Discretion (3 page)

He gets a snicker out of Natalie, who pretends to take it personally. “Just more juice,” she says in retort.

“Envy.”

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask Natalie, cutting off the sports feud between two people who fight like siblings while remaining friends.

Jamal grins at me.
Jamal thinks you’re on the right track. A little confidence goes a long way.

“Sure,” Natalie says.
She wants a Dr Pepper

“What do you want?”

“Surprise me.” A hint of optimism shines in her eyes. Jamal just nods back at me. I know what he wants and nothing needs to be said. A moment later, I return with two Pepsis for Jamal and me, and a Dr. Pepper for Natalie, who is excited by the choice.

“How did you know to bring me Dr. Pepper?”

“You look like a Dr. Pepper kind of girl,” I say, and immediately feel warmth fill my face.

Jamal laughs and excuses himself, unable to contain his hysteria. Natalie blushes a little.

Laugh all you want, wingman.

I follow Natalie to the barstools at the counter and take a seat with her to talk. We chat awhile about baseball and our predictions for the All-Star game while tearing into a sub sandwich. As time goes on, I become more comfortable around her, but have a ways to go before I feel like myself. Then she asks about the latest trade to the Celtics. I try hard not to cringe at the mention and wish she’d stuck with baseball.

“I don’t follow the Celtics, really,” I admit, looking away from her at nothing in particular.

“Your dad’s…like a legend with them. I thought…you’d be a big fan,” she says.

Thanks for the reminder about my father. Just in case I forgot.

“Yeah, that’s kinda why I don’t pay any attention to them. Have an entire room enshrined to the team and see how that feels.”

Then Christel clouds my mind again.
She’s offended at your response. Recovery is needed.
She’s right; Natalie couldn’t know I don’t share any love for my father’s former team.

“Sorry…I got mad. I just don’t love living in my father’s shadow. He casts an impossible-to-live-up-to-standard for me. Everyone thinks it must be cool to have a famous dad who knows tons of famous people, but it’s not all that,” I say. Then, Christel chimes in.
She doesn’t understand and never will. Move on.

But I want her to understand. Natalie’s smart; she can figure it out if I just explain myself. “For a guy without a vertical jump, it’s impossible to have Dad’s attention. That’s what makes it hard. Always a disappointment,” I say.

She smiles back sweetly. It’s fine that she doesn’t understand, as no one really does. Drop it, Colin.

Ask her if she’s coming to the baseball game tonight.
“So are you coming to the game tonight?” I say, and then wish to take it back. The game tonight is a crucial play-off for my and Jamal’s team, so pressure is on. Natalie in the stands would multiply the intensity for me one hundred times over.

She grins and nods, as if she just decided. “I’ll be there with some friends.”

She’s going to the game because you asked.

Why did I just go and add tons of pressure to myself?

She finishes her Dr. Pepper and sets the plastic bottle on the counter. Her eyes meet mine and we sit in silence, just watching, trying to get comfortable, and as strange as this feels, in this moment, as thoughts gather—some of which are not mine—I accept the truth. Not because I understand it—far from it. But I know Christel is telling me her thoughts. And more so, this ghost is helping me win Natalie’s attention.

“J
amal, c’mon man! We’ve almost come back!” I yell from the on-deck circle.

My teammates from the bench follow my encouragement. The lights above are bright at Arcadia Ballpark. Two of my teammates stand on bases and nine teenage boys occupy the diamond, a few among them with stone cold stares, as if we’re playing in the majors. The third basemen looks bored, but then his coach yells at him from the sideline.

Tonight is not a kid’s game. It’s war. The play-offs. And the hard-fought season is down to this final inning. Winner advances. Loser stays home.

The Braves, our opposition, got a huge lead in the first inning, shelling the pitcher for seven runs on eleven hits. But our Cubs fans kept the faith. A series of clutch hitting in the fifth and well-timed walks brought the deficit down to two runs. The one hundred fifty in attendance haven’t sat down for at least ten minutes.

The count is two and two. Jamal Laake stands in the batter’s box. The pitch, and the ball is hit to right field, a line drive over second base. One run scores; the tying run is held up at third. The ball is like a guided missile from the outfield to the pitcher. Jamal represents the winning run on first base.

