area, where Luz tapped her horn once, waited a second, tapping it two more times, as she moved at a crawl down the block, until she pulled into a large packing lot at the end of the block. Tooting the horn once, and then twice, before cutting off the engine and going back to throw open the door to the bed and the baskets.

She pulled out some paper bags and stood at the tailgate, looking down as woman carrying children under their arms, and pushing them in strollers with others simply holding their kid’s hands as they flocked to the parking lot.

“Hi, Sue, turnips, collards, squash, potatoes, and I got a few pumpkin if you want to bake a pie.”

“That sounds special,” Sue said.

The woman smiled, holding her child close to her breast, and pointing at which basket she wanted to buy things from. Andy climbed up in back and slid the baskets forward so Luz didn’t need to leave her spot as she greeted customers.

“Okay, let’s call it $2.00,” Luz said, as she handed the two bags to the woman, who handed her two crumpled up dollar bills from a small change purse.

“Thank you, Luz. See you next week,” she said managing the baby and the two bags adroitly.

“Morning, Tania. How’s the baby?”

“She still got that cough. Weather sucks. Too damn cold already. Can you fix me up a couple of bags. I only got two fifty, so don’t be overdoing it this week.”

“We’ve got some good buys. Let me give you a variety,” Luz said, smiling and seeming to know the woman she served. “Turnips are really nice this year.”

“My mama loves turnips. Give me a couple extra of those.”

The woman came, a few brought a man with them, and they carried the bags. It was a buck, a buck fifty, and at the most she charged two dollars for two bags of vegetables. In no time the baskets were all empty and Luz was closing the door and jumping down from the back of the truck. She was a woman of many talents.

“How come so cheap,” Andy asked, as Luz was driving back out of the residential area.

“Oh, I tried to give it away my first few times up here. Talking about being insulted. Some of them just turned around and walked away. These people are poor but they do have their dignity, Andy. That food would all go to waste if I didn’t bring it up here to them.

“They get good healthy food at a reasonable price and I don’t watch good food rot, because my customers can’t eat as much as I grow. The money they pay me pays my gas and it works out fine for me. I hate wasting good food, when there are hungry people.”

“You’re amazing, Luz,” Andy said, and I let him speak for both of us.

Luz was as strong a woman as I’d known. She had a strong back, worked hard, and she had strong ideas about the right thing to do. She was smart enough to understand the people shw liked to help, and allow them to give what they could afford for what she brought them. It added some perspective to our friendship and how she and Penny shared the fruits of their labor with us in turn for using a field Andy and I wouldn’t have time to put to use. It all worked out well.

She was good with her kids but firm. While we didn’t spend a lot of time together, it was moments like these when we learned something new about her. Luz was tireless and had more energy than anyone ought to have, but she used it well.

“How’s it going with Mr. Buckner at the diner?” Andy asked.

“Oh, fine. Kirk is happy with what we bring him. He buys a little bit of everything. We take him milk and eggs since last week. He was getting most of his supplies from Indianapolis and we’re way closer.”

“Kirk?” Andy asked.

“That’s nice,” I said, surprised.

He’d changed his mind quickly about the lady farmers. There was nothing like getting to know someone to change the lay of the land, when standing at a distance never would. I thought of how I first felt about Evan Lane and how fast I changed my mind once I got to know him. It made me smile.

As we drove Lus began to speak to us in personal terms.

“I’ve got a new boy. Harold is older than the other boys. He’s not from a very good home situation. They brought him around last week, once we learned about him. He’s been living with his mom and a couple of older sisters.

“I was thinking it might be good for him to spend a little time with some men. You being the only men I’m acquainted with who live nearby, would it be too much to ask you to spend a little time with him?” Luz asked. “Not anything too regular. Just for him to have men in his life. I don’t know he is much on sports. He reads a lot, but I can tell he needs the hand of a man to give him a view from that side of things. Too many boys grow up without any men to lead the way.”

“Yeah, that’d be fine as long as Andy is fine with it,” I said.

“Sure. I’ll teach him how to play ball. We get a lot of kids at the park, wanting autographs. I like spending time with them.”

“I don’t think that’s Harold,” Luz said with a smile. “He’s not a typical kid. I don’t know he’s ever been allowed to be a boy. He’s not terribly flawed, just a little lost in the world where he’s been living. Having some interaction with men might give him more to go on.”

I wondered at the time who Harold was and where he might have come from, but Luz didn’t feel it necessary to go into any more detail beyond what she told us. She sounded amused by Harold and that indicated to me he was more misunderstood than maladjusted, but I hadn’t met him yet.

