A Life of Inches (2 page)

Chapter Two

August 10, 1991

Omar De Leon raises his hand and waves a twenty. “Three bags of peanuts, please.”

The seats at Municipal Stadium are less than a third full, yet this crowd doubles the average it’s hosted since opening day. The summer sun beats down, warm enough that the Oakland A’s must feel like they’re back at home in California.

Molly gives her father an admonishing glare while pointing at Woodie and I. “Just so we’re clear, Dad, I’m not sharing with these hooligans.”

Omar chuckles, but Molly’s expression is dead serious.

As Jose Canseco takes a few practice swings on his way to the plate, Omar regards the rest of us with a questioning glance, and then grabs another ten dollars. “Make that six bags?”

Woodie and I sit on either side of Molly, who has become fast friends with us ever since we “accidentally” met. Though she and Woodie hit it off that day, she told him she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend because her mom didn’t allow her to date.

My dad passes me the remaining bags of peanuts. I hold Molly’s out to her. “Want me to open that for you?”

“Thanks, but I got this, tough-guy.” Molly hands Woodie his bag and then opens hers.

We found out quickly that our new friend is as athletic as us and as competitive as she is pretty. Her toned, sun-kissed leg brushing against mine is cause for excitement, but I keep my cool in front of the others.

As a former baseball coach my dad loves to quiz us on strategy during the game. “They’ve got a speedster on first and the guy at the plate is a power-hitting outfielder. Your pitcher has an average move to first at best, but your catcher has a cannon to second. The count is 1-0 and there are no outs. What’ll the next pitch be?”

Just like that, none of us are focused on peanuts—or how sunburned we all are because my dad forgot sunscreen.

Considering what I know of the Indians’ manager, of the players, and the much-lauded defense, I’m certain of what they’ll do. “Pitch out.”

Woodie snorts. “Really?”

“Sure. If the guy on first is that fast, you want to put the ball in the catcher’s hand and allow him to make the play.”

“Good answer,” Omar chimes in.

Molly pops in a peanut, shell and all. “Playing scared, are you, Ryan?”

My dad leans forward. “What about you, Woodster?”

His answers always bend toward the most aggressive approach. “I go right at the batter with everything I have. I’m a pitcher with a wicked slider facing a power hitter who thrives off the fastball. Go at him, strike him out, and hit the showers. Why risk someone biffing a ball, misreading the field, or losing it in the sun? You have an ace for a reason.”

He finishes his answer as the pitcher comes set. The pitch starts off high and wide before executing a sharp curve back across the plate. The ball angles less than an inch under the bat.

The ump raises his hand behind the plate. “
Steee-riiiike
.”

I pat Woodie’s shoulder in congratulations for guessing against the pitch-out. Yet the main reason for my goodwill gesture is to wrap my arm around Molly, if only for a moment. I give her a squeeze. She focuses on me, surprised but not annoyed.

The pitcher comes set again. Unwinding, he hurls a fastball in tight. The count goes to one and two, still no pitchout. Our entire section stands, expecting a strikeout—as Woodie predicted.

The pitcher looks back the runner toward first, and then begins his windup.

The runner goes. He gets a great jump and it looks like an easy stolen base, but then the catcher stands and reaches out his arms to the right of the plate. It’s a pitchout. In a blur of speed, the catcher has the ball in and out of his glove and guns the ball toward second base. The runner slides face first. The second baseman slips a bit, but like a cat in a free-fall, he regains both his balance and his focus on the ball.

Here’s the slide, the tag—

The second base ump raises his hand into a fist and slams it toward the ground as if swatting a huge fly that has been pestering him. “
Oooouutt
.”

The crowd erupts, a frenzied tornado of noise and…peanuts? Henry, Woodie’s father, and Omar howl together, engaging in some sort of awkward celebratory chicken dance. I slap high-fives with Molly and Woodie. A few peanut shells crunch on my seat as I sit back down. Everyone within three rows notices the empty bag in my dad’s hand and his blushing cheeks.

My dad shrugs his shoulders, and says, “That was a close one. Hey, I’m hungry. Anyone have any peanuts left?”

In unison, the other five members in our party tighten up our bags and shift away from him. This unplanned coordination brings chuckles from each of us, as well as some onlookers.