I step into the batter’s box, with a sense of calm, as if the crowd isn’t there. The weight of the bat lightens in my hands and my grip tightens to counter sweat. The catcher starts talking to me, to make a distraction.

The ninth batter, the last of our lineup. My teammates cheer, but their thoughts consume me: Don’t strike out again. Don’t swing; hope for a walk. Why does the weak link on the team have to be at bat now? Can we get a pinch hitter?

Typically, I swing at the first pitch and ground out. Or miss entirely and try again at the next one. After my first at bat, the pitcher figures I’ll swing at anything and avoids throwing a strike.

The pitch will be outside; don’t swing.

I step away from the box and look around. I want to believe, to trust in this voice. Does she suddenly care if my team wins? My zero-for-three performance batting tonight does nothing for that idea—so why the sudden help? The umpire calls out to me and the look on his face does not show patience.

My adversary stands on the mound, wearing a smirk.

He sees an easy out. A weakling.

I feel a strange confidence and return to the batter’s box. The pitch whizzes past me outside the plate by three inches. Ball one. My teammates cheer.

How does Christel know where the pitch will be? I will swing with all I have at the next one.

She speaks this time, in lieu of imputing, soft and subtle. “High and inside; keep the bat on your shoulder.”

My hands twist on the bat, an anxious sweat. The ball in the pitcher’s hand and the grip of his fingers is clear to me, though it’s out of view at the small of his back. He is trying to intimidate me by lingering and staring.

How can I see the ball behind his back?

The pitch is high and inside, missing the plate. Ball two. Fans stomp their feet on the metal bleachers. My teammates scream and pound against the chain-link fence between our bench and the field.

Over the plate, slightly low and away. Let it go.

But I want to swing. The pitch will probably be called a strike and I hate getting behind in a count. This comes down to faith—or is it trust?

The pitch comes, and Christel is correct: strike one called. The opposing side cheers and I’m reminded they are there. The fans shout advice and encouragement. The fence continues to rattle from excited feet and hands. The air seems to still, as if the world around me is holding its breath for the next pitch from the five-foot lanky blond kid.

Inside and low; let it pass.

Okay, so do I get to swing at one of these?

The pitch is low and inside. Ball three. The umpire announces the count at three and one and the crowd noise rises. The pitcher stares at me like a lion stalking prey before the kill. He rolls the ball in his hand, and I know he is getting nervous, mulling over the signals on display. His mouth chews slowly, a wad of gum he wishes were tobacco. He nods and takes position to throw. This pitch must be a strike.

Fastball, over the middle of the plate. When his arm is extended, start your swing.

My left foot lifts and I step into the pitch and in this moment it’s as if I’m controlled by someone else—as if I’m a bystander watching myself perform. The crack of aluminum against the ball is poetic, a mythical sound that fantasies are made of. The ball flies over the second basemen’s glove, his body extended, reaching aimlessly in the air. It lands on the grass in the outfield. I pass first base with the wind at my back and turn for second. The screams from my bench are intense and spur me on, give strength unknown to my legs. My foot hits the corner of second base, the turn for third, but then my teammates mob me, as the game is over. The tying and the winning runs scored on the hit. My hit.

Three of the guys hoist me on their shoulders and carry me off the field, Jamal among them.

I survey the crowd for her face, which I cannot see. But I know Natalie is there. After what feels like forever, I see her smiling face. She catches up to me, Jamal at my side. Jamal looks at me and grins, his arm around my shoulders.
He’s proud of your confidence.

Natalie looks excited. Giddy, even.
Invite her for ice cream.

“Coming to Macally’s?” I say, and then wonder why I’m listening to the ghost. My team celebrates around me and fans are closing in.

Natalie smiles back, flattered by the invite. She glances at Mayra and Mike, who agree with the suggestion. I’m surprised to see Mike here, considering he’s not much for baseball, but he’s high on Mayra.

I’ve known Mike Larison since I met Jamal at camp years ago and if he could tolerate baseball, he’d be on the team with Jamal and me.

