A Life of Inches (19 page)
Authors: Douglas Esper
A Few Minutes Later
On the stage, a publicist for the Triple-A World Series introduces me. “Ladies and gentlemen, the manager of the Erie Express, Ryan Kelly.”
I’m blinded by camera flashes as I cross to the podium.
Ready to get this over with as soon as possible, I point to a familiar face in the crowd. “Ah, yeah, you with the buzz-cut.”
Tony Drizzle winks. “Your club came out aggressive in this game seven, which is a very different strategy than what you’re known for. Was this a shift in philosophy, or did you panic under the pressure?”
His Old Spice smells so strong my eyes water.
I wipe sweat from my brow. “Pressure? A little more pressure from the pitcher on his last slider and the ball winds up an inch further up the bat, causing a ground ball double-play. A little less pressure in the atmosphere and the ball goes flying over the right field wall. I can talk about pressure all day, Tony, but in my dugout, the only pressure we felt was to look good on camera.”
A few courtesy chuckles overpower the rapid clicking of keyboards, pens, and cellphones, but they’re just biding their time until the winning coach becomes available.
I point to Tony’s left. “You, in the plaid coat.”
The reporter’s tie looks a few inches too short and his mutton-chopped sideburns are a few decades late to the party.
The bulky reporter stands, his shirt coming untucked and his red nose betraying his liquid lunch habit. “Your road to the World Series and the obstacles you’ve faced since your last run at a championship have been well-documented, but could you ever have foreseen that, yet again, it would be your best friend standing in the way of victory?”
Unsurprisingly, it took only two questions before the press steered the conversation to Woodie. As a former major league player and a future major league manager, Woodie makes for a much sexier story than I do.
“Danny, I’ve grown so accustomed to winding up on the losing end competing against Mr. Luck, that at this point, I couldn’t have imagined the game playing out any differently. Heck, the guy earned his nickname by making me look foolish all these years. Why mess with a good thing?”
More chuckles erupt from the peanut gallery.
A female journalist I recognize from SportsCenter, asks, “Rumors have been swirling that the Cleveland Indians were deciding between you or Woodie to become their next head manager. How do you think this series outcome will affect their decision?”
They can decide all they want. My mind is made up on where I want to be from here on out.
I clear my throat. “The Indians front office staff has been fantastic. They recognized the opportunity The Express had to finish this season out, so they’ve allowed us to compete without any distractions. That being said, I’m sure they’re anxious to put a new manager in place. I grew up as a Tribe fan, so I just hope they choose the best man for the job.”
Cameras click as the post-game adrenaline crash comes over me. On a normal day by this time, I’d be camped out on my couch in front of notes for tomorrow’s game. My head aches, my adrenaline supply ran out by the sixth inning, and my body feels so sore I could swear I played the game, not coached it.
I point to another journalist, who looks down at his notepad. “Thanks. Daryl Rooter, WNRO. Is this the worse defeat you’ve experienced against Woodie?”
Daryl is green, and has no idea how much his question stings. I clear my throat and study the young man’s elongated jaw. “That’s still to be determined.”
Daryl rolls his eyes in response to my non-answer. “We have word that the Indians will be announcing Woodie as their new manager as soon as you’re done. Care to comment?”
“No.”
To think that for years my biggest fear was being forced out of the game before I was ready, and now here I am begging to leave with no luck.
I point. “Next?”
“Do you think Woodie is ready to manage at the major league level?”
“He was ready a few years ago. Next?”
“How would you describe the way Woodie handled his closer melting down in game two?”
“Does anyone have any questions that don’t involve Woodie?”
The reporters’ hands fall.
Glancing to the back of the conference room, I see Molly, my father, and my son encouraging me with thumbs rising.
A few whispers ripple across the room and swell into a loud tremor, as two figures cross the stage toward me. Woodie and Dallas Huntley shake my hand before sitting down.
The team President speaks without prompting. “The boys in Cleveland wanted to let you be the first to know, we’ve come to a decision regarding our next head manager.”