Music blaring over the loudspeakers helps announce a break in the action. The Indian’s manager pops out of the dugout to stall the game so a relief pitcher can get warmed up.

Woodie asks, “What could be better? Baseball at the park, a rare cloudless day in Cleveland, surrounded by good friends, and of course a bag of peanuts.”

I totally agree. “This is the life.”

Omar thrusts a bag of peanuts in front of Woodie, Molly, and me. “I want each of you to grab one shell and hide it in your hands without anyone else seeing.”

Curiosity piqued, I raise an eyebrow at Molly to see if she has any idea what’s going on. Her furrowed brow and unsteady grin are answer enough that her mustached father’s motives are unknown to her.

Reaching in first, I grab a peanut shell. I close my fist, making sure to keep it hidden as ordered. Woodie and Molly follow suit.

I say, “Ready when you are, Mr. De Leon.”

Instead of addressing us, however, he turns toward the other two adults. “Gentlemen, grab a peanut.”

They follow his instructions, sharing a curious glance.

My dad holds his fist out. “What next, Big O?”

Omar slips his hand in the bag. “Hold on. I need mine.”

This last peanut drawn from the bag takes longer than the rest of ours combined. Omar hams it up while searching for the perfect shell. Offering a glance at each of us in turn, he at last removes his hand from the bag.

With his receding hair blowing in the summer wind, Omar shows his tight fist guarding his shell. “Contestants, are you ready?”

Some of the people sitting nearby watch us for entertainment while a new pitcher jogs in from left field.

“Uh, for what, Dad?” asks Molly. The blistering sun seems intent on intensifying Molly’s sunburn until her skin tone blends with her dark red hair.

“Why, for the latest craze sweeping Ohio, my sweet daughter.” Omar exaggerates his voice into a booming, cartoonish tone, like a game show host. “You see, one lucky man from this trio of old fogies is going to buy a round of sodas, and one of you three is going to go get ‘em for us.”

Something about his voice renders me unable to stop smiling at the ridiculousness of it all. He holds up his index finger. “First, on the count of three I want Ryan, Molly, and Woodie to reveal their peanuts. Understood?”

I nod.

He counts. “One, two, three.”

My choice is revealed as your average shell with two peanuts. Molly also chose a standard two-peanut shell. Where mine is thin, however, her shell is much wider and bulkier.

Molly asks, “Is mine good or bad? I have no idea what’s going on.”

I shrug. “Neither do I.”

Of course, as luck would have it, Woodie reveals a massive shell that encases three peanuts.

Omar announces, “We have a winner. Woodie, you have chosen the longest peanut, and what a beauty she is. You have just won…that peanut shell, and the chance to stay here eating it while one of your good friends trudges up the stairs under a hot summer sun and fetches us drinks. Molly, you place second, as your shell is much thicker than Ryan’s, but I’m sorry to say only the grand prize winner gets to keep their peanut.”

Resigned in defeat, I stand to get the sodas, but I’m motioned to sit back down.

“No, friends, the excitement isn’t over yet,” Omar continues. “Oh, no indeed. Now comes the bonus round. The rest of us will now compare our shells, and the smallest picked must pay for all of the drinks. So, are we ready?”

Though he’s speaking to the other two adults in our group, at least three onlookers also chime in. “Ready.”

Here it is, three men competing over a $25 charge any of them can easily afford, and having a good time doing it.

“One…two…three.”

Fists open and folks look on in earnest. When they observe the size of the shells, each spectator looks puzzled. My dad has an average peanut, and Henry Wodyzewski’s is bigger. What catches people’s attention is the half-shell resting in Omar’s hand, sporting only one peanut. Mr. De Leon sabotaged himself in his own contest.

Henry slaps the amateur game-show host on the back and chuckles. “You planned on paying all along, you goof.”

“All right. I owe you one, Omar.” My dad turns back toward me. “Hey, you better get moving. Looks like Hallowell is done warming up, and I don’t like being thirsty when the game’s on the line.”

His jab encourages a few more comments, “make sure there isn’t too much foam in my cup” and “what pop would you pair with my bratwurst?”—which I suppose you can say literally come from the peanut gallery.

Grabbing the money, I squeeze past the others and exit our row. As I jump up stairs, three at a time, an unmistakable crack resounds around the stadium. I turn just in time to track a foul ball heading this way. Leaping back down a few steps, I grab onto the railing as a quick sense of vertigo throws my balance off. Another few steps bring me even with the row I was just sitting in. The ball arches down to my right. It finds a landing spot about five seats down. Woodie looks natural catching the ball in his bare hands.