It was a few days later when there was a disturbance on our lawn. Andy and I had just finished lunch and  I was washing dishes. We walked to the front windows together and looked out upon Child Harold for the first time.

“He’s bigger than I am,” I said.

“Clearly,” Andy said, as we watched.

Harold and Tommy wrestled on the lawn in front of the front porch. Harold giggled loudly, Tommy romped, licking the side of Harold’s face, causing him to giggle even more. Then, he lay on his back petting the Collie, admiring the beautiful dog.

There was a certain incongruity to the man child being gentled by our dog. Soon Harold got up to his knees, noticing he’d been noticed. He petted Tommy for a time before looking over his shoulder at the two men standing in the window watching him.

Harold stood up and disappeared around the corner of the porch.

“You think that’s him?” Andy asked.

“Who else has been up here since we moved in? That’s him.”

The boy came back into view carrying a bucket in each hand. He walked up on the porch and stood in front of the door, waiting.

“I’m Harold. I got milk and I got eggs. They figure you’d have containers on account all of ours are out.”

“Come on in,” I said, holding the door for him.

“Back here. Set them on the counter,” Andy said, walking in front of him as I brought up the rear.

“I’m Andy, he’s Do,” Andy said, setting his coffee down on the table.

Harold looked for a clean space on the countertop where he could put the buckets down. I took care of the eggs first, setting them in some plastic containers I’d picked up at the Thrift Store. I emptied the milk into a large plastic container I’d used for the milk before. It was still warm and I marveled at the idea.

“Luz said I was to hang around with you guys if you didn’t mind, because you are guys. You are guys aren’t you?”

“Last time I looked,” Andy said. “And you.”

Harold didn’t know how to reply to Andy and so he didn’t. He stood in the corner of the kitchen and watched until I’d washed out the buckets and set them back where he’d put them down.

“You want some milk?” I asked.

“Yuk! No. Got any soda?”

“What kind?” I asked.

“Cola. Comes in plastic bottles. About this high,” he said, showing me how high.

“There’s lots of different kinds of soda,” I said.

“Cola. Brown stuff,” he explained again, not understanding how I couldn’t understand.

“No, we don’t drink soda,” I said.

“Why’d we go through all that if you don’t have any?”

“Because I’ll make it a point to get some if it is what you like,” I said, explaining my logic to him as he stared as if he wasn’t quite sure why it was important.

Thus Harold entered our life. He was smart, probably too smart, and he wasn’t a boy who gave in easily to the ideas of others. His independence made it difficult to find things that we could do together. He liked to read, and the first few times we saw him, he brought a book, sat in Andy’s easy chair, his left leg hung over the left arm, as he read whatever it was he brought along.

I realized we didn’t have a book in the house. There were shelves in the room off to the side of the living room and I’d contemplated putting a desk in there where we could take care of our business matters.

“Do you read all the time?” Andy asked from my chair, looking a little out of place.

“Yes, I read a lot. I learn from books.”

“You’re going to take root in that chair,” Andy worried, thinking there was no real interaction going on between us and the boy.

“You don’t clean the chair from time to time?” he asked, nose in book. “If not I’ll ask Penny for some seeds. No point in letting good dirt go to waste.”

This exchange never got his attention off the page and he read on.

“You can read at home,” Andy told him.

“You want me to get out of here?”

“You were interested in coming over so you were around guys?”

“So? We establishd you are guys.”

“All you ever do is sit there and read? You can do that at home.”

“Yes, I can. It isn’t my home. It’s where I’m staying, and this wasn’t my idea. Luz thought it up. You can tell me to get lost any time you like and I will.”

“Tell you what,” Andy said with a little excitement. “I’ll hit you some fly balls out in the front yard. You can shag flies. Move those bones around. Get some exercise.”

“You know how far it is to walk over here?”

“Maybe a mile,” Andy calculated thoughtfully for him.

“That’s exercise, moving my bones, as you call it.”

I watched Andy processing Harold’s replies, knowing this wasn’t what Andy signed up for, when he agreed to letting Harold come over.

“You don’t like ball?” Andy seemed amazed.

“I don’t shoot hoops, eat watermelon, or pick cotton.”

“What’s wrong with watermelon? I like watermelon,” Andy objected.

“Okay, I lied about the watermelon,” Harold admitted, half looking up at Andy.

“What do you like to do?” Andy asked for clarity.

“I like to read,” Harold said, holding up the book as proof.

“What about a ride. We can go out and get some fresh air,” Andy said, thinking it was something that would make him move.

“Can I drive?” Harold asked, reassuring us he was a boy.

“No,” Andy answered.

