In the Cards

I never liked to play baseball. I hated it really. Standing behind the plate and slapping fastballs scared me more than anything. The only reason I stuck with it was to make my dad proud. After the sound of my bat crushing the stitches the first thing I’d hear was his voice.

“There you go Charlie, now fucking move!” He would shout.

And so I would fucking move as fast as my little legs would carry me. I was on the shorter side for my age so I was able to run the bases quicker than most. My teammates would call me Roadrunner when I picked up some extra bases. First base was always just a stepping stone for second and third base. I would pick my head up to see where the ball had landed. Green would mean go and dirt would mean stop. A tepid round of applause from the parents would emerge after every hit, homerun, out, foul ball, strike, ball, hit by pitch, or anything that happened in the game.

When I stood on the base I’d look back to the stands and see my dad watching me steadfast. He didn’t always smile but sometimes he did. Even though my heart was pumping in my chest because I didn’t really like the game, I felt something special at those moments. Like most kids, my father was third in line to God and Jesus. I idolized him like a saint. My dad was never a big talker. He didn’t say normal dad things like “I’m proud of you, son” or “I love you, son.” I could tell when a pat on the shoulder or a “nice game, kid” meant something along those lines. But he was a do-er. A hearty breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs with toast and fresh squeezed orange juice awaited me the morning after every game. That’s how I knew he cared.

Sometimes I wouldn’t play too well. The bigger the pitchers got the harder they threw, and the harder it was to run my way into doubles from shallow hits. These games always made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. I wouldn’t even turn to the stands to gauge my dad’s reactions. My teammates liked to horse around in the dugout but I never did. Especially not during a bad game. All I could do was sit there and mope. It’s nice to be the quiet kid on a team because sometimes you can fade into the background and get left alone when you need it.

The walk back to the car after these games were silent. As soon as we reached the car my dad would offer a conciliatory “tough game sport” or “shake this one off.” Dinner was always quieter than usual. Old James Bond movies filled the kitchen with noise and muted our chewing. It was just dad and I in the house since mom passed. I don’t remember her too much since she passed before I started grammar school. My dad said a lot of things about her though, like how she would’ve been the Ted Williams of mothers. I think there was a baseball-shaped hole in his heart where she used to be. I was happy to fill it; it was me and him versus the world.

My baseball career ended with the county championship game against Lincoln. I was sixteen by this point and still hadn’t grown like the other boys in my grade. My dad had bought me a razor but I didn’t need it yet. I didn’t have too many friends in high school but I had a few, and they were all alright. My friend Matthew from the Robotics team was a real nice kid. I still mostly kept to myself walking through the halls of the high school. Kids looked at me funny and wondered how I made the varsity team in the first place. They said a lot about me then, and I heard a few nasty rumors that don’t bear repeating. I still didn’t mind. We were a team full of surprises and I was happy to be one of them. 

I woke up on the morning of the game and headed downstairs to pour myself a bowl of cereal. My dad had an early morning shift that day so I was going to walk the mile or so to school that day with my school bag and all my baseball gear. When I got downstairs I found a surprise. A hot plate of bacon with scrambled eggs with toast and a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice sat on the table. Next to it was a note on a ripped piece of yellow legal pad. I sat down at the table and read the note.

“Good luck today Charlie. Whatever happens I know you’ll do your best. See you at the game. Dad.”

It was a simple note. I thought about it from the moment I left my house to the moment the ball rang to end the school day. It stayed in my head while I changed into my uniform in the locker room. The team was playing some music real damn loud but I didn’t hear it. I only heard the blood pumping in my ears. 

The game started out on a high note. Zack Pearson hit a dinger that cleared the fence in his first at bat to open the scoring. The Lincoln pitcher threw his hat down hard at the mound as Pearson rounded the bases. From there we stayed in their heads and got our bats going. A few innings in we were only up by two runs though. My first involvement in the game was a big play to close out the fifth inning when I hurled a ground ball from left field all the way back to second and we got the out. I jogged back to the dugout and looked up to see my dad’s reaction. He gave me a courteous nod. I didn’t even notice the group of scouts typing notes on their phones just a section over but I still felt like I was on cloud nine.

I came down from that cloud pretty soon when they opened up the sixth inning with a barrage of hits and four runs scored. From then it was a shootout. Both teams’ bats were firing missiles like a NASA launch. The only time I came close to a hit was a sac fly to tie the game in the eighth inning. All game I hadn’t been able to get my swing going. The burly Lincoln pitchers were throwing some real heat and it scared the hell out of me. I was worried about a lot of things in that game and getting clocked in the head was high on the list.

When the ninth inning rolled around it was clear we would have an old fashioned western shootout on our hands. The scoreboard read 10-9. Lincoln had home advantage so we had to make our stand in the top of the ninth instead of the bottom. Frankie Dobrowksi hit a single and then a pop fly sent him to second. I was on deck watching Anthony Ramirez step to the plate when Coach Craig put his hand on my shoulders.

