BOTTOM OF THE 4TH and we’re up two, but they got guys at first and third, two out. We were out of the inning but Palmer dropped a third strike and threw the ball into right field trying to get the runner at first. From the dugout I can hear him muttering, “Fucking stupid, fucking stupid, fucking stupid.” I’m hoping it’s not the beginning of an episode. His dad Matt, my assistant, isn’t here today, he’s coaching his other kid. “You got this,” I shout. Either to Palmer or Arch, our pitcher, who I know is tiring but I need him to finish this inning. Palmer’s twelve, takes ADHD medication, sees a therapist for anger issues, and has the quickest release to second I’ve ever seen in a little leaguer. Three weeks into this coaching gig and I know more about these kids than some of the teammates I had for years. I’m not even a generation older than them and so much has changed. “Mental health and parent management, you up for that?” Gregg, the club organizer and my boss, asked me when we’d chatted about the job, my first as a head coach. So much for moving the runner being the most important thing I’d thought before saying yes.
Thus far, it’s gone well. The parents are supportive, kids mostly well behaved, and we’ve won three of four. But, today’s a tournament elimination game against our rivals. Emotions were high from the start when the opposing coach, Brian, a guy whose kid I’d previously coached, accused me of getting there early and having my guys take the field for extra warm ups. Extra warm ups? “Read the tournament rule book,” he said. Tournament rule book? I don’t even have a solid 9-5 but who’s got time for that shit?
Arch looks down at Palmer getting the sign which I’d given him. Fastball away. The pitch is perfect but it grazes off of Palmer’s glove. Both runners break. The ball thuds against the wooden backstop and caroms directly back to Palmer. Guy at first moves to second but the tying runner holds at third. “Noooo!” Palmer screams as he tosses the ball to the mound. I signal the ump for time. I walk to the plate slowly wondering what to tell the kid. He’s super smart on top of it all, so platitudes won’t work. Is this an arm around the shoulder moment or tough love? I decide on a flat tone with no emotion. “Palmer, I need your head in this play and the next one, past is done.” The boy stands red faced next to me. Beneath his mask, I see a large pimple to the right of his nose. Acne is the last thing he needs. “You got that?” I say. He nods.
The next pitch is a curve which doesn’t break and the batter hits screamer to Diaz at short. He’s in the perfect crouch, glove in position. He’ll make this play. Then the ball hits a divot in the grass and slams into his forearm. He smothers the ball. A run scores. He underhands the ball to Arch. Palmer stands at the plate, looking toward right field for no apparent reason. Diaz stays down. I call time. The ump grants it and I walk out to short. “Hey Blue, how much time you gonna let this guy stall? We got a rally here.” The opposing coach again. My neck is hot. Are you fucking kidding me? My guy is hurt. I swallow it. Coach Steve flashes in my mind.
***
His hands were gnarled, fingers huge, several joints at odd angles. After every game, he’d shake hands with each of us, the tension inversely proportional to our play and attitude on the field. I had the feeling he could break bones with just a medium squeeze. He had the large blocky body of a catcher. A catcher who’d had a cup of coffee with the Giants or so the rumor went. He was friends with Coach Pat, also a catcher. When Coach Pat introduced him to the team, we learned we was, or had been, a lawyer, small business owner, and high school baseball coach at some point. His son came with him. Brandon was bean pole tall, easily 6’3’’ at 14, rake thin, and had the largest shoes size I’d ever seen. He had to special order size 15 cleats. Being so rangy, I was afraid he might want to take my spot at first base, but from the go, he played left field and backup catcher. He was goofy and I liked him right off. Coach Steve was no tougher on his son than the rest of us which is to say he rode us all hard. “How many two strikes change ups has the guy thrown? Do any of you know?” We didn’t and he glared at us.
One day, as I was packing up my gear, Coach Steve looked my way. “Nic, what are you going to work on between now and next practice.” Next practice was two days away. I was only thinking about dinner. I stammered something about conditioning and thought about the push-ups and sit-ups I never did. “That’s a vague answer. A serious player wouldn’t hesitate. And I think that’s what you want to be.” I waited for my dad to pick me up, those words reverberating in my head.
***
“I can’t throw Coach,” Diaz says to me, his left hand covering his right forearm where I can see a contusion starting to form.
