– But I want to go.
– Don’t whine. Tell you what. Get this next hitter out, and we’ll go outside.
I point at the TV.
– That’s Jackie Robinson. I can’t get Jackie out.
– You can try.
The door opens. The Bank Manager and The Culinary Rep walk in.
The Kid looks over at them.
– Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad.
The Rep waves.
– Hey, Kid.
The Manager comes over and kisses him on the cheek. I see the huge hole in the back of her head.
– Hello, baby.
She looks around.
– Do I smell cigarette smoke?
Adam flicks his butt out the window.
The Kid sniffs.
– Not from us, Mom.
– Hmm.
The Rep walks over. He turns around, sniffing the air. I see the huge hole in the back of his head.
– Smells like smoke.
– Naw, I don’t think so.
The Rep gives him a hard look.
– Don’t lie to me, Son.
– Dad, you’re in the way of the game!
I throw a pitch.
– Don’t yell at me. I smell cigarette smoke in my house.
The Kid hits a button, Jackie swings and pops up the ball and it drops into my catcher’s glove. He throws his controller at the floor.
– Shit! Shit! Shit!
The Manager covers her mouth with her hand.
– What did you say?
The Culinary Rep walks to the TV, unplugs the game console and starts to wrap the cables around it.
– OK, that’s it. Everybody out.
I stand.
– Yeah, let’s go play.
The Kid stands.
– OK. Jeez, I was going for the single-game scoring record. Would have had it, too. You suck.
The Rep puts a hand on his shoulder.
– Uh-uh, not you. You aren’t going anywhere. Not after using language like that.
– Daaad!-No! Game over. Everybody out. And I’m calling all of your parents and telling them one of you was smoking.
Adam and Martin don’t say anything, they just help each other stand and start hobbling to the door, Adam pulling a fresh smoke from his pack.
I follow them out. The door closes behind us.
– C’mon, guys, let’s go play pickle.
Adam looks at me, blows more smoke out of his neck.
– No. I must smoke.
– C’mooooon.
Martin points at his ruined knee and foot.
– Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna!
– OK, OK. Be spoilsports.
I watch them as they weave and lurch down the street, leaning on one another for support.
– Yo!
I turn around. Jay and Miguel are in the middle of the street. Miguel has a ball. He’s throwing it up in the air as far as he can, positioning himself underneath it and practicing basket catches.
I point.
– That’s bad fundamentals. You want to get under the ball, get the glove up and catch it with both hands. Showboat like that and it’ll cost you a run someday.
Jay looks at Miguel.
– Check out Sparky Anderson, yo.
Miguel makes another easy catch.
– Whatever. Let’s play three flies.
I watch the ball go up in the air again.
– I don’t got my glove.
Miguel tosses me his.
– Use mine.
The ball drops and slaps down into his bare hand.
– Take the field.
Me and Jay walk down the street. Miguel walks in the opposite direction. When we’re far enough away he tells us to stop. We take spots in the middle of the street. Miguel tosses the ball up and swats it with his bat, popping it toward us. We jockey for position, lightly elbowing one another, trying to create space as the ball drops at our faces. It veers slightly at the last second and I leap and twist and flop over the hood of a car, snowconing it before it can hit and leave a dent.
Jay slaps me on the ass as I walk over with the ball.
– Nice one, yo.
I throw the ball back to Miguel. He catches it and points up the street behind us.
– Car!
We take a couple steps out of the way and let the car go by. Then we play some more.
I WAKE UP.
I look at the clock.
It’s after 10:00 a.m. Late.
I get up, grab the duct tape and go into the bathroom. I splash water on my face and rub it over my head. I rinse my mouth. I look at the bruise on my ribs. It’s bigger. My whole side is stiff and aches. I peel off a long strip of duct tape and plaster it to my side. I peel off another strip and do the same.
I use the whole roll, taping up my side, fixing the cracked ribs in place. When I’m done it looks like I have a plate of lead covering my left side, bands of it wrapped around my middle and arcing up over my shoulder. It pulls at my skin and makes it hard to breathe, but the ribs don’t move as much.
I put on my wife-beater and underwear and socks. Everything smells of bleach. I pull on my jeans and my jacket and go back into the room and get my shoes. There’s blood on the heel of the right one. I leave it there and put them on. I fill my pockets with my cash and my wallet and the keys to my shitty apartment in Las Vegas. I pick up Adam’s flick-knife and Martin’s sap and the last full bottle of water.
Anything else?
Before I die, anything else?
I take a last look around the room.
No, not really. Nothing else.
So I take the box to the elevator and go downstairs and drag it through the lobby to the curb and hail a cab and the driver puts it in the trunk and I tell him to take me to Brighton Beach.
Wasn’t much of a last night. But at least I got to see some of that game. That was nice. That was OK.