So, do I just sit here like a deer in headlights as they announce Woodie as the next manager of the Indians?
Mr. Huntley continues. “Both candidates are well qualified and would make a great addition to our staff, but we feel that Ryan Kelly is the man for the job. He brings a respect, knowledge, and an attitude to the game that we feel will help shape the identity of this organization.”
I’m already reaching over to congratulate Woodie when it hits me that Mr. Huntley just announced my name. His lips are saying congratulations, but I’m too excited to process the actual words. The roar of the room comes to a crescendo and a part of me wants this moment to never end, but I also know where my heart lies.
Grasping the microphone, I say, “Mr. Huntley, I’m so honored that you would pick me for the job. With your support I have no doubt that I could help make the Tribe a winner, but I was just about to announce my intention to retire to make room in my life for the people I care about the most.”
A few surprised gasps escape and the cameras flash to life as tomorrow’s headlines change again.
I focus on my family near the back of the room. “I love you Molly. And I’m ready to walk away from baseball for you and our son.”
I turn to leave, but before I can move an inch, Woodie holds me in place with one hand, while relieving me of the microphone with the other. “Any questions?”
He points to Molly. “You, with the beautiful green eyes, do you have anything to add?”
Tony Drizzle, smelling a great story, motions her forward. “All right guys. Make way. Give her a path.”
She stops a few feet in front of the podium, wrapping her arm around our son. “Do you believe for one second, that I’m going to spend my days bailing out politicians just to come home to your complaining about the Tribe?”
Everyone looks at me and then back at her trying to assess the seriousness of her words.
Moe tugs on his mother’s shirt. She lowers the microphone and I notice my son’s brows are furrowed. The microphone covers half of his face. He holds it so close, I’m afraid he might bite the top off. “Take the job, dad!”
The laughter and cheering erupt even louder than before.
I mouth, “Really?” at Molly.
She nods.
I shake the President’s outstretched hand. “Mr. Huntley, I would be honored to accept.”
From behind the head of the Cleveland Indians organization, two women appear holding various jerseys, jackets, and hats with a brand new logo emblazoned on them.
Grabbing a jersey I’ve dreamt about since my youth, I size it up, and then, I give it away. Woodie appears stunned as I hold it out to him. “My first act as manager is to hire my bench coach.”
Woodie puts on the jersey, and takes a few moments to look down and appreciate what the uniform represents. He grabs onto my shoulder as we face the press, both wearing our Indians gear. “I’ve known this man for years, and hope that now he’s hit the big time, he will remember all the good times we had before we became enemies.”
The reporters laugh and clap as Woodie continues. “Folks, I am proud to introduce, Ryan Kelly, the next manager of the Cleveland Indians.”
A Couple Hours Later
I squeeze both Molly’s and Moe’s hand for the millionth time as we reach the security checkpoint that leads to my departure gate. Just a few hours ago, I lost the biggest game of my career to my best friend and then proceeded to land my dream job. Since then, my life has been a whirlwind of questions for my family as we rode in the complimentary limo to the airport.
My plane boards shortly, so I cut to the chase. I bend down on one knee in front of Molly, and hold out a plastic ring I removed from a champagne bottle at the stadium.
With wide but not very surprised eyes, Molly looks at the ring and then back at me.
“I…I…” she stutters.
Her hand trembles as she offers it to me.
“Molly, I believe in second chances, third chances, and maybe even fourth ones. Plus, I’m just too stubborn to take no for an answer. So, again, will you marry me?”
Several passersby have picked up on the proposal. A small crowd gathers around us, waiting for her answer. It seems no matter how many times I ask for her hand, we are destined to have onlookers.
An elderly couple embraces while they look on, an overweight balding man wearing headphones and some sort of Ghost Hunter T-shirt films us with his phone, and just to my right, I notice an Asian pastor, pushing seventy, watching while cleaning his coat with a hair roller. Glancing around the crowd one more time, I verify that that lady with the pearl necklace from the restaurant isn’t here.