“You did great just knocking that ball down, saved a run. Go ice that.” Diaz runs off and I wave in Walker from center field. He’s the best athlete on the team and plays a solid shortstop. He’s also our backup catcher, we don’t have a third option. “All knuckleballs to this next guy,” I say softly to Arch as I walk back to the dugout. “Take charge, we need you big here.” Their batter flails at three floaters and we’re finally out of the inning, up one. I give Arch knuckles, he smiles broadly.
Walker doubles to open the 5th and a ground out to first moves him to third. After a strikeout, Diaz is up with Palmer on deck. Diaz takes a half practice swing and winces in pain. I call time. “Here we go again,” comes from the dugout right behind me. I jog to the plate from my third base coaching position.
“My guy can’t hit.” I say to the ump,” pointing at Diaz’ forearm, now with an eggplant colored blotch on it. “The tournament rules allow me to just send up the next guy, right?” I ask the question loud. The ump nods and I motion to Palmer.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Brian, almost leaps from his dugout and runs to the plate. “That’s crap. His guy is out. I read the rules.” We both look at the ump who says nothing.
“Not on a third out of the inning,” I say. I hadn’t read the rules, my assistant takes on that task, and was grasping at straws here, but I remember that as a rule from somewhere.
Crack! I whirl around and see Palmer’s aluminum bat rolling away from the wooden backstop. He starts wailing. “That’s not right, that’s not right. My Dad knows.” He takes a step toward the bat and I grab him from behind in a reverse bear hug. I’m squeezing hard and I can smell twelve year old sweat and feel twelve year old ribs beneath my forearms.
“It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok,” I shout above his screams. He struggles and I squeeze just a bit harder. “It’s ok, it’s ok.” Then he stops shouting and his body goes limp. Oh God, have I squeezed him unconscious?
***
We were 14 year olds when Coach Steve started with us. Most of us were little league stars and were expecting the same in high school ball which would start the following year. A few of us even thought we could make varsity as freshmen. Our club results were not encouraging. We lost more than we won, but there was always someone else to blame. Besides, we rationalized, it was just summer. One Saturday afternoon after a typical 6-2 or 7-3 loss, we marched out to left field for the customary post game talk. We expected the usual back and forth from each coach on fundamentals and dedication to the game. Today it was only Coach Steve. He stared at us before speaking, the massive thumb from his left hand massaging the knuckles on his right. “No high school coach will ever want any of you the way you’re treating the game. You show more passion over sunflower seeds than scouting the opposing pitchers. You walk on and off the field like entitled brats. Your parents are wasting their money. Might as well try to sell your stuff on eBay.” After those five sentences, he walked off. We squinted into the sun following his form. When we got back to the dugout, both coaches were gone. The few parents who had come milled about with impatient looks. The dugout floor was littered with sunflower shells and gum wrappers.
None of us played varsity as freshmen, but many of us played four years of high school and, several of us, beyond that. It would be two years before our club team won its first and only tournament, but some changes were immediate. No one was late to practice the coming week and I brought a dust pan and broom to the next game.
***
I ease my grip on Palmer and drop on one knee, turning him around in the process. He lets out an audible breath and his eyes are open. I feel a wave of relief. His body lies loosely on my leg. He looks exhausted. There’s a hand on my shoulder.
Arch’s Dad speaks. “We’ll take him. Laura’s already called Matt.” He and another dad gather Palmer from my arms and carry him to a shaded patch of grass past the small bleachers. I stand and look at the ump who’s taken off his mask. Sweat beads on his forehead. Brian stands on the third baseline but doesn’t say anything. I look around. The boys are silent. I don’t know if that was the third out or not. We may need a batter. We’ll definitely need a catcher.
***
After our one tournament win, we celebrated at a local pizza joint with several pool tables. We ate, drank pitchers of sodas, and set up a round tournament on the tables. Brandon and I came in third. At one point, I caught a glimpse of Coach Pat and Coach Steve outside on the patio, whiskeys in hand. I was surprised to see them looking somber.
