Twice Retired (3 page)

“What do you think about it?” The man
asked him.

“It’s okay.”

“No. What do
you think
about it? How does it make you
feel?”

“I dunno. Never really thought about
it.”

“Come on, kid. You’ve thought about it.
It’s not like Slugger or Chip, Red or Tiny. It doesn’t sound too
endearing to me.”

“In deering?”

“Nice. It doesn’t sound very
nice.”

Again, Philip shrugged.

“Give us a break, Mister.” Jake said.
“It’s just a name.”

“Yeah?” Ron’s right eyebrow raised,
just like it always had when a batter heckled him before a 3-0
pitch. “So’s lard-ass. And monkey-face. And shit-for…”

“We get it.” Jake said sharply. “But
you don’t understand why we call him that. It’s not to embarrass
the guy.”

“There’s actually a
reason
?”

“Yeah. There’s a reason, but people
don’t know that. They just think it’s a mean name, but it’s not. It
don’t mean anything bad.”

“Still, you should have asked him
before you adopted it.”

Jake turned to Kenny, and each of them
could remember crowning Philip with the nickname- three summers ago
in this very forest, when they were crawling through an old fallen
log. Philip, only nine and already a victim to his glandular
problems, got wedged in the log. For over half an hour, he was
jammed- halfway through. The musty stench of rotting wood made him
physically ill and he’d had a headache for three days afterwards,
but the worst problem was
being
there. It had taken Kenny, Philip and another boy now long
gone, thirty-five minutes to literally peel the log off of him.
Innocently, the other boy said Philip would make a perfect plug for
a hole in a dam. The rest of the afternoon, they jokingly called
him Plug and he begged with all seriousness that they stop. They
didn’t
take
him seriously. The
name stuck through the sleepover that night, through all the games
at Kenny’s house, through the careful trips across the living room,
wherein Kenny’s single mother was passed out on the sofa, into the
kitchen for a load of snacks. The nickname survived the night.
Perhaps if they’d slept a few hours later, it could have been
melded into the back of the mind where all meaningless unmemories
died, but they had a game at nine a.m. and the name was brought up
over breakfast. From that day forward, Philip hated the
name.
Hated the name.
But it
was stuck to him. Perhaps once of out ten times, perhaps two out of
a thousand, hearing the name dragged Philip back into that rotting
log, that absolute immobility. The stench and the wonder, the
question of whether that was where he was going to die. Most of the
time when he heard the name, it was as though someone had said some
meaningless word like “gorble” or “mingop” and he missed not a
beat. But sometimes, if he was having a rough day at home or school
or just entrenched in another bad spell as the class flunkie, he’d
hear the name clearly, clearly, and he was jammed- plugged- back in
that log. Even though his friends were trying desperately to free
him, they
were
laughing
because to them it
was
funny.
If it had been Kenny or maybe even Jake, laughter could pass with
warranted acceptance because when Kenny or even Jake was dragged
out of that log, he’d still be one of the “cool kids” and nothing
bad that ever happened to a cool kid could ever jeopardize his
reputation. But when one of the uncool kids was hauled into a
laughable situation like this, it was with untainted belief that
the laughter
had
to be dished
out.
Had
to be. Kenny and Jake
and none of the other kids, or even Philip’s own mother had ever
asked him about it. All Philip’s disputes had only lasted to just
past breakfast that next morning. It was then that he hoped it
would be forgotten over the course of their baseball game. Then, it
was lunchtime and the name was muttered a few times- once when he
failed to beat out a ground ball- and the other kids absorbed it
into their vocabulary. By this point it was hopeless. Even if Kenny
and Jake wanted to end it, Philip Dregger had been cursed with the
nickname. Had been ever since. Philip’s mom overheard it in the
yard one day, and with no thoughts of origin, she too accepted it.
Her husband spent a lot of breath asking her to stop, but she
didn’t. She thought it was cute. And ever since, Philip had been
Plug.