From back down the hall, heading toward the gate, I hear Woodie rushing toward us. “Wait for me. I want to see this.”
Molly grabs onto my jaw and redirects my attention toward her.
“Y-yes. Yes.
Yes, Yes, Yes.”
In her excitement, Molly hops up and down and in response, the gathered crowd of strangers begins clapping for us. Molly pulls me up for a kiss. My right arm wraps around my son and I feel his arms wrap around my leg in an approving hug.
The cheering continues as I give a tip of my nonexistent baseball cap. The overweight man listening to his headphones, I realize, sports a Toledo Torpedoes cap. His squinted eyes regard me with a curious expression as if he recognizes me, or at least thinks he does. Woodie steps within the circle of gathered people to shake my hand.
As we embrace, he announces his thoughts loud enough so everyone can hear, “Folks, I can’t tell you how happy I am for these three friends of mine. Take a good look at Ryan Kelly, his new fiancée, and his son, Moe. Take a good look, because right now I’m shaking hands with the luckiest man alive.”
As he finishes his statement, the crowd applauds again, though Molly punches him playfully on the shoulder, and says, “His name is Michael.”
Woodie embraces her as I shake hands with a few of the strangers caught up in the moment. Molly and I have arranged to reunite in a week after I have a chance to get my bearings at my new job. After that I’ll be returning to California to decide what the next step entails for us.
Stooping down, I give my son a bear hug and a kiss on each of his cheeks. As we say goodbye, Molly and I can’t help but kiss a little longer than appropriate in most public settings, but I don’t want to let her go ever again.
Caressing her cheeks with my thumbs, I say, “I’ll call you when I land.”
She nods but doesn’t speak.
I squeeze her hand one final time and turn to leave when she pulls me back toward her.
“Ryan, you have to promise me—”
“Anything, anything at all. What is it, hon?”
She takes a breath and my stomach turns in nervous tension.
“Promise me you’ll address the closer role as soon as possible, please. The Indians need the best man they can get in that bullpen. Build from the back forward and make all of us proud.”
I cross my heart, and head through security.
As Woodie and I reach our gate, a man and a woman hurrying toward the boarding attendant bump me off balance. I have just enough time to recognize a police badge of some sort shining golden from under the woman’s jacket before they disappear into the crowd.
Without looking back to apologize, the speeding duo head away as I look to Woodie with disbelief.
Woodie pats my shoulder. “Hey man, don’t expect to get any respect until you win a few games.”
We both laugh as an announcement booms from the loud speaker informing us to prepare to board. Woodie’s cell phone rings. He steps out of line to answer the call.
Even though it has been a long and winding road, I agree with Woodie. I am, in fact, the luckiest man on the planet.
Woodie returns with a smirk. “Well, I’ll be seeing you, old friend.”
Confused, I raise an eyebrow.
“Sorry, I’m going to have to get a different flight. That was Tony Drizzle calling me to confirm the rumors he heard just minutes ago.”
“What rumors?”
“Seems the Tigers have picked themselves a new manager as well, so it looks like I’m headed to Michigan instead.”
My best friend and fiercest competitor shakes my hand. Something sharp jabs into my skin. It appears I am now the current owner of a vintage Indians golden glove pendant.
I adorn my old good luck charm with pride. “See you on the field.”
He turns toward his new life as I embark on mine, but before Woodie takes two steps away, he says. “Good luck, Ryan.”
I nod. “Same to you, old buddy.”
“No, I don’t think you get it. Good luck landing before I arrive in Michigan. There’s an awful freak storm, blowing over the Rockies, delaying flights headed east. I think I’ll just take a short trip south and then continue east from there. I figure I’ll win this race easier than any of our others.”
With a wink, he turns and scampers back down the deck toward the nearest ticket booth. Once again, Woodie and I are going head to head.
Stuck in line, I push forward, inch by inch, toward my plane. I think about Woodie and I push. I think about baseball and I push. This time, when I calculate the numbers of inches that will soon separate me from Molly and Moe, I know that no distance can ever keep us apart again.