We had a light practice two days after the tournament which wasn’t unusual. Both coaches seemed unfocused which was unusual. Coach Pat called Travis by my name and Coach Steve left a bucket of baseballs in his garage. After an hour or so, we were told to go sit in the dugout. Coach Steve faced us. “Boys,” he said then stopped. Coach Pat, standing next to him, put a hand on his shoulder. “Boys, bad news is never easy to deliver so I’ll make this quick.” His large hand gripped the fabric on the thigh of his baseball pants. “I’ve been diagnosed with brain cancer. I’ll start treatment next week, but it’s not all that promising. I should have told you earlier but, with the tournament and everything …” He turned away from us, head lowered. Brandon was standing right next to me. I had so many questions but I stood frozen.
***
The tournament director happens to stop by in the middle of everything. I was right, removing a player due to injury can’t account for a 3rd out. Our guy strikes out anyway. He also gives us ten extra minutes of time, I figure that will keep Brian quiet, but it means we have two defensive innings to finish. I tell Walker to put on catcher’s gear and ask Arch to play short. “But, Coach, I’ve never played there.”
“I know you can do it,” I say.
In truth I have no idea and his arm is surely sore, but we don’t have many options. We have our strongest reliever, Dante, on the hill so there’s reason for some confidence. He gets the first batter looking and the second one pops out to first. The third guy singles and I step to the top of the dugout to give him a reassuring look. In my peripheral vision I see Coach Matt helping Palmer up. The boy looks exhausted and almost falls into his father. Matt looks my way then out to the field pointing at Arch at short then back at me. I shrug and he gives me a weary half-smile. The runner on first steals second with no throw. The next batter hits a sharp ground ball to Arch’s right. He takes a step, fields it cleanly, and fires it to first. Easy out. The parents cheer. I exhale. One more inning.
***
I spent a lot of time with Brandon that terrible summer. Coach Steve was undergoing both chemo and radiation and it left him exhausted so he stopped coming to practice. Brandon had his license and I didn’t, so he’d usually pick me up and we’d drive around just shooting the shit. A couple of times we stopped by his house and once I saw Coach. I was shocked. In just a month, his body had changed, sweatpants clinging to his hips. He offered me his hand and it was a tiny consolation that his grip was still strong. I couldn’t think of anything to say, then I blurted, “You’ve been slacking, better get to practice soon.” He smiled and gave me a nod.
On the Saturday before school started, Brandon and I sat in a long line of cars at In-N- Out. We knew it would have been shorter to order inside, but it was hot and we were tired from the morning practice. I was trying to decide if I’d get two double doubles when Brandon said, “I don’t think I’ll make it through the school year here.”
“C’mon,” I said, “don’t be crazy. Junior year might be tough, but it’s just high school. Besides, you’ll be the varsity catcher this spring.”
“That’s not it,” he said, looking straight ahead. “My Mom told us that we’re moving back east when my Dad dies. All our family’s there.” His head slumped to the steering wheel and I heard his muffled cries. I put my left hand on his right one. He had big hands with long fingers, less chunky than his dad’s. I had no words.
***
We go down meekly in the top of the 6th. The boys look beat. No says Palmer’s name, but his presence looms in the dugout. “Hop to it, three outs to go,” I exhort them as they take the field. Dante gets the first kid swinging at a breaking ball. The second batter, their slugger, strokes a ball into the right center gap. We catch a break as he stumbles between first and second and has to hold to a double. I look at our parent section, nervous faces. I call time and bring the infield to the mound. I have an idea. The runner takes a sizeable lead as Dante gets the sign from Walker. Dante sets then spins around. Arch times it perfectly and sneaks behind the runner. The throw is spot on - pickoff at second. The parents go crazy. Brian stands at the top of his dugout, dumbfounded. Four pitches later, we win the game.
The boys mob Arch and Dante in between shortstop and the mound. I walk across the diamond to shake hands with their coaches. Brian mutters something about talking later. Our side is all hugs. Diaz’ dad says, “Damn Nic, you managed a helluva game.” I tell the team how proud I am of them and that we’re in the semifinals so to rest up and be ready to play two the next day. The game has lasted just over two hours but my legs feel heavy and my mind weary. I see that my roommate has messaged me that our crew has a table at Swann’s for the game. I’ll skip this one. I walk to my car, thinking about a drive through burrito and hoping there are a few beers left in the fridge.
“Nic?” I turn, my hand on the car door handle. It’s Carter’s dad. Carter is our weakest player. He’s a nice enough kid, but I can’t tell if he even likes baseball. I play him some but not a lot.
“What’s up?” I say.
“That was a great game. You really got a lot out of the boys.”
