Perfect (30 page)

that’s a problem of sorts.

I’ve accomplished what

I set out to do, for sure.

But it bothers me that my bat

has grown as cold as Cara.

On One Hand

It doesn’t really matter.

On the other hand, there

are records at stake. I should

be number one in the league.

And if I get it back together,

I can still grab that title.

I have to kick this butt-

rod pitcher’s ass. I need

to remember just who

the hell Sean O’Connell

is, with or without his girl.

I watch the windup, try

to read the signals. Think

about Cara, throwing off

her shirt that night.
Strike!

What? Wait. I didn’t even

see the ball. Goddamn

it. No! The pitcher leers—

leers! Screw you, dude.

I’ve got your ticket. I wait

for it… mind wandering

to Chad’s sofa, and smooth

skin perfumed with desire.

And she’s saying yes, touch

me there, all wet.…
Strike two.

Damn it all, O’Connell,

concentrate. That fricking

pitcher is a goon. I swear

if I don’t hit him this time…

he pulls back from his windup.

Trying to make me lose it

again. No effing way, jerk.

He comes set, draws back.

It’s a sinker for sure. A fast-

ball is too big of a risk. He

lets go of the ball. Here it

comes. Fast. And straight.

And I swing right through.

And the goddamn umpire

dares,
Strike three. You’re out.

And I Know I’m Out

I am so fucking out. And

I know the umpire is totally

right, but at this particular

moment, I couldn’t give

a damn about right or wrong.

I want to feel better. So I wheel

to my right, catch hold of

his mask, pull his ugly face

right up into mine, and

I say, “You got it wrong.”

Behind his face guard,

his eyes go wide.
Are you

questioning my call? Because

I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Let go of me, son. I mean now.

And I know I really need

to stop myself, but I can’t

seem to manage it. “I’m not

your fucking son, you piece

of…” And now all I can see

is Cara, telling me I have

just raped her. And all

I want to do is shake

her. And a scarlet haze

lifts over my eyes. I hate

her. I love her.
O’Connell!

Stop!
It’s Coach Torrance.

And I shake my head, and

the red veil falls, and I am

horrified to see I’ve been

shaking the ump, like I

wanted to shake Cara.

Oh my God. “What’s

wrong with me?” I say it

aloud, with a cracked black

pepper voice. And I’m sorry.

Oh, yes, I’m sorry. But it’s

too late for sorry. I am out

of the game. No hits. No

runs. Just another strikeout.

I Hit The Locker Room

Strip down. Shower. Realize

suddenly that this stupid stunt

could very well end my baseball

career. Not many coaches

want to deal with players

who go off the deep end and

try to kill the umpire over

a called third strike. Or anything

else, for that matter. What

came over me? I turn the water

cool, let it flow over my head,

chill my brain. A phrase floats

up from some subconscious

sea. “’Roid rage.” Maybe it

fits, but I don’t think so. No,

this was all about Cara. Why

can’t I just let her go? And

now—fuck, fuck, fuck—

I’m crying. Tears spill,

mixing with shower splash.

My legs start to shake,

and I let them slip out

from under me. I scoot

back against the cool tile,

let the waterfall rush over

me. And this is how Uncle

Jeff finds me.
Are you okay?

Obviously not.
Kind of blew

it out there, huh? Do you want

to talk about what’s going on?

I do. But I can’t. I look up

at him through the streaming

water. “Just a lot of pressure

lately is all.” I get up, turn

off the shower. Reach for

a towel.
Not sure that excuse

is good enough to fix what

just happened. Beyond

your likely league suspension,

that ump could press charges.

I Know All That

But though my first instinct

is to say so, I also know

that Uncle Jeff wants to

help. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.

Do you think it’s fixable?”

He shrugs.
I could maybe

pull some strings. But I need

to know what’s happening

with you. Anything else you

can tell me?
He turns his head

as I start to dress. Anger

flares again, but only for

a second. He isn’t my dad.

But he’s the closest thing

I’ve got. “There’s some stuff

with Cara.” True. “We’re

trying to work through

it.…” Not exactly true. Yet.

“It’s been a rough week.”

And looking to get rougher.

Andre

Not Exactly True

That skin hate is dead.

There will never be color

blindness in a culture of

fear.

But when you live afraid

of your neighbor, the monster

you should most walk

in terror of

thrives.

It starts as a little thing,

small enough to burrow

into your pores, take up

excruciating residence

in

the dark recesses of your brain.

Its name is paranoia,

and it spreads like an oil

spill, there in

the shadows,

chokes your humanity.

Threatens your soul.

I Don’t Usually Think

A whole lot about the color of my skin.

Most of the time it’s not

an issue at all. Sometimes, I think, it can

be an advantage. Which is, of course,

a brand of reverse racism.

I mean, if you’re helping some school

fulfill their diversity quota, you might

actually get a boost

up over a Caucasian male with the same

GPA. If we didn’t live in one of Reno’s

pricier neighborhoods,

things would doubtless be different.

But it’s hard to argue with millionaires,

white, black, brown,