“Okay, there’s a library over in the next town. When Luz takes me they all stare at us like we’re lost and too dumb to ask for directions. Would you take me there. You being a guy might allow me to pick out some books without being under constant surveillance, like I’m going to pocket their 1953 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica.”

“Sure. You got some books over at your place? We can run by there and you can let Luz know where we’re going.”

“All right!” Harold said, the first excitement in his voice since he’d first showed up.

I let the two of them take the journey together, figuring one on one was a better way to handle Harold, who didn’t seem to have all that much interest in socializing with Andy and me. He took the sandwiches I gave him and I’d allow him to have one glass of soda, when he came over, but no more. Luz didn’t buy soda for her kids and Andy and I didn’t drink it, after living on it at State.

Harold objected to the limit but not strenuously. If we had it in the fridge, why couldn’t he drink it? was the question on his mind

That day they were gone a couple of hours and Harold asked to be left back at his house once he returned with a stack of books. Andy came in with Huckleberry Finn in his hand, and he sat where Harold usually sat to read.

“I didn’t know you liked to read. We can get some books the next time we’re at the Thrift Store. They have boxes of paperbacks for a quarter a piece.”

“I’ve always wanted to read this. Never had time. While he was looking for things he liked, I signed up at the library and checked this book out.”

Harold was having as much an influence on us as we were having on him. I knew that it wasn’t up to us how much time he wanted to spend at our place, but I was open to his presence. He was a fine kid, not all that friendly, but there was nothing objectionable about him.

The first time he fell asleep on the couch on a Saturday night, after coming over to spend time, I covered him with one of the extra comforters Penny brought over for us. I called Luz, explaining he had fallen asleep, and I told her he was welcome to stay if she didn’t mind.

Harold didn’t want to get up for breakfast or church the next morning, but we didn’t do church, so we ate without him, although I cooked an extra stack of pancakes to pop in the microwave for when he woke up.

It was too cold downstairs for him to be comfortable at night, so we bought another space heater like the one we kept in our bedroom for after the house cooled off. It didn’t make it warm downstairs in the big living room but it did keep it from getting cold. Harold never complained about anything, except Andy wanting to hit fly balls to him, that he only begrudgingly caught, once Andy explained how to keep his size thirteen tennis shoes out of his way.

I stood in the front windows, smiling, as the crack of the bat launched another ball for Harold and Tommy to chase. It wasn’t something that happened often, but more often as time went on.

Harold actually smiled from time to time by then. Oh, he didn’t make a habit of it, but slowly he began to talk about his life, his mother, his grandmother, and two older sisters who teased him unmercifully. He didn’t say why he wasn’t living at home and we didn’t ask.

He’d never been around men and was a bit uncertain about us, but Harold was smart and knew he had plenty to look forward to as he grew older and smarter. He made my life with Andy all the richer, as I watched Andy trying to figure out how best to deal with him.

Chapter 18

First Thanksgiving

The idea of going home once the season was over had been on my mind. At home at that time was Statesville at my parent’s house. When Andy came calling with the keys to our new home, everything was changed, and home never again would mean Statesville.

By mid-November Andy agreed we’d drive to Statesville to have Thanksgiving with my parents. At the beginning of Thanksgiving week, we buttoned up the house, put Tommy in the backseat and we headed south toward Louisville. We’d drive east from there and go through West Virginia, Virginia, and into North Carolina from the west.

First we turned onto the street that ran behind the baseball park, where we couldn’t wait to parked and go in to greet Mrs. Olsen.

“Come in. Come in. I’ve aired out your room, John. Oh Andy you have grown so tall and handsome. How are you?”

“Mrs. Olsen, I hope you don’t have any ideas about my man,” I said.

“Oh, John, you’re a kdder. If I thought I had a chance with either of you…. If I was thirty years younger….”

It was left at that. There were hugs and the kind of affection I got nowhere else, except at home with Andy and at home with my parents, but Mrs. Olsen had become family.

“And speaking of handsome. What a wonderful dog!”

“Mrs. Olsen, this is Tommy. He came with our house,” Andy said.

“I have no doubt he goes with your house,” she said, kneeling to pet Tommy, who didn’t move as long as the petting went on. “You boys go freshen up. I have fresh towels out. I’ll have dinner ready in a little more than an hour. It’s so nice seeing you.”

It was like coming home when I came to Mrs. Olsen’s. The feeling inside her house was a lot like it was in my parent’s house. I always felt like I belonged there. I wasn’t looking forward to spring when a dozen other players would haunt her halls with the smell of ointment and balm with loud voices to disturb the peace. My room was my room and she’d told me no one else would use it but me for as long as I said so.