“Thank you. They really rose to the challenge.”
“I wonder if we could talk about -“
I cut him off. “It’s not a good time.”
“Oh, well, soon then.”
Driving home, I wonder if I’ve just bitten the hand that feeds me. It’s not rec ball where everyone plays. But these parents pay good money, including my salary. I try to push it out of my mind as I pull into the taco shop drive through. Matt sends me a thank you text. Palmer is okay. Then a text comes in from Brian.
Good win Nic. You’re developing into a fine manager. We’ll have to talk about your antics though.
I want to punch the steering wheel. I compose a text replete with f-bombs, but say only, “One California burrito, wet please.”
***
The memorial service was the Saturday after Thanksgiving. We tried to look like men in our ill-fitting sport coats and our fathers’ ties. All of Coach Steve’s background was true. There was even a stint with the Blue Jays’ minor league office that I’d never heard about. Brandon pointed out a couple of guys who he’d played with in the Bigs. I would have tried to meet them had I not been trying not to cry. I kept thinking that Brandon no longer had a Dad, while mine was a short distance away. Also that Brandon would be gone after Christmas.
There were many speeches, Coach Steve touched people in all of his roles. I looked at my teammates to see which one of us would go up. I knew I should but couldn’t think of what I’d say. When Coach Pat spoke, it was impossible to hold back the tears. It was then I realized Coach Steve was truly gone.
After, there was a reception with Coach Steve’s favorite foods. Chicken fried rice, Greek salad, and a Czech beer I didn’t know. I saw a couple of the guys drinking some, but I didn’t feel like any. With my plate only half finished, Brandon came over to me. “Let’s get out of here. I need to leave.”
“But what about your mom?” I said.
“She’s okay with it.”
We drove without talking. Somehow I knew where he was going. He parked in front of the middle school and grabbed two gloves from the back seat. I left my jacket and tie on the seat and followed him to the field behind the school. The field where we first met. “Long toss,” he said.
In our dress shirts and shoes, we took positions in the outfield and threw the ball back and forth, each throw a bit harder than the last. I squinted as the sun set and then as the light dimmed. A high throw nearly caught my ear and low one bounced off my shin. I had the feeling if we never stopped, time would never move forward, and the new reality could never begin.
***
I eat the burrito and drink the last two beers in the fridge. I feel Brian’s text glaring at me through my phone. I call Gregg to give him an update on the game and my interactions with Brian and Carter’s dad.
“Shit, you had yourself a day,” he says. I don’t say anything and he goes on. “You handled it very well. And that pick off at second, I wish I could have seen Brian’s face. He gets weird like that sometimes. I think your instinct is right, leave that text unanswered.”
“And Carter?” I say.
“Maybe give him a start in the opening game next tournament.”
I get off the phone and turn on a Netflix series. I watch a few episodes blankly, my mind still back at the field. A text drops in. I glance at it, expecting Brian. It’s the tournament organizer, letting me know our game is at 10 am. I message the team through our app. Matt responds right away. Palmer’s a maybe, he’ll let me know by 7 am. Diaz’ Dad messages as well. They’ve alternated ice and heat on the forearm but won’t know until the morning either.
It’s not even nine o’clock but I feel so tired. I’d planned to go to the gym tonight but that’s not happening. If I go to sleep now, I could get a workout in at 6 am. I get into bed with two lineup cards. I figure I’ll do one with and without the maybes. I scratch in the names and feel my eyes closing. I drop them on my nightstand and shut the light.
I wake before my 5:30 alarm having slept eight hours straight. I get my gym stuff together and pop a pod into the coffee maker. I decide I have time to drink my coffee at the counter rather than to go. I feel the steam from the cup as I examine the lineup cards, not sure I even remember my decisions. The first card has our usual starting nine with Matt’s name as assistant coach and mine in the head coach plot.
I looked at the second card.
In the head coach’s spot, I’d written, “Coach Steve.”
— FRANÇOIS BEREAUD
François Bereaud is a husband, dad, full time math professor, mentor in the San Diego Congolese refugee community, and mediocre hockey player. He is the author of San Diego Stories published by Cowboy Jamboree Press and the novel, A Question of Family published by Stanchion Press. He has been widely published online and in print. His work has earned Pushcart Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions nominations. He serves as the fiction editor at The Twin Bill and reads for Porcupine Literary.