Gray Matter

Saturday was a stunningly beautiful day. The air was light and sultry, the sky was a delft-blue with cumulus puffs rolling overhead, and a full face of the moon hung above like a silver wafer. The mid- morning sun lit up the Charles Tracey baseball field with stereoscopic clarity. The red clay diamond, etched into the brilliant expanse of green, seemed to blaze as if lit from within. In the distance, beyond the trees, spread the Atlantic like a vast sheet of amethyst all the way to the horizon where it merged with the sky into a seamless blue vault.

The teams were gathered along the sidelines—Dylan and his mates in their bright blue Beacons T-shirts and caps, and the Lobsters, of course, in red. It was the first day of actual intramural T-ball, and Dylan was beside himself with excitement. Last weekend and on a couple afternoons, they had practiced hitting, fielding, and running the bases. Now was the “Great Big Game,” as he had called it. All week long he had been talking about it. “I’m gonna hit a big one for the ole Mama Rache,” he had promised. The ole Mama Rache. She didn’t know where he got that from, but she loved it.

From the little grandstand along the first base line, she and Martin watched the coaches try to calm the kids for instructions. For the first time in weeks, Rachel let herself relax into the moment—a moment that she would give her life to hold on to forever.

When they were ready, the Beacons took to the field. Luckily Dylan started and was sent to left field because the coach said that he had a strong arm.

Dylan waved at Rachel and Martin as he trotted off with his glove, looking back to the coach who signaled where to stand.

The first Lobster got up to the plate holding a fat plastic bat almost as big as he was. Laughing to himself, one of the coaches brought him a smaller one and showed him how to choke up. The head coach served as pitcher, gently lobbing the balls underhand to the batter. The first boy struck out. The second sent a dribble to the third baseman who overthrew as the batter made it to first, and the crowd in the opposing grandstand cheered him on. In a less than ten minutes, the sides retired and the Beacons came in. Rachel and Martin didn’t know where Dylan was in the lineup, but the inning was over with the fifth batter. And Dylan was sent back to left field.

Rachel was thoroughly enjoying the game and letting the sun soothe her spirit. Yet, observing the other parents even at this level of play, she could sense a competitive tension—one that she imagined would evolve into one of those sharp-edged things as the years progressed. While she could not imagine Hawthorne Little League parents coming to fisticuffs, something just below the surface made her uncomfortable. A nearby couple appeared to take it hard when their son struck out or when a batter from the opposing team scored. The woman two rows below cried “Oh, shit!” when her Clayton was tagged running home. And downbench from them people were keeping a running tally as if this were the Red Sox and Yankees.

At the bottom of the second inning, Rachel spotted Sheila MacPhearson approaching the grandstand, and her stomach tightened. Rachel didn’t want to talk to Sheila. She didn’t want to be distracted from the pleasure of watching her son. She did not want to share the moment with anybody other than Martin.

Sheila waved and climbed up toward them. “I saw the blue uniforms,” she said, settling next to Martin. “So I knew you guys would be here. There he is,” she chortled, fluttering her hand in Dylan’s direction even though he was looking the other way. “He looks adorable. I love the blue on him,” she said as if she were a favorite aunt.

“Aren’t you working today?” Rachel asked.

“I will be,” she said and checked her watch. “So what’s the score?”

“Seven to three, Beacons,” Martin said.

Rachel looked at him. He too had been keeping score. Like it mattered!

“Good for them,” Sheila said. “I hope they whip their butts.”

“How are sales?” Martin asked.

Sheila rocked her head. “Mezzo mezzo. With the economy, things are slow even with price drops. People don’t have the money they used to. It’s gotten tough.”

Rachel nudged Martin. Dylan moved up to the plate. He tapped his sneakers with the bat like the pros and took a few practice swings. Rachel’s heart flooded with love.

“You’re a hitter, Dylan,” Martin called.

“GO DYL-AN!” Sheila shouted.

Rachel felt her insides clench. All she wanted was for him to feel good about himself, and that meant just one little hit, even if he popped out or got tagged. Just for him to feel the ball crack against the bat.

The first ball went by him almost without his notice. They weren’t counting balls and strikes. Dylan let four perfect pitches go by. When the fifth one passed him and he still hadn’t taken a swing, Rachel began to wonder if he was scared or wasn’t sure what to do. The coaches kept up a constant litany:

“Come on, Big D!”

“You’re a hitter, Dylan.”

“Nice easy swing.”

“Keep your eye on the ball.”

“Is he okay?” Sheila asked.

Before Rachel could answer, Dylan smashed the next pitch.

Instantly she was on her feet, jumping up and down and cheering as the ball shot past the second baseman on a fly and toward center. The outfielder missed the catch and took off after it. By the time he got the ball, Dylan was bounding toward third base while the coaches waved him on and the crowd cheered.

Rachel was so excited she heard herself hooting. The second baseman threw the ball to the shortstop, backed by the kid from third. But the throw was high, and while the coaches shouted for Dylan to slow down as he rounded third, that he’d be safe, he didn’t stop but made a dramatic slide home in a cloud of dust just as he had seen on TV. Instantly, the coaches and Beacons were all over him with pats and high fives.

Rachel’s heart was pounding, and her eyes were wet. “Way to go, Dylan!”

Beaming at them, Dylan waved, then he pointed his finger at her. “A big one for the ole Mama Rache.”

Thank you, God.

Now she didn’t care what happened for the rest of the game.

When the shouting died, Martin leaned to Sheila. “How’s Brad doing?”

“Well as can be expected, what with a double death.” Then she pressed into a conspiratorial huddle with Rachel. “I don’t know him well, but I think he’s in shock. He went to his sister’s in Oregon.” She then shook her head. “She was a driven woman. And sometimes under pressure you do careless things. It’s not like she was a dummy and couldn’t write her own book. But there’s a lot of pressure to produce, and she fell to temptation. What can I say?”

With one eye, Rachel was watching the kids below. She wished Sheila would stop yapping, but she went on.

“The humiliation was just too much for her, and she snapped. It’s horrible.” When Rachel looked away to watch Dylan, Sheila nudged her. “Julian was his pride and joy. And what a loss. Not just a brilliant artist, but he got a perfect score on his math PSATs, an eight hundred, and seven hundred seventy in verbal. Top sophomore at Bloomfield.”

Rachel nodded.

Martin, who sat to Rachel’s left, pressed closer to Sheila. “What a tragedy.”

“No doubt he would have gotten a free ride through college even with their income. Absolutely brilliant, is all.”

The boy’s dead and she’s talking about his damn PSATS, thought Rachel.

“Could have been a rocket scientist.”

I don’t bloody care what he could have been, Rachel shouted in her mind.

“No doubt,” said Martin. “A terrible shame.”

One of the kids hit a grounder past shortstop into left field. Dylan raced for it and scooped it up like a kid twice his age. He paused for a moment not sure where to throw it. One runner who had been on second was heading home. Rachel froze. The other runner was rounding first base with no intentions of stopping.

Second! Rachel screamed in her head. Throw to second!