Andy and I had to break our hold on each other after our shower together, once the fragrance of ham, cabbage, and potatoes wafted up the stairs to our noses. There wasn’t much that could pull Andy and I out of each others arms, but Mrs. Olsen’s cooking, after a month of eating mine, did the trick, and we raced to the table with Tommy not far behind.

We were full as ticks before our feeding frenzy ended. Each time I thought I was done, I reached for another piece of ham that melted in my mouth. The aromas were still making me dizzy with delight, but I couldn’t eat another bite.

I watched Mrs. Olsen set a pan of her biscuits to one side, as she sliced ham to go on them, sliding that over next to the peach pie she’d baked before we arrived. Andy held his stomach and smiled pleasantly. Tommy waited for the occasional piece of fat Andy held out to him. In between snacks he rested his chin expectantly on Andy’s leg.

“We have a room downstairs in the house. Do wanted to make it into our library, but we’ve decided the small bedroom upstairs is better suited as an office and library. If you want to come visit us, we’ll let you help us furnish the room to your liking, Mrs. Olsen. Get you out of the city, if you’d consider such a thing in the off-season,” Andy proposed.

“Oh, you boys don’t want an old woman around. It sounds lovely though,” she said, as she considered Andy’s words.

“Bring your cookbooks, Mrs. Olsen, and you can stay as long as you like,” I said, not daring to laugh for fear of losing my dinner, which wasn’t far from the surface.

“John, I haven’t used a cookbook since I was a girl.”

“You are a girl, Mrs. Olsen, and you can come out and teach me how not to poison Andy. We’re roughing it at the moment on a half dozen dishes I can’t do too much harm to.”

“Yes, Andy mentions your cooking from time to time,” she admitted.

“He’s actually taken to helping me cook. I knew he was getting tips from somewhere.”

I glanced at Andy as he pretended not to notice. Of course, most of my cooking skills were absorbed without ever paying much attention. My cooking was tolerable and I expected to get better.

The idea did interest Mrs. Olsen. I think she got lonely being in that big house all by herself all winter. I hadn’t thought of her coming to visit us, because I needed her there during baseball season, so I didn’t have to sleep in my car.

She wouldn’t consider being absent when the ball players were reporting for the new season. She loved her boys. This was her purpose in life. Andy and I had become closer to her than most, because she was such a kind and thoughtful woman.

We were back in the car early the next morning, after saying our goodbyes. Tommy was happy in the backseat with his new hambone to keep him occupied, although he road easy on the way to Louisville. As long as he was with us he seemed happy.

We had two lunch bags full of biscuits and ham. Even after ham and eggs for breakfast, we weren’t halfway to Lexington before we were nibbling on bag one. We’d slipped out ahead of the rush hour traffic and were heading in the opposite direction from the incoming cars from the Louisville suburbs. Andy was at ease and in control and it was a nice ride.

The Impala road like a million bucks and Andy looked like two million behind the wheel. I held his hand he snuck glances at me from time to time. We entered West Virginia before noon, dropping down to cross western Virginia later in the afternoon.

We enter North Carolina from the western end. The weather was fine, but chilly when we got out of the car at rest areas and to walk Tommy. It was noticeably colder at the higher elevations where the wind whipped around us. We weren’t out of the car for long and the ham and biscuits meant we only needed to stop for drinks.

Getting closer and closer to home, I began to recognize things I’d seen all my life. This was the first time I’d come home after having my own home, and I felt good about Statesville, which wasn’t how I felt about it when I left for Louisville. It wasn’t where I came home to be home any longer, and that suited me fine.

Dad was working too hard to take time off to visit us, and we’d decided to make the trip for Thanksgiving. Andy brought up the trip. He liked my parents, but more importantly, they liked him. They treated him like a son, which meant a lot to me and it made it far easier when it was time to come back to see them.

Andy didn’t talk much about his family. He’d sent some money home to them, but he hadn’t brought up traveling home. There were far more questions about who I was and what I was doing there, and it was obvious that Andy didn’t like that line of questions. We hadn’t been back and the first trip he suggested was to my house. I didn’t ask any questions, knowing Andy would tell me what was on his mind.

There had been discussion about going to Iowa and getting married, once we’d settled into the house. Neither of us considered that to be all that important at the moment.

With the 24-7 media, it wouldn’t be bright for Andy to get his first recognition, because his name appeared on a marriage license with mine, rather than something to do with the power he displayed that would drive him to the big leagues.

