A Life of Inches Read online

  The DJ’s voice booms through the speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for our ten-year reunion dance-off.”

  The crowd erupts in excitement. I applaud right along with them until the spotlight falls on us. “Are you being serious right now?”

  Woodie and I both look toward the DJ booth, and neither of us can ignore the cute woman standing next to him. I point toward Molly and curl my index finger in a get-over-here gesture. She shakes her head, continuing to laugh, and as the DJ starts the next song Molly blows each of us a kiss.

  I hold up my hand, offering up a high-five. “You ready, old man?”

  “Let’s do this, punk.”

  As “It takes Two” by Robb Bass blasts through the speakers, my left foot kicks forward.

  Chapter Fourteen

  August 2, 2004

  Four surgeries, three trades, two best friends taking another stab at living together, and one guarantee from my doctor that my shoulder can’t survive a full Major League season are just a small fraction of what the last couple of years have meant for me. And yet, the moment I lay eyes on Molly, all of my problems seem petty. Omar De Leon fought hard, but in the end he succumbed to cancer this week with Molly at his side. I was too busy getting shelled in my first appearance pitching for the Triple-A Ashville Aviators to be here for Omar.

  Here I stand, just inside the funeral parlor door, wondering what to say to Molly. She’s greeting people as they enter the viewing area. The urge to run to her overwhelms my thoughts, but the time we’ve spent apart can’t be bridged in the few steps remaining between us. During these past few years, our lives have evolved.

  I force myself to talk before I can over think things. “Molly, I am so, so sorry. If I can do—”

  She pulls me into a bear hug as I fail to complete a coherent sentence.

  Before I lose control, and start kissing her neck, I make a joke. “Man, I heard you’ve been keeping active, but when did you start training to challenge the German women’s weightlifting squad?”

  She presses her warm cheek against mine and stifles an unexpected giggle. “Don’t you dare make me laugh.”

  “Force of habit. You know I can always be counted on to say the dumbest thing at the most inappropriate time.”

  She squeezes my arm and whispers, “It’s good to see you Ryan. I’m happy you made it.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. At the end, that is. You know I’ve always loved your dad.”

  “Even when he pulled that peanut trick at the Indians game?”

  One of my favorite memories of all of us together at the ballpark comes flooding back. Molly’s eyes are full of tears, even though her lips curl into a smile. I pull her close again. Feeling a sense of déjà vu, I wonder if hugging and crying now defines the foundation of our relationship.

  She relaxes a little, regaining composure in the safe haven of my arms.

  I whisper, “I could stay like this forever.”

  Her lips draw close enough to my ear that it tickles. “We need to talk.”

  Before I can respond, Molly shushes me with a finger to my lips. “After the viewing, I have to take care of some things, but I’ll call you.”

  I nod.

  As she pushes away, her dark green gown catches a breeze. Something in the way she moves triggers my inner dialog to command me to pull her back. I head into the viewing and prepare to pay my final respects to a man who, once upon a time, I hoped I’d get to ask permission to marry his daughter.

  My father approaches, eyes ringed red and puffy. His hair has grayed and his once svelte figure has rounded a bit, but even though my father hasn’t boxed in decades, he is still solid oak. During my career, I’ve had several teammates that wouldn’t be able to keep up with his rigid exercise regimen.

  He embraces me. “It’s good to see you, son.”

  “You too, Dad. Sorry I haven’t been around.”

  He nods and mock-punches my arm. “How’s the shoulder?

  “Seems to be just fine, unless I’m attempting to gun a baseball at 90 miles per hour.”

  “90? You’ve lost that much velocity?”

  My sour expression conveys enough of my answer.

  My father clears his throat. “Well, I’m thinking about taking over Omar’s season tickets. Maybe you’ll finally get the call up this year.”

  “Yeah, hold your horses. I’m just happy I can pitch on consecutive nights again. When they first told me Tommy John surgery was necessary, I didn’t realize just what a long trip it would be to get back to this point.”

  I notice my dad’s attention shifting to the thinning viewing line. “Dad, I’m sorry for your loss. I know you guys were great friends.”