My friend showcases his prize high in the air as the crowd gives him a loud cheer. Moving to congratulate him, I glance up at the jumbotron. There, on the big screen, I watch Woodie hand the ball to Molly—the ultimate macho move, and then he kisses her on the cheek.

I tip my cap as my own cheeks burn with jealousy. “Nice catch, Woodie.”

Omar waves to someone behind me. “Sir, can we get some drinks over here, please?”

At the end of our row, a vendor with long, light brown hair and an unbuttoned polo revealing a well-worn Led Zeppelin T-shirt underneath, holds a tray of ice-cold beverages. I can’t help but wonder where this guy was two minutes ago, when I was barreling up the stairs instead of standing right where the foul ball just landed.

Eric, the vender, raises a can in each hand. “Dudes, need some sodas?”

Chapter Three

June 1, 1992

“All right, Ryan,” Coach Marv yells from our dugout. His voice hoarse from spewing a constant stream of colorful yet well-intentioned insults aimed at his players. “You want a chance to prove yourself? Go out there and do what no one else on this pathetic pitching staff can do. Win this game, right here.”

Last year, my father moved us into a new home across town. So instead of teaming up with Woodie to win our second baseball state championship in a row, I now have to face him in the ninth inning for the victory.

I cover my mouth with my glove as I take the mound. “Fastballs right down the middle of the plate.”

Unsure if I’m joking, my team’s all-state catcher eyes me with suspicion.

“He’s a junk ball hitter, so I’m not going to nibble. I’ll gun it as fast as I can, and hope it’s you catching the ball rather than the head of his bat.” Patting his chest with my glove, I turn to end the conference.

With corned beef heavy on his breath, my catcher says, “Hey, don’t look now, but that Molly girl is sitting first row down the third baseline.”

Like I hadn’t noticed.

“What’s the deal with you two, anyway? Is she here to see you or Woodie?”

Behind us, the home plate ump is trudging over, barking for us to keep the game rolling.

I say, “It’s complicated.”

“Not if you win the game for us.”

“Just be ready.”

Patting my glove into the catcher’s chest, a little harder than intended, I glance in Molly’s direction. She’s wearing her hair in a thick braid to combat the wind. I promised my team I’d introduce them to Molly’s crew after we win. It looks like she brought enough friends along to fill her whole section so keeping to my word should be easy. I also recognize her dad sitting a few rows back. I hate to disappoint Omar, but I’m about to defeat his daughter’s school.

Just outside the batter’s box, Woodie takes a few practice swings. The standing-room-only crowd’s yelling and jeering reaches an impressive level, but I’m too focused on my next pitch to understand what they’re saying.

Shaking off the first signal from the catcher, an off-speed pitch, we settle on the pre-planned fastball. I visualize where I want the ball to end up, just above the lithographed Sandy Alomar signature in the heel of the catcher’s mitt.

I hold my pose and let breath fill my body as Woodie awaits the pitch. I peek at my friend standing 720 inches away with his bat ready and a calm expression. We’ve danced this dance before.

My right knee lifts as roaring nerves fade away to the smallest of whispers. This feels right. Like a well-oiled piston engine making a consistent fluid motion, my body winds up and momentum handles the rest.

I release the ball.

Woodie sizes up my pitch, but doesn’t lift his bat off his shoulders.

Strike one.

Everyone watches as my second pitch also screams past Woodie into the catcher’s mitt.

Strike two.

Behind my friend, the catcher takes his hand out of his mitt and shakes it. Good, my fastball must still have a little kick. I temper my excitement armed with the knowledge that Woodie probably never planned on swinging anyway. He spent the first pitches picking up the spin on my ball.

The jeers have stopped, Coach Marv’s sharp tongue has gone quiet, and I relish the flash of doubt visible in Woodie’s eyes. Of course, as the baseball Gods say, the last strike is the toughest. With Molly watching, the building pressure wages a war within my stomach.

My catcher flashes me the fastball sign, but sending the ball to the same place three times in a row would be suicide against a hitter like Woodie. I shake my head and await the next sign. Curveball, no. Slider, yes.