While Andy regarded nosey nose about his private life as nothing he liked, he knew there were more eyes on him than ever. We’d have plenty of time to live our own lives on our own terms, once our careers ended. We’d gone through so much difficulty to be together that being together was all we needed.

As we pulled up in front of the house, Mom stood in the doorway. She watched us getting out of the car and coming toward the house, and then the hugging and laughter began. It was good to be home and everyone was pleased. Tommy wagged his tale, stood still to be petted by my mother and then my father. He once more stole the show.

Once we made pit stops to freshen up and carried our things up to our bedroom, we all sat in the living room as Mom served us coffee and her homemade cinnamon buns. They absolutely melted in my mouth and the coffee was so familiar it gave me a feeling of well-being. It felt just like I’d come home.

Being in the house where I was raised, kept safe, and allowed to leave once it was time to become a man, made coming home easy. It was good memories. Any difficulty I had growing up came when I wasn’t at home and dealing with forces my parents couldn’t protect me from. Home was always my safety zone, and no matter what went on elsewhere, I could depend on my parents for support.

 We caught up on the news around town and Dad told me Bobby Henry was home. He’d come by to ask about me, and I’d call the Henry house to invite him and Jeff over before we left.

There was talk of Coach Bell, the Sluggers, the Indians, and baseball in general, including Dad’s desire to go to spring training to see us play with the big boys as our season’s began early next year. I confessed I was anxious to see some of the guys that had come and gone from teams I’d played on and were still in the game. I didn’t cross path with them in Louisville but I might in Florida at spring training.

Andy remained quiet about his move and was content to wait to see what the Indians were like. His brief brush with Indianapolis media and club executives didn’t offer him much insight into what his life on a new team might be like. They seemed happy to have him and he seemed happy to be going there.

Anything that made Andy happy made me happy. The fact he couldn’t stand being away from me any longer could have landed him in troubled waters, but it hadn’t. Because of his talent, Andy got what he wanted, and that put us together much more of the time.

It had all worked out in a most agreeable manner and having Thanksgiving at my parent’s home was one of the benefits. If there was any food I loved more than Mrs. Olsen’s, it was Mom’s, and she didn’t disappoint us. Over our days there, she’d create all my favorites and a few of Andy’s.

If there was anyone more pleased to be at my parent’s house than Andy and me, it was Tommy, who stayed close to my mother in the kitchen whenever any cooking was going on. I’d chuckle each time I’d watch her stirring, turning, and testing the dishes, slipping a nibble to Tommy without a second thought. She’d won another fan, but Tommy was easy.

Dad carried us around the day before Thanksgiving and we stopped at the Henry house to see Bobby. He’d become a man since I’d last seen him and was as poised and self-confident as ever. He’d been playing in Jacksonville but had several teams after his services now that his first big league contract had run out. He was waiting to see what the best offer was going to be.

Andy sat listening to him describe the competition for his position. Like Andy, Bobby was the complete package and could carry a team with his glove and bat. He wasn’t a power hitter, but he could hit up a storm. The amount of money he was looking for was astronomical. For me it was inconceivable, but I could see Andy’s eyes light up when he mentioned an eight digit figure he had in mind before signing his next multi-year contract.

If anybody made more money than the best of the shortstops in the majors, it was the better power hitting outfielder, who were always in demand.

“What do you think about a few million dollars,” he asked, as we rode away from Bobby’s house.

“I can’t think in those numbers. What we have right now is great, what more do we need?”

“Security, Do. I want you to have everything you ever wanted. I want to have the things I could never have as a boy.”

“As long as we’re together, Andy, I’ve got everything I ever wanted.”

Andy kissed my cheek in front of my father, who didn’t drive off the road. I was a little surprised because Andy had never so much as held my hand in front of my parents. We had no need to flaunt our love, but from time to time you simply need to show the one you love you love them.

While my parents weren’t poor, we didn’t have much more than the necessities. If I ever made a good contract, part of it would go in the bank fo them. They were responsible for me growing up with my feet staying firmly under me. For that I owed them plenty.

Andy did grow up poor. There were no extras and he was lucky to have the necessities of life. He wasn’t happy when we visited his house. He no doubt loved his mother and brothers and sisters, but being there reminded him of being poor. Baseball had allowed him to go to college. For that I was grateful and the rest was pretty good.

He did hold my hand as we sat beside my father in the front seat of his car. We stopped at Karen’s Coffee and Buns before driving out to see Mr. Bartlett at the business park. He was on the phone interviewing a man for a roofing job, and we stood around until he came around his desk to greet me like an old friend.

