Home, Away. Jeff Gillenkirk
of his fastballs, not his son’s tantrums.
He took a deep breath and looked closely at his agitated boy. Of course — he’d forgotten to ask Carmen when he’d been changed last, when he’d eaten, when he’d slept. He pulled Rafe to him and peeked inside his pull-ups — dry as a bone. He found a box of Saltines in the cupboard and pulled out a stack, set Rafe on his lap, wiped off his tears and held out a cracker. “No!” Rafe pouted, but Jason could see his face soften. Soon Rafe was chewing the cracker, the twinkle in his eye beginning to reappear. Jason squeezed his son’s hand and watched the world beyond the sliding glass doors play out in silence, like a diorama of vintage Americana: Young Men Playing Baseball.
Jason leaned back and Rafe snuggled into the crook of his arm, his head against his chest. Jason began to sing, softly. “Rock-a-bye baby in the tree tops …” He stroked Rafe’s chest across the letters of his little Stanford jersey. Rafe picked at the sleeve of his daddy’s shirt. Outside, Vuco pitched and Corliss pounded a line drive that streaked past the clubhouse window like a comet. “When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all.”
After a few minutes, Jason looked down and Rafe was asleep.
WHEN PRACTICE was over he strapped Rafe into his stroller, tucked his blue flannel blanket snugly around him and wheeled him outside into the shade of the clubhouse wall. He hurried across the field and caught Vucovich as he was about to step into the dugout.
“How about some infield practice?” He knew Vuco could never turn down a guy who wanted to do more, even one who had pissed him off as much as he had.
“Where’s the kid?”
Jason pointed across the field. “He’s asleep. We do this all the time.”
Vuco grabbed his fungo bat and a couple of balls. Jason stood on the manicured grass between the mound and shortstop and Vuco hit hard groundballs to his right, to his left and straight at him, over and over again. Left right left right, his legs burned but he pushed himself, he wanted to show Vuco that he was serious about the season. Then suddenly the sound of Vuco’s bat, the smell of the grass, the slant of the winter sun produced a powerful déjà vu. He looked sharply towards the bullpen — Rafe was there, wrapped snugly in his stroller. Every few chances he glanced over, making sure Rafe was still there. Lunge, snatch, throw … lunge, snatch, throw …
Then one time he looked and Vicki was there.
He waved to her just as a ball shot sharply past his knee. “Pay attention!” Vuco shouted. “OK!” Jason said as he watched Vicki pull the blanket tightly up to Rafe’s neck and wheel him away without looking back.
HE SLEPT on the couch in his old fraternity that night. He didn’t want to see Vicki and have to apologize for throwing the yogurt. Besides, he had meant what he’d said. He was sick to death of their marriage. All he wanted to do was play ball.
The next day was more like winter, a strong wind pushing a procession of dark clouds off the Pacific. But enclosed in the magic land of Sunken Diamond, Jason ran, stretched, sprinted and threw with a passion that inspired everyone. He was determined to wipe out the catastrophe of Day One, to erase the image of him as a Dad and replace it with one of the flame thrower who would lead them to Omaha.
He stayed late again, working on his pick-off move. He was alone, undressing in the locker room when Vucovich appeared in the doorway holding a Coke. A pale ring traced the outline of his shades around his eyes, accentuating the intensity of their blueness. “I probably don’t have to say anything, but I’m going to,” Vuco said.
“Let me guess: Baptiste thinks I should go out for water polo.”
“That thing with your kid isn’t going to be the highlight of his year.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“It can’t happen again.”
Jason peeled off his socks. He wanted to say ‘fuck Baptiste’ but he couldn’t. Vuco had discovered him but Baptiste controlled his fate. They had driven down together from Houston and watched the kid called Heat pitch for the Gulf Coast American Legion. Fast ball and curve, that’s all he needed to blow his way through line-ups like a Gulf hurricane. Baptiste had clocked him at 95 and gone to check the radar gun with the Texas Highway Patrol. Most high schoolers didn’t throw 95 miles per hour. They had pegged him as a strong, uncomplicated kid ready for molding into a world class pitcher. Vucovich, at least, still believed that.
“You looked good out there today,” Vuco said. Jason nodded in agreement. “Milt, Freebie — they know you’re the real thing,” Vuco went on. “But you’re the only one who can make it happen. Prospects don’t make it, JT — players do. You’ve got to work as hard for this as you’ve worked for anything in your life.”
“I know that.”
Vucovich tapped his chest. “Heart.”
“You don’t think I’ve got heart after what I’ve been through?” Jason pointed with his chin. “I got heart as sure as you got that caterpillar on your lip.”
Vuco touched his new moustache. “My wife says I look like Brad Pitt.”
“Brad Pitt doesn’t have a moustache.”
A loud knock sounded on the clubhouse door. It had started to rain and beyond the streaked glass stood a heavy-set man in a rain slicker and motorcycle helmet, holding a manila envelope. Vucovich slid open the door. “UPS for Jason Thibodeaux,” the man said in an upbeat voice. Jason signed for the package, the guy handed him the envelope and hurried away. It was from the law firm where Vicki had clerked the summer they were married: Caulkins, Cleary, Wineglas & Huff, 74 State Street, Philadelphia, Pa. “Jason Mark Thibodeaux,” it was addressed, “c/o Stanford University Varsity Baseball Team.” He stared at the envelope, then at the man pushing through the stadium gate. “United Process Servers,” the receipt said.
Vuco sat down and resumed talking. “I’ve seen guys come through with half your talent try twice as hard …” Jason tore open the envelope and extracted a thick sheaf of papers. He read the top form but it took him a moment to grasp it. The only legal documents he had ever seen were his mother’s death certificate and Stanford’s scholarship forms. And, of course, his marriage certificate. He stared at the words as Vucovich’s voice receded.
PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE:
In the County of Santa Clara, California
Petitioner: Victoria Maria Repetto
Respondent: Jason Mark Thibodeaux
Children: 1. Raphael Jason Thibodeaux
Custody Status Requested: Primary Legal and Physical Custody to Petitioner
Six or seven pages of eye-challenging mumbo-jumbo followed. He felt a surge of giddiness and relief — then rage. Who was she to call it off? But he had said it himself — the marriage sucked. What had Vicki called it? “A sleepover that grew into a tragedy.” They’d had great sex at first, but once Vicki was five months pregnant even that went away. They argued about everything and had almost nothing in common — except Rafe.
Jason’s heart fell as he realized she was going to take him.
“Baseball,” Vucovich was saying with a quiet reverence, “has to be your lover. It has to be your mother, your father, your brother, your best friend … ” He turned and looked meaningfully at the man he considered his protégé. “It has to be your wife.”
Jason walked blindly past him, slid open the glass doors and stepped outside. The rain pelted his chest; he still had on only his baseball pants but it didn’t matter — he had to get home. He hadn’t seen Rafe for two days. He wanted to fix some dinner and play with his trucks and read him a story and put him to bed. He saw the phony UPS man disappear around the corner on his motorcycle. He began to run with half a mind to catch him and beat the crap out of him. Though what he really wanted