  “Y’know, it’s all been so sudden that I haven’t even had a chance to miss him yet. I keep looking toward the door, expecting to see him rush in and ask what all the fuss is about.” My father lets out a humorless chuckle. He straightens his glasses and attempts to make some sense of his large helping of hair. As soon as his hands escape his moptop, however, the hair reverts to its chaotic state.

  I greet the man approaching from behind my father with a handshake and a hug. “Mr. Wodyzewski, it’s good to see you. Just sorry it had to be here.”

  Even dressed and clean-shaven as he is tonight, it’s apparent that since his wife left him, Henry Wodyzewski decided to let himself go.

  He returns my greeting. “You too, Ryan, you too. Woodie sends along his love from the road. He’s unable to make it back, but wanted to make sure everyone knew his heart was here.”

  My dad says, “Shame, he plays for his hometown team, but just happens to be on the road when Omar passes.”

  Henry nods, sniffles, and grabs his handkerchief. “You’re lucky you’re done playing, Ryan, so you could be home.”

  My father and I share a glance, unsure if his dig was intentional or if he just doesn’t realize I still play baseball. Before more words are exchanged, he excuses himself to hit the bathroom.

  I raise an eyebrow to my father.

  Henry pauses, a few steps away, and talks again without turning, “There was a time I thought the De Leon family and the Wodyzewski family would be joined together. I suppose it’s still in the cards, but I never imagined it would happen without Omar around. Never.”

  I wonder, not for the first time, if he’s aware that for years the two families have been connected. Just not the way he expected. As he continues walking, I hear him mumbling about regrets and broken promises.

  I want to offer support, but my father holds me back with an outstretched hand. “You know, it’s not too late for Molly and you, either.”

  “Dad, how could you even be thinking that at this moment? Besides, what do you know about Molly and me in the first place?”

  “Son, I’ve spent a good deal of time with the man across the room, and it has been well documented how you feel about his daughter. Omar mentioned how she talked about you more than once through the years. He respected and supported you and said he always appreciated the way you treated him like a human being and not just a stepping-stone to his daughter. Besides all that, I might not be a hip young fool like you, but a man still knows googly eyes when he sees them.”

  Just as my father finishes his thoughts, my cell phone rings. Embarrassed, I attempt to grab it from my pocket. Just as fate always dictates, the quicker you want something from your pocket the longer it takes. I free the phone just in time to miss the call. Seeing the number of Delvin Crowe on my caller ID, I feel my cheeks flush, and in turn, I snap at my father harsher than I intend.

  “I just don’t think that’s going to happen, Dad. Molly is happy. Besides, she and I live different lives now.”

  As I speak, I’m frightened by just how logical and true the words sound. I take a step away, hoping to save this conversation for a time I’m not being watched by a room full of mourning friends.

  Before I can escape, however, my father raises his voice, while somehow maintaining an even tone. “Son,
don’t take your old man to be an idiot just because your mother makes it clear at every opportunity that she thinks I’m one. Who do you think called me to contact you about coming in for the funeral? Just because you two haven’t spoken as much as when you were younger, doesn’t mean she and I haven’t had chances to talk over the years. She cares deeply for you, and I have a feeling she wouldn’t have asked for you if she didn’t want to talk.”

  His supportive hand defines strength and comfort as he squeezes my shoulder. Without another word, my father steps past me toward my mother, chatting at the far side of the parlor while leafing through an old photo album. He’s done with this conversation, and to be honest, what can I say? He’s right.

  Across the room, Molly nods her head toward the backdoor and motions chugging a drink, but first I need to offer a final goodbye. Turning toward the sky blue casket, I loosen the same maroon tie I wore to prom, and kneel. At various times in my life, Omar assumed a role as a friend, a mentor, a cheerleader, and, I had hoped one day he would be a relative. Though cancer ravaged his body this past year, he looks peaceful and proud tonight.