We almost couldn’t get out of Mr. Bartlett’s office. He wanted to know if I’d consider being foreman for the winter months, and I told him I was otherwise occupied. He laughed real loud and admitted he missed my services. If not the best roofer he’d ever had, I was the most dependable. If he had to lose me, he was happy he lost me to baseball, or so he said.

On the wall behind Mr. Barlett’s desk was a framed newspaper clipping titled, ‘Heart of Louisville.” The picture was of Evan Lane on one side of Coach Bell and me on the other. I still had to think hard to understand why I was pictured with those two.

When we got home, Mom was grilling hamburgers and half smokes. We sat on the back porch and ate something I hadn’t had since I was living there. The taste of food fresh off the grill was one of my favorites. We ate chips and drank soda.

Andy broke out the pictures he’d taken of the house, Luz and Penny, and of Harold. There were a hundred questions and my parents promised they’d come visit before spring if they could. Dad had a lot of trouble getting days off, as the company was short handed and not hiring, which meant the men with jobs had a lot more work to do.

My father had been there for years but nothing meant more than the bottom line. Everyone else his age had been let go, and he prayed he would be able to hang on, until he could retire. I couldn’t make any promises, but I intended to see him retire sooner than he thought.

If they came to visit it would have to be between October and February, as we’d be gone the rest of the year, except for the rare occasion when our clubs played each other. When my club played in Indianapolis, we’d stay at the house at night. When his club played in Louisville, we’d stay at Mrs. Olsen's.

As Thanksgiving morning came, the house was alive with the smell of turkey roasting. This, too, was one of my favorite meals, since there was so much family invested on this day and on Christmas.

My parents wanted us to come back for Christmas but Andy had already begun planning a floor to ceiling Christmas tree and having Luz, Penny, Harold, and the rest of their kids over to celebrate Christmas. It sounded like a fine time to me.

It wasn’t like we couldn’t come back before spring training, but we weren’t going to make any firm plans for what might be going on months from now. Being home was good, the memories were good, and having my lover with me was best of all.

Chapter 19

Christmas Exaltation

Andy specifically requested we do Thanksgiving at my parents and we’d be home our first Christmas as independent adults in our own house. I found nothing at all objectionable about this request. I wondered why he didn’t want to bargain to have Christmas with his family, since we had Thanksgiving with mine, but the subject never came up and being home with him at Christmas was the gift I wanted most, until he gave me the gift he picked out for me.

One morning the first week in December, I was upstairs cleaning the floors and I heard Andy go out. Once I was done, I blocked off the stairs so Tommy couldn’t walk on my wax, but he was nowhere to be seen, and of course he went with Andy, getting a morning dose of fresh air and having his pee break.

When they weren’t back by noon, I went about warming up some soup I’d made, starting in on making tuna salad for sandwiches. It was Andy’s favorite to go with soup. He spent a lot of time at the front door and I was going to go out to see what was wrong, but the noise stopped and we both went about our business.

I put my tuna concoction in the fridge to let the flavors run through it as it cooled. I got out the wheat bread and slices of swiss chess I’d use to complete the sandwich I had in mind. When I strolled out into the living room, the biggest damn Christmas tree I’d ever seen was standing in the corner, on the opposite side of the fireplace from the door to the kitchen.

My mouth dropped as my eyes had difficulty taking it all in at once. For a tree in the house it was a colossus. Andy sat slumped down in my easy chair, staring at it with a pleased look on his face.

“What do you think?” he asked. “I had to look for a long time to find the right one.”

“It’s big,” I said, not sure that size tree fit in our living room.

“Yeah!” he said with a satisfied sound in his voice. “It’s big.”

It was a case of the exact same comment meaning two different things. ‘It’s big’ to me meant maybe it’s too big for the space, but to Andy, ‘it’s big’ was just right.

“How are we going to decorate a tree that size?” I said, realizing we didn’t have a light or a ball in the house.

“Popcorn,” he said.

I didn’t know if he was serious, although I’d seen trees where people strung popcorn to run all around it. They were usually poor people and couldn’t afford balls and lights.

“We’ll need to corner the market on popcorn to decorate it,” I said, trying to picture it.

“Do, we are in our own house. We are going to have the biggest damn Christmas anyone ever has, starting with our tree. We’ve got three weeks to buy decorations and get the things we will use for the next fifty years or so,” he said, having it all figured out. “We don’t have to get it all this year. We’ll string popcorn to cover any bare spots.”

I went over and kissed him and sat on the arm of the chair to look at our tree. It was at least eight feet tall and probably taller. It’s girth was incalculable. It was way big around and took up a good portion of the end of the room.