I come set and let the ball fly. Woodie, sitting dead-red on the fastball, unleashes a mammoth swing. Watching his bat cross his chest, catching nothing but air, fuels a wave of dopamine through my veins. Before I can celebrate, however, the runner at third sprints toward home. Confused, I redirect my attention to our typically sure-handed catcher, who failed to field the ball. It bounces toward the backstop, retaining the erratic slide, making its trajectory hard to predict.

Miraculously, the catcher retrieves the ball mid-bounce. I dash toward home plate, raising my glove to accept the throw. Just as I sneak a peek at the advancing runner, my feet fail me. I trip, flailing for balance like a kid using roller-skates for the first time, and then drop headfirst with my glove hand raised too far to break my fall.

I don’t waste time trying to stop the blood now pouring from my nose, because I have bigger issues. The ball ticked off my glove and rolled toward the pitcher’s mound. I flinch away from the advancing player as he steps on the bag, winning the game. From my prone position, I can just make out Molly and her friends cheering and laughing in the stands. Wishing I could be anywhere else but here, I bury my face into the chalky white sand marking the batter’s box.

Once again, even when I think I’ve beaten Woodie, he wins.

Half an hour later, still wearing our uniforms for dramatic effect, Woodie and I rush out of our locker rooms for some post-game pizza.

I pop a mint in my mouth as I approach the group of girls from my former high school. “Thanks for coming.”

Molly introduces her friends. I remember a couple of them, but don’t recall their names. Nor do I care enough to relearn them. My attention is on Molly alone. Her red hair glistens in the sunlight, casting shadows down her sky blue top, and even from several feet away I’m enchanted by her flower-tinged perfume.

She steps forward and jabs a supportive punch to my shoulder. “Good job out there.” Her tone is warm, without any hint of humor or sarcasm. Sure, over the years I’ve grown a thick enough shell to withstand some ribbing, but for some reason it just wouldn’t be the same coming from Molly as it is from my teammates or Woodie.

“No joke,” Woodie agrees. “I’m amazed at how fast your pitches are developing. I totally guessed wrong on that last one.”

I shoot my friend a grin of appreciation for helping me look good in front of the group. Woodie winks.

From behind me a voice dripping with sarcastic humor and ego cuts in. “I agree.”

Delvin Crowe, the previous record holder for a dozen hitting categories at my old high school joins us, uninvited as usual. Woodie surpassed every single one of Delvin’s records.

Delvin lights up a cigarette. “Forget your slider, Ryan. What I’m dying to know is, who taught you that fancy footwork? MTV?”

I roll my eyes, and the girls titter as a matter of principal, but Woodie, besides tightening his jaw, remains neutral.

Though both of my high school coaches hold Delvin in the highest regard, the only thing Woodie and I find cool about the failed minor leaguer is that he’s buddy-buddy with the Indian’s second baseman and Rookie of the Year candidate, Jeremy Wilder.

I puff out my chest. “So, didn’t you graduate like six years ago? Shouldn’t you be at work or something?”

Delvin’s cold stare deflates my confidence. “Watch your manners, little boy. I have no time for amateurs like you.” Turning toward my teammates, he asks, “You boys ready to celebrate? Mitch is letting us use one of his facilities all night long.”

Around Cleveland, everyone knows Mitch from the goofy commercials advertising his chain of gyms.

Delvin looks over my shoulder. “So, Woodie, you in or out?”

Woodie tenses, his body language betrays discomfort and indecision. Sure, I’d love some alone time with Molly, but I can’t believe Woodie would abandon us for this loser.

“No,” Woodie says, filling me with relief. “I’m good, man. Maybe next time. Tell Jeremy great game for me, okay?”

“Suit yourself, Champ.” As he turns away, pulling out a pair of Aviator sunglasses, I notice a look of frustrated disappointment spreading on Delvin’s heavily freckled face.

One of Molly’s friends twirls a finger in her hair. “Hey, if you’re not going, do you think Delvin will let me ride with him? I wanna rock Jeremy Wilder’s world.”

Woodie holds out his hands, palms up. “Knock yourself out. He said he wanted to make us better baseball players. Maybe he can give you a few pointers.”

The girl’s eyebrows explode upward. “Really?”

Rolling her eyes, Molly hooks her arm around mine and leads me toward the parking lot. “Pizza is on me tonight, boys.”