  Forcing breath through my choked throat, I pray, “Mr. De Leon…” I pause, still feeling awkward using his first name. “Omar, I’ve been inspired watching you fight these last couple of years, and have followed your example with my rehab. Since we met, you’ve always treated me with respect and with an open heart. Even after it became apparent how I felt about your daughter, you accepted me as a friend and never made me feel uncomfortable. I know Molly, my dad, and all of our families are lucky to have had you in our lives, and we will miss you.”

  I fight back the emotions storming inside.

  “Look, at this point, if what they say holds true, you’re in heaven armed with all the knowledge of how I feel about Molly, so, if it’s not too much to ask, and the opportunity arises, give her a nudge in my direction, would you?”

  Knowing Omar appreciated my humor, I hope he still finds my request funny up there.

  Overcome, I break down, my emotions escaping in powerful sobs. If my fingers clench any tighter they might break. Unable to support my own weight, I rest my cheek on the casket and feel the lightness in my head spilling down through my whole body as the lights in the room begin to spin. There’s a lot more I want to say, but I can’t form the words through the grief.

  An hour later, my abused mid-sized car engine redlines as I pull away from the funeral, in no mood for speed limits. I race toward the highway on-ramp, hitting the gas, and wondering just how much faster this car can go. Life keeps pushing me in a negative direction and now I want to shove back.

  Thus far, I’ve avoided steroids and HGH because I wanted to make the big leagues based on my hard work, talent, and determination. Now, with the big 3-0 in my rearview mirror, I need to know, once and for all, if I’m willing to accept some illegal help from Delvin Crowe to make the cut.

  Almost on cue, my phone rings again. I confirm the number, but this time I answer Delvin Crowe’s call. “Dude, I was at a funeral. Your calls were not getting answered no matter how many times you blew up my cell.”

  Delvin speaks with the calm, courteous, friendly tone of a snake oil salesman. “Oh, that’s right. I got your text, my fault. Tonight there’s a big bash down on West 14th, I’m headed out now. Should I call you tomorrow?”

  “No, hey, care to meet for a drink? I, well, I want to talk to you about my…options.”

  The unexpected words hang like drying clothes on the invisible phone line connecting Delvin and me. A short pause elongates into an awkward silence, and I check to verify that our phone call hasn’t dropped.

  As I pull the phone from my ear, however, I hear Delvin speaking. “Look, Ryan, I know I’ve said a lot of things over the past couple of years, some pretty heavy things coupled with grandiose promises about your playing time and future. Have you considered that maybe you’re too emotional from the funeral to make a life changing decision like this?”

  “Who are you, my mother, or the guy lurking in the shadows offering me a cigarette?”

  Delvin chuckles, though I’m not sure if he remembers our first encounter.

  “Skip Tremont,” I say. “Meet me at Stubby’s. I’ll buy you a drink, listen to what you have to say, and then we go from there.”

  “Well, if you’re offering to buy, how can I say no, my friend?”

  “Good, thanks. I’m headed to my apartment to change out of my suit and then I’ll be on my way. Say, forty-five minutes?”

  “You got it. I’ll be sitting at the booth in the far right corner opposite the bathrooms. See you in a few.”

  The phone goes dead, I shove it into a pocket now plenty big enough to fit my hand, and hit the gas.

  Entering the sports bar, I’m greeted by the intoxicating and familiar aroma of cheap draft beer and stale potato chips. Stubby’s raucous atmosphere makes for a perfect place to avoid eavesdroppers on our PED conversation. The local band butchering ‘Foreplay/Longtime’ on the recently built stage plays with their bass so loud I can’t even hear my own thoughts. Plus, it’s two for one burger night, and I’m hungry.

  I bee-line to the bar, plop down a credit card and order a double scotch.

  “Figured I’d be seeing you here tonight,” Stubby says, setting down a napkin and a glass. “But, I think everyone else from the funeral cleared out already.”

  Though my expression betrays surprise, I feel stupid for not anticipating people gathering here after the viewing. My friends and family, including Mr. Wodyzewski, my dad, and–up until recently–Omar De Leon designated Stubby’s as our waterhole of choice ages ago.