The lot of us leave for Macally’s, about half a mile from the ballpark. Ballplayers, in white uniforms, tainted with dust and spiked shoes clattering on the pavement, flow along the brightly lit sidewalk like a convoy: talking, joking and overall being stupid, Jamal most of all. Right now, he’s lost in the fever of victory.

The latest feature in the
Arizona Daily Sun
had us the clear underdog.

I’d love to see the headline for tomorrow about now.

Macally’s is packed with teens and adults alike, ballplayers and skater punks who crave homemade ice cream. The place is little more than a thousand square feet and features an open seating area with blue acrylic benches, though most people stand about and eat fast, before it melts.

I order the same thing I always get, Oreo ice cream in a waffle cone. We find a space to stand under the well-lit awning. Players, coaches, and families are everywhere, from both teams. Several from the opposing team make a point to congratulate me on the hit. The losing coach wonders how I’m batting ninth with the swing I have and is miffed about the unfair drafting of players.

“So this what it feels like to be you?” I ask Jamal.

He manages a grin. “This is your night.” He pats my back, an affirming hit, but also a reminder that while Jamal’s a team player, he’s also very competitive.

“That hit was perfect. Perfect!” my coach of the past three years exclaims, his hands flying everywhere and his facial muscles giving more oomph than the actual words, which are ten decibels louder than required. “You’ve come around.”

He thinks some additional coaching will speed up your progress.

Fantastic. Yay, me. Sorry to keep you waiting, Coach. Glad to know I can still bat last in the lineup. I was worried about my precious slot, until now.

“Thanks, Coach,” I manage. It’s hard not to be distracted by Christel’s commentary. I’ll have to learn how to listen to both at the same time.

Coach pats me on the back, and teammates join in. I contain my excitement the best I can. Natalie Merian is distracting a motley crew of guys, and not by talking to her. There’s no pleasure in the envy of others.

Coach takes a seat with his family ten feet away, and I cringe at his perverted thoughts toward Natalie, admiring her ass and role-playing out all the things he’d like to do with her. I need an off button for these types of thoughts, unless Christel is warning me. What a role model. I stare at him and he makes a furtive look away, pretending he doesn’t care about Natalie.

Natalie smiles and gives me a playful nudge. Her thoughts circle nervousness and how happy she is for me—the unlikeliest of heroes, only in the last hour to turn the tide with a hit and bring the winning run home: Jamal, who ran like the wind from first base.

One by one, with passing time, my teammates and friends leave for home, while I linger, not wanting the night of heroism to end. Enjoying my companionship with Natalie, which feels strong. On this night, I have conquered uncharted territory and I don’t want it to be reduced to a memory.

“So you enjoyed the game?” I say, now that we are alone.

“I enjoyed the end, especially.” She smiles, pushes away her hair from her face. “Great comeback.”

“The guys never gave up. I got down, but everyone said, this is it for the season, so give them hell. Don’t go without a fight. And what’d you know? Of course, it was helped by that lousy relief pitcher they brought in who walked four people in one inning.”

“Wonder why the coach didn’t pull him from the game?” Natalie says.

He is the assistant head coach’s son.

“Must be related,” I say.

She laughs. “Could be. That makes sense, actually. Who’d lose a play-off game to let that kid pitch? He sucked and totally ruined the game. Awesome for you, though.”

“Yes, the fact he stunk saved the game for us. Those walks were the start of the five-run rally. Took three hits to get those five runs. Their coach is never going to live that one down.”

“He’s gotta.”

“Will take some time, sure. Say, what are you doing tomorrow?”

She shrugs, not missing a beat. “I’ve got practice and I do yoga and…I think my dad wants to go shooting sometime; he keeps talking about it. What about you? Are you doing anything…exciting?”

I try to think of any plans, but it’s of little use. If I do anything besides study, it’s because Jamal pulls me out. The pavement becomes interesting for a moment, and then I smile, as it’s the only reaction I know to such questions. My eyes meet hers and I’m unsure what to say next.

Say, I’d like to see you again.

“I’d like to see you again,” I say, nodding for reinforcement. “This is fun.”