“We’ll start looking for decoration when we go into Indianapolis later this week. I bet some of the stores in town will have some local stuff. We’ll buy ten strings of light, ten boxes of icicles, and take our time buying balls. I want different balls, not all the same colors and same design. We can buy a few each year until we fill it up.”

“Until then, popcorn.”

“Popcorn,” he said. “What we don’t string we can eat, and in bad years we can eat the popcorn and think about having a big tree.

“Is that what you had on your tree when you were a kid?” I asked, trying to get some perspective.

“We had an aluminum tree my mother kept in the barn. It was already decorated and she’d take the tarp off of it Christmas Eve and bring it in the house and it went back in the barn New Years Day. I hated that tree.”

“Not much spontaneity there,” I said, wishing I hadn’t stirred that memory.

“Nope, and I’ll never ever have an artificial tree. I don’t like cutting one every year, but growing one in the house might be prohibitive. Maybe grow one on the front porch in a tub or in front of the front porch so when it snows that becomes part of our Christmas.”

“We’ll plant a couple trees each year to make up for taking one,” I said.

“That too,” he said. “That way we can have a small one in the house when we get tired of having a full size tree and still have one outside. This year I wanted the biggest damn tree I could find.”

“Will we still be living here for one to grow this big?” I asked.

“Sure. I love this place. I plan to be living here when I’m fifty and long out of ball. The first time I saw it I knew this was home, Do.”

“The first time I saw it was where you wanted to be, it became home to me. Where ever you are, my love, that’s home for me.”

I leaned down to kiss him and he leaned up to kiss me. Home was where the heart was and our hearts were here. The more I looked at the tree the more it seemed to fit perfectly where Andy put it. The smell of pine infiltrated the house and Christmas was in the air from that day forward.

Collecting decorations became part of every trip we made. Once the stacks of icicles sat on the table next to the tree and the lights were strung, we sat in front of the fireplace with nothing but the tree lights on in the room. The multiple colors were awesome.

Christmas balls began to go up and in another week, presents began to appear. We’d already had the discussion about being practical and not buying anything expensive if something less expensive served the dame purpose. Neither of us being big spenders made this easy, but we weren’t going to buy anything cheap. The whole idea was to get the best value for our money.

We spent some time buying some nice clothes and a few things for Harold, who checked the packages each time he came over, putting the ones with name tags saying “Harold” all in one spot. Luz had told us what was appropriate for him and that we could buy one special gift, but we were not to spoil him, as they were going to be left with the result once we went back to playing ball. She didn’t want to compete with us, because their budget allowed for necessities and little else.

On Christmas Eve came our Christmas blowout. Luz and Penny and all their kids and me and Andy would have dinner before exchanging presents. Luz and Penny were bringing some dishes they prepared and we’d furnish the ham and some side dishes, a feast to fit every taste. Cooking for that many people scared me, but I figured I couldn’t’ poison anyone, Andy was living proof, but I planned to keep it simple.

It snowed the week of Christmas. The temperatures were cold enough that it didn’t melt before Christmas day. I didn’t remember ever having a white Christmas and neither did Andy. It made the holidays even more special if that was possible.

By Christmas Eve Andy circled the front porch in lights and put a lighted Santa in his sleigh on the roof. He kept saying he wanted it to be just right for the kids but I wondered if he wasn’t the kid that would enjoy it most. This was Christmas just like he always wanted it to be. Each day he had a new idea of what we needed to complete the scene.

We settled on Nat King Cole’s Christmas album as background, as his voice is as soothing as it gets. The Chicago Symphony and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir were backup selections in case the kids got restless with Nat’s silken tones.

We ate and made merry, once the kids settled down after checking all of the decorations. They each stood in front of our trees, mouth open, dazzled by the size and the lights, except for Harold, who was accustomed to it by this time.

A half dozen kids in front of that tree completed the Christmas picture. Only Harold had presents staked up, as the rest of them only knew us as the guys who came to eat their food once a month.

       Luz and Penny radiated beauty and brought the spirit of the season to our table. The laughter and good cheer of the kids made the meal special if loud. How they kept order without raising their voices was a mystery. I’d never been around young kids, except when I was one, and then of course I had perfect manners and never acted like a kid.

With the fire burning brightly and all the lights off except for those on the tree, we worked our way out of the dinning room and into the living room. We’d turned the couch to face the tree and arranged the chairs to make the tree the center of attention. The kids were all excited, not knowing what to expect, but being caught in the Christmas spirit.

Luz and Penny wanted to sing before we handed out presents. They’d brought some of their kid's presents over earlier in the day to keep them occupied.