  While I spent the better part of a decade living out of town, Stubby stayed tuned into the current events in the lives of my family and friends better than I did. The bar owner has lost some blond hair, but it appears he found gray hair to replace most of it. His eyes and mouth are outlined with wrinkles, but to be honest they seem to fit his face the more they arrive. I remind myself to ask Delvin about the aging or anti-aging effects of HGH, because when I do grow old, I want it to look natural. Unlike the elder ballplayers I meet around the ballpark these days.

  “Say, Stubbs can I get another drink? Either this first one was defective, or you’re serving non-alcoholic liquor now.”

  He lets loose a hearty bark, pours, eyes me with just a tad too much suspicion, and finishes off his maneuver by grabbing me a bottle of suds. “You’re just like your father, Ryan, no doubt about it.”

  Delvin waits in the corner, right where he predicted I’d find him.

  Before I take more than three steps, Stubby stops me. “Say, you ordering food tonight?”

  “You know it.” Panic hits as I wonder who’ll be cooking my burgers. On most nights, Stubby mans the grill while a couple of young vixens handle the bar. I don’t want some untrained rookie ruining what my town dubbed the perfect burger.

  Standing with his belly resting on the bar, Stubby says, “Listen, my son Bobby’s back there. He hasn’t mastered the art of the grill quite yet, so if you like your burger well-done, tell him medium-well. If you like it medium, say medium-rare, got it?

  I nod.

  He adds, “I don’t mean to brag, but he’s trying out for the high school baseball squad this year and Coach Marv told me Bobby’s stuff rivals yours.”

  Judging by Stubby’s red cheeks and shifty eyes, it took a lot of gumption for him to bust my chops a little, and I can’t help but feel proud along with him as he brags about his son. I don’t have the heart to tell him I was a terrible pitcher in high school when I started, so I hope his kid can do better than me.

  I raise my glass. “Congrats. Is Coach still telling his Rocky Colavito story to all the freshmen?”

  I knock my knuckles on the bar a few times, say, “Talk to you later”, and head to damnation.

  “That beer for me?” Delvin asks without looking up from the hard rock magazine he’s reading.

  Around the bar, big screen televisions b
roadcast the Marlins inter-league game against the Cleveland Indians. Woodie already stretched a double into a triple and got hit by a pitch. I watch for a bit, before turning my full attention to the man across the table wearing a championship ring he didn’t earn by playing. A three inch cut snakes from under his left eye and ends on the crown of his nose. I’ll bet there’s an interesting story coupled with it, but I’ve learned with Delvin that it’s best not to ask.

  Delvin continues reading the magazine without as much as a hello. I raise an eyebrow, confused by his clammed up vibe. We both know the reason for this meeting, so why can’t he lead this conversation to where it needs to go? I mean, he’s been offering to help me for years now, so why is this so uncomfortable?

  “You must understand,” Delvin finally says, each word measured, “I operate my business based on many hours of research and shrewd practices, but there’s also an element of risk and gut-feeling evaluation to it. This portion of what I do requires me to take a side and play the odds in several given situations. In these cases, I often find the outcomes either net me a huge bonus or an utter soul-crushing defeat that leaves me licking my wounds. Smart businessmen strive to steer their ship past these tantalizing chunks of revenue, or play the odds without crapping out. I’m not typically shy in these situations, and my track record proves I come out on top more often than not, but…”

  Giving his words time to soak in, Delvin sips his drink. In turn, I polish off my second double scotch, slug down a large portion of my beer, and wait. I can now assure Stubby his drinks are indeed working after all.

  Delvin continues, “You’re an enigma to me at this point, Ryan. When I first came to you, I wouldn’t have had the slightest bit of hesitation at taking you under my wings, and I’m certain I would’ve profited handsomely in the exchange. Even a couple of years ago, I could see myself hitching our wagons together and making it worthwhile for each of us. Now, however, you must understand this whole situation gives me great pause. For the past few years, you’ve gone under the knife several times, deflating my previous confidence in your arm, and let’s face it, you’re reaching an age when most men are looking past the game toward what lies ahead. Do you have enough in the tank to not only break into the major’s, but also make an impact for enough years that I can bank the profit I need to recoup my costs and risk?”