“Listen, Roadrunner. We’re going to need some real magic from you here, we’re down two outs and need a run to tie it.”

“Coach, it’s only one out right now.”

“It’s about to be two. Look at that clown, you think Ramirez is going to save us right now?” We both turned to watch Ramirez’s at bat. He lashed out at a low curveball and spun around like a crippled ballerina. Strike one.

“Alright Roadrunner, you step up to the plate and you give it all you got. Dobrowski is pretty quick, hit a hard low ball to right field and let it roll. Run to second on anything in the green and let Dobrowski push for home. If we don’t get a run here there’s no chance in hell that Fettuccine Alfredo kid brings us to extra innings.” He paused and I looked at third baseman Frankie Alvarado on the bench, the pasta in question.

Coach continued, “There’s a lot hanging on your shoulders right now kid. We could bring home our first county title in god knows how long. Those scouts in the stands would write some nice things about you if you’re the hero tonight. Maybe even make sure you get a scholarship to a good school.”

“I don’t care too much about what those scouts think about me,” I said.

“I know you don’t. You don’t want to let the team down, or your old man,” he said, pointing at my dad in the stands. His permanent poker face was on and I couldn’t read any of his emotions.

We heard a thud as Ramirez fell into the dirt. Strike three.

“All you Roadrunner,” Coach told me. He gave me a hard pat on the helmet and slapped me on the back. I stepped up to the plate, maybe for the last time in my career, thinking my heart would beat through my chest protector. These next few pitches meant everything to me. 

Getting into my stance, I inhaled deeply and spun my bat while bouncing my knees. The world stopped around me. The pitcher’s eyes seared into mine as he wound up for the first pitch. A driven fastball flashed inches in front of my chest. Ball one. I didn’t shit myself, thankfully, but if it happened again I might have. I swung at his next pitch and tipped it right. Strike one. A low changeup hit the dirt before it reached the box. Ball two. My grip on the bat tightened and I locked into my stance. 

He threw a fastball straight down the middle and I swung. I dropped the bat as soon as I heard the crack and kicked my short legs into overdrive. As I rounded first I saw the ball still rolling in the grass toward the approaching right fielder. A quick look to my left and I saw that Dobrowksi was rounding third, so he could get the run if I forced the throw to second. 

“All the way Charlie!” Coach shouted.

I drove as hard as I could around the bend, arms pumping, legs spinning, heart racing, head down. The second baseman readied his mitt to get the throw and the ball thumped in his glove’s pocket. I readied my haunches and lunged for the base. The leather Wilson touched my shoulder before my hand found the bag.

The Lincoln players mobbed the area in which I laid face down in the dirt. Hoots and hollers erupted from their side of the stands and deafening silence covered ours. I trudged back to the locker room with my defeated teammates. We hung our heads with shame while Coach Craig screamed at us for our pathetic performance at the end of the game. 

He stopped trying to hide his coke problem a while ago, so we all knew to forgive him when he got all riled up. He always tried his best to treat us right and help us win ball games. It was alright if he got a little worked up sometimes because he cared. Coach Craig eventually softened up and told us he was happy with the progress we made that season. We all marched outside to the parking lot and mumbled our goodbyes.

I met my dad’s eyes for the first time since the game ended as he helped me throw my bag in the trunk. We entered the car and he brought the engine to a hum. 

“Better luck next time Charlie,” he said, looking straight ahead as we began the drive home. The car ride home was soundless because Dad still hadn’t fixed the car’s broken radio. I felt just as nervous as I did when I stepped up for my last career at-bat minutes before. God already took Mom away from him. I didn’t want to take away baseball too. We pulled into the driveway and walked into the garage. As I put my bag into hibernation, my dad put his gentle calloused hand on my shoulder.

“Nice try out there today, Charlie.”

“I don’t want to play baseball anymore, Dad. I’m done.”

“I know. That’s okay.”

He gave my shoulder a squeeze and I looked into his eyes, which told me he meant it. My dad said a lot with silence. 

“I know that the game didn’t go how you wanted it to, but I still figured I would give you a little something.” He pulled a small plastic sleeve out of his pocket. I didn’t often get a gift from my dad on a day that wasn’t my birthday or Christmas.

I stuck my hand in the plastic sleeve and pulled out a Topps baseball card. It was a 1975 Carl Yastremzki card with some scratches along the edges. He had a subtle grin on as he watched me study the former face of the franchise.

“Yaz was my favorite player back in the day. This card always meant a lot to me. Not sure if it’s worth too much now, but maybe you’ll get a kick out of it” he said, giving me a pat on the back and heading inside to make us dinner.