Kenny and Jake and Philip all shared
these memories together, while the old man allowed them the time.
He walked outside with their ashtray and they heard running water.
Kenny and Jake remembered the day and they did remember Philip
asking them to stop, and that alone should have razed their
continuance. They didn’t know how it had often terrorized their
friend. That it ever did. Philip burst out into tears. Impotent,
Kenny and Jake shrugged and stuttered. The man came back inside,
saw Philip crying, and knew that the issue he’d dredged out of this
triangular friendship would hopefully be addressed when they
weren’t in the presence of a stranger. An adult.

“I don’t want you guys smoking in here.
Okay?”

Kenny and Jake nodded. “Phillip?” Ron
said gently.

“Sure, mister.”

“So, Mr. Webster,” Jake said, “since
you’ve dug deep into our problems, why don’t you tell us what
happened with you and your kid?”

“Nah.” He replied. “You’d think we were
stupid.”

“Mister, my old man walked out on me
and my mom because she burnt his toast.” Kenny said it with archaic
anger. “That was what did it, at least, but I’m sure that wasn’t
the only reason. You and your son can’t have any stupider
reason.”

“Are you a betting man?” Ron asked with
an unidentifiable smile.

“I’ve only got three bucks.” Kenny
answered, smiling back.

“His last full season,, ’91, he was
traded…”

“To the Indians!” Philip said,
jubilantly expecting an unseen prize.

“Yeah, to the Indians. Right in the
middle of a pennant race, when he could have finally won his ring
for the family. I guarantee he would have knocked out Atlanta’s
staff. It was his own fault he got traded. He was cancer in the
clubhouse, at least that’s how the writers now would describe it.
He left Pittsburgh with a .343 average. If he could have gone 1-4
the rest of the season, his career average would have been over
.300. With the protection he had behind him- Bonds, Bonilla- they
were never going to pitch around him. Never. But his big mouth got
him dealt. When he got to Cleveland, he went into a bad slump.
Horrible slump. Didn’t get a hit in his first ten games. Fans hated
him. Teammates were wondering what in the hell happened- to make
them deserve this. His average dropped to the two-seventies, and
his career average was falling down too. But all he needed was to
perk up a bit, see the ball, get acclimated to the new league and
he would be tough.”

“He hit .327 that year.” Philip said.
Kenny and Jake stared at him, wondering where that stat came
from.

“Yeah. He broke out of his slump, and
tore it up the last six weeks. He was awesome. Fan favorite. Then,
the off season came. That was when my wife died.”

“Oh..” Jake said.

“He went into a shell. Considered
retiring. I told him all he had to do was get back onto the field
and play for his mom. He could have gone crazy, high into the team
record books. But he couldn’t get his head back on straight. He
fell apart. Plodded through spring training and lost starting his
position to some minor-leaguer who had a lucky couple of weeks. He
made the team, as a reserve. Got a handful of at-bats in the first
month. Got one hit. It was an afternoon game at Fenway. He was
forced out at second, jogged back to the dugout and handed the
hitting coach his helmet. Then he left. Retired. His career average
was .301. He was 32 years old.”

“Can you imagine the Indians with him
in the line-up the last five years? In his prime? Wow.” Philip
said.

“He started drinking, and stopped
taking my calls. It was like he blamed me for making him play. For
embarrassing him. Like he would have been better to retire after
the previous season. Still on a high, you know? I tried to reason
with him, and then he turned on me. Starting getting real hurtful.
Said some stuff that I’ll never forget.”

“Like?” Jake asked.

“Like he didn’t know where he got the
baseball gene because his dad couldn’t play. Like I couldn’t play.
I threw a no-hitter once, you know.”

The kids waved it off.

“You know, if I was a weaker man, I’d
think the kid owed me something. I got up early every morning when
he was growing up- even on my own game days. A lot of players nap
in the afternoon, but not me. I was always helping him with his
swing or with his savvy. Trying to make him the best he could be.
Then he turned on me.”