While having a half dozen kids in the house wasn’t something I wanted to experience more than once a year, on this occasion it added something to our holiday. Hearing the laughter and the joy of kids who might not have always had Christmas presents and dinners made it more pleasing.

Our contributions were generic, as requested, and Luz and Penny got a big kick out of the milking stool and bucket we’d gotten them on a lark. Harold was happy with his new tennis shoes, socks, and an inexpensive acoustic guitar. He’d been taking lessons and was using the teacher’s guitar. It got one of the few smiles he gave out.

By the time we got the house back Luz and Penny had done the dishes. We’d served gingerbread cookies and apple cider with a stick of cinnamon for the kids, and Nat, the Symphony, and the Choir were all worn to a frazzle, as were me and Andy.

The stress of trying to get everything to turn out okay was exhausting. I collapsed in my chair in front of the tree, once the door was closed and they were all gone. Andy sat in his chair and held my hand as the fire burned low and the Christmas tree blazed with bright colors.

“Tonight or tomorrow?” Andy asked.

“Which do you like?” I said.

“I like what we decide is what we want to do,” he said.

“Would tomorrow be okay? We’ve already had a full night,” I said.

“Yes, except there is one gift I want you to open tonight.”

“That’s okay,” I said, as he moved up under the tree and brought out a big square box.

“Here,” he said. “I love you.”

He kissed me before I began to open, and open, and open. When I reached the third box, with more wrapping and papers stuffed down to secure it, I was wondering if it might be a milk stool, although we’d passed that size two boxes back.

He stood next to me as the wrappings and boxes piled up next to the chair. There was one last box in the bottom that was way too small for anything else to be inside, except thin air and little more.

I ripped off the paper and popped open the richly colored burgundy box.

Two brilliant golden bands glittered from the impact of the Christmas tree lights on them. I began to cry, looking up at Andy, who now had a big shit eating grin on his face.

“You didn’t tell me,” I said. “They’re beautiful.”

“Here, I’ll show you where it goes,” he said, removing my band of gold and slipping it on my ring finger. “With this ring I thee wed,” he said from one knee beside me.

We kissed and kissed some more and then he held his hand out for me to slip the second band on his finger. My hand shook and I could hardly get the ring out of its slot and nearly dropped it after I did. I felt like a school girl and besides being giddy, I had never felt love run more deeply through my heart.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” I said, as I slipped it in place as we kissed all over again.        

“It’s all that is really important, you know. We are partners in our hearts and in our lives. No matter what anyone else calls it, we know what we feel,” he said in words he believed.

“Sometimes you amaze me, Andrew,” I said. “I never once thought of having rings. It’s perfect, Andy. You are perfect.”

“You talk too much,” he said, kissing me again.

“I can’t quit ball this year. It would be wrong for me to let Coach Bell down.”

“I never thought you could,” he said, looking at me strangely.

“I’ll tell him this is my last season. I don’t need to play ball if I can be with you all the time.”

“Do, you don’t have to quit ball. I’m going to be gone all summer every season. We can’t travel together. That means you’d be here alone half the time, and I don’t like that idea.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I said.

“It’s December. We’ll probably both be going to Florida for spring training and we can spend a lot of time together there, but once the season starts it will be about our schedules. Think about it before you decide you are quitting. I remember how happy you were once you were playing again,” he said. “Don’t do something you’ll regret later.”

“I suppose I was. I’ve played and minor league ball is fine, but I’ll never go up. Shortstops are a dime a dozen and a lot of them hit a lot better than me. No, Louisville is my last stop. We’ll work it out once I decide I’m quitting.”

“You hit over .300 most of last season. Not a handful of shortstops are hitting at that pace,” Andy reminded me.

“I did have a pretty good year. It’s Louisville, Andy. I’m not a good hitter and I’ll never be one.”

“It’s not even New Years yet. Let’s stop talking ball. I just gave you a damn nice ring, my love, now that ought to get me a little extra consideration in the bedroom tonight, don’t you think?”

“My love, you get extra points in the bedroom every night,” I said.

“Yeah, I do, don’t I? Let’s go up there and see if we can’t go extra innings. I’ve got a bone and a half for you. That's if you haven't turned vegetarian on me.”

He continued holding my hand as he stood up, looking down at me with the most loving expression on his face.

“I love you so much,” I said, as he pulled me to my feet and into his arms.

We kissed.

Andy held me for a long time.

The Christmas tree was in full blaze. It was the most magnificent Christmas tree ever.

Strands of Silent Night filled the room and another kiss took my breath away.

“Merry Christmas, my love,” I said.

“Merry Christmas, Do.”

The End