Out of His League. Cathryn Parry
up to explain our lousy September—how we blew such a huge lead in the standings and lost so many games that we missed making the playoffs. If I were a fan, I’d be interested, too.”
“Why did you lose so many games?”
If Frankie was questioning him, then he was really in trouble.
“In reality, Frankie, sometimes stuff like this just happens. For no reason. Okay? And then we deal with it and we move on.”
“How are you dealing with it, Jon?”
“By planning for the future. My agent and I have a plan.” Okay...not yet, but they would. “What I’m getting at is that I have to be irresistible to the team for next year so they’ll sign me again. And if people are bringing up my name in public in a bad way, then that can only hurt me. Do you understand, Frankie?”
It was the bluntest speech he’d ever given Francis. There was silence on the other end of the phone. Hopefully, his brother was digesting the message.
“Yeah, man,” Francis said, but in a smaller voice.
“Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, man,” he said. “I appreciate you caring about me.”
“I’m...sorry,” Francis said. He paused—it sounded like he was conducting a muffled conversation on the side. Jon couldn’t be sure, but he’d guess it was with a woman.
A woman? With Francis? Since when?
Jon glanced at a passing street sign. Just a few more blocks to go. “Don’t leave, okay?” Jon said, stepping harder on the accelerator. “I’m almost at the house. We’ll have a beer together in Dad’s kitchen when I get there.”
“I’m, ah, not at home,” Francis said.
How could he not be at home? His life was at home. Him and their dad, home together every night after work. Why did Jon get the feeling that his life was quicksand all of a sudden?
“Where are you, Frankie? Do you want me to drive over and pick you up?”
“No, Jonny, I’m good. I just...don’t know what I’ll do if you lose your place with the Captains, okay? It’s...it’s...” He lowered his voice. “It’s the best thing in my life.”
Jon gripped his hand on the steering wheel. There was something just so sad about that statement. Did his brother really believe that?
Yeah, he did. And if Jon were honest, it had been that way since childhood. That, at least, hadn’t changed.
“It will be okay, Frankie,” he said quietly. “You’ll see. Everything will turn out.”
“I have to go,” Francis mumbled. “I’ll see you on the weekend, okay?”
Before Jon could answer, the call disconnected.
He tossed the phone on the seat. But now, he was there, at their dad’s house. Jon slowed the SUV to a stop.
The porch was lit by a single bulb, and in the diminished light, the place didn’t look much different from when he was ten and Francis was eight. Back then, Jon had the weight of the world on him, because nobody in his family could pull themselves up from their sadness and their grief without his encouragement. He’d cajoled and helped his brothers and his dad every step of the way. And it had eaten at him. Some days, Jon didn’t know how they were going to all make it through to the end—himself included.
A car came up behind him, high beams bouncing off Jon’s rearview mirror. The single lane street was narrow, lined on both sides by parked cars, so Jon had to either pull his SUV over or drive on.
Shaking off the maudlin feelings, he executed a quick maneuver and backed the Expedition into the empty on-street spot beside the driveway. There was a pecking order with neighborhood parking spaces, and the local owners and tenants knew enough to leave this particular space open—for him or for his brother Bobby—or else face the pain of Francis’s wrath raining down on them. Not that Jon insisted on the spot remaining open—but Francis did. And they were a family, so Jon embraced it.
The car with the high beams roared past him. Jon wondered why he hadn’t driven off, too. Why sit and stare at his boyhood home, thinking depressing thoughts? The place was in darkness, and it was obvious that nobody was home, either in his brother’s downstairs rooms or his dad’s upstairs apartment. At ten o’clock on a work night.
Jon frowned. Where was his dad, anyway? But Jon had no idea, because he hadn’t checked in with him since before the season had ended. Jon had been too preoccupied with his cancer scare, trying to hide that from his family so they wouldn’t be upset if they found out.
His phone beeped, alerting him that he had a new text message—which reminded him that he really should drive home and call back his agent. Surprisingly, when he checked the phone’s readout, he found that the message wasn’t from Max but from a young Captains pitcher just up from the minors, his first year in the big leagues. Jon had been mentoring him this season. Calming him down before all his big starts.
Jon, help me out here. I don’t like the sound of what I’m hearing about us on SPK. What should I do??
Jon stared at the screen. Fixated on that word help. Focused on the question marks just begging for his assistance.
Twenty-four hours ago, Jon would have happily tapped out his advice and sent it to the newbie. Now, he was doubting himself.
Lizzy was in his head, obviously. Her psychoanalyzing was causing him to see things differently. He wasn’t sure he liked that.
Maybe he did like helping people now and then. So what? It didn’t mean that they were helpless, or that there was something wrong with him. He just...hated when people felt bad. Like Francis, in childhood. Jon needed to see people smile. He needed them to have an easier time in life than they were having when they were upset.
But Lizzy did have a point. Maybe he did tend to help people a little too much, at the expense of himself.
When he really thought about it, hadn’t all this helping and protecting and watching out for people gotten him into a bad spot with the team? He’d spent too much time worrying about—frankly—the crappy attitudes of some of the Captains’ leading aces. It had trickled down to the younger guys on the pitching staff, and the team’s cohesion had been affected. The sports talk radio guys were right—there was a reason their team had imploded.
For the second time that night, Jon leaned back with his head against the seat. He should have focused more during the season on his own pitching, his own numbers. Things had slipped by, and now he didn’t have what he wanted: the team breathing down his neck, eager to sign a contract with him for next year.
He held his throbbing finger in his lap and just closed his eyes. Lizzy, what did you do to me? But nobody had ever pointed this out to him before.
A knock sounded on the window. Jon snapped to attention. His old neighbor, Mr. Yanopoulis, was peering at him. Jon turned off the idling engine and stepped outside into the cool night air to greet him.
“I knew it was you!” Mr. Yanopoulis grinned and held out a gnarled hand. When Jon didn’t shake it because of the splinted finger he hid behind his back, Mr. Yanopoulis lifted his hand to pat Jon’s shoulder, undaunted. “It’s good to see you, Jonny. You don’t visit us often enough. You’re our neighborhood celebrity. When you’re pitching, we throw a big party.”
“It’s good to see you, too.” Jon smiled at his elderly neighbor and knelt down to pet his little dog, yapping and straining on his leash. “My dad isn’t home?” he casually asked, straightening.
“Nope. I’m feeding his cat for him.” Mr. Yanopoulis pulled on the leash. “Your dad called me today. Said he was extending his trip and going with a group down to the Grand Canyon.”
“The Grand Canyon?”
“Sure. Jean and I went there last year, flew out