“I’d say he owed you.” Kenny
said.

“No way, kid. Nobody or nothing owes
you anything. Not in this world. Only way we’re owed anything is if
we push someone out of the way of a truck, and at that, you’re
pushing it if you expect any appreciation. Your surroundings,
physical and mental, they don’t mean anything. Just because I put
my life into making
his
better, doesn’t guarantee me a thank you. You’d think it
would, but it doesn’t. Nobody or nothing owes me anything. You
think Riverfront owed me anything the day I pitched my no-hitter?
No. No.”

“You mean Cinergy Field.” Jake
said.

The man shot him a stunning glare.
“Back then, there was more to the game than money. It was
Riverfront. Always will be.”

Jake was suddenly apprehensive, but the
other two kids stared at Webster with equivocal admiration. Phillip
spoke it. “Wait a minute…you threw a no-hitter in Cincinnati?
”

“Yup.”

“How come we don’t know your name?”
Jake asked suspiciously.

“Nobody knows my name. Except my last
name. Everybody knows that. My kid is in the
hall-of-fame.”

They wanted details about his no-hit
game, but didn’t want to prod. If the old guy was telling a fantasy
story, they didn’t want to humiliate him. They’d check the facts,
sure enough, but right now he still was a trusted
friend.

“I just wish there was some way I could
send a message to you kids, to all kids, that you should never
expect a thank-you. Assume that somebody owes you. Family is
probably worst of all. There’s only one difference between blood
and water. Blood can choke you easier, because it’s thicker. My
son, the…”

“You guys haven’t talked since?” Kenny
asked.

“Nope. He hasn’t called, and if I did
he wouldn’t answer. His wife hates me, too. Only time I’ve seen my
grandson was on the cover of a newspaper, a photo taken at the
All-Star game in ’94. Gene was the hometown hero and he wasn’t even
playing.”

Ron was falling steadily into a deep
depression, and needed to rest. “Maybe you kids can come back
tomorrow. I’ll teach you how to throw a curve.”

They all nodded and they collected
their things. The old man was suddenly weak. The man who had hurled
balls hard into the side of the shed sauntered achingly to the door
and saw them out.

They were stunted with various
emotions, the most powerful of which was cynicism. They wanted to
check out his story. They were fascinated by his tale of the
no-hitter, but wanted to see the records in print

As the kids at the close of the century
were obligated to do, they jumped on the internet as soon as they
got to Phillip’s house. Scrolling through page after page, site
after site, they virtually memorized the list of baseball’s no hit
games, and especially how many had the Cincinnati Reds on either
end of the score. They couldn’t find his name anywhere. They
researched his name on a web-site that boasted to have the career
stats of every player who ever suited up for a major league team,
even if for only 1 at bat. They couldn’t find him there. They
turned to an actual book, a Sports Almanac five years old but
sufficient for the older records they were checking. The guy
appeared to be maybe in his sixties, so they started the National
League stats from 1960 and checked through the seventies. They knew
Riverfront had opened in the early seventies, so they concentrated
there. In ’71 there were three no-nos pitched, and two were in
Cincinnati. But, unless the old man forgot his name or Sports
Illustrated was wrong, the old man was full of it. Their admiration
deflated.

“Lying old fart.” Philip said.
“Probably wasn’t expecting us to check.”

“Why would he say all that?” Jake
asked. “What did he have to gain?”

“I dunno.” Kenny said, staring at the
computer monitor. “Maybe it was jealousy. I mean, his son was
super-successful, and a lot of that had to do with his old man.
Then the kid turned on him because he couldn’t handle his own
problems.”

“The kid lost his mom, Kenny.” Jake
said.

“A, he wasn’t a kid. He was thirty-two.
And b, that don’t mean anything. His mom wasn’t on the field
helping him hit and run and catch. He tanked his career because he
couldn’t handle the grief.”