Baseball Dads: Sex, Drugs, Murder, Children's Baseball Part 19

Cool. See you guys there.

Dwayne was finishing his coffee when Estelle came up behind him and rested her head on his shoulder. He could tell something was on her mind.

"You okay, babe?"

"How long has it been since we asked each other if we were okay?" She squeezed him tightly.

"It's been too long," he replied.

They stood there, enjoying something that had been missing from their lives for years. Over time, the love they'd had for each other had been eroded and replaced by things ... by stuff ... stuff that had ultimately brought them zero joy and fulfillment. And when you took all of that away, when you broke it down and examined what it was that made them happiest, it was just the simple relationships. It was the wife, the husband, and the kid. That was it. It wasn't the house they lived in, the car they drove, the jewelry or the clothes that dangled from their bodies, the circles of mostly soulless people they had to swim among ... It was just them.

"You know, babe," Estelle whispered with her eyes closed. "I've been pretty awful for a while. I know I have. And I just-"

"Nope," Dwayne cut her off. "We're not going there. That's a place we've left behind. It didn't serve us well. Let's just find our way back. We're doing a pretty good job of it lately."

"I know, Dwayne," she said, searching for the words. "But I was really bad. I don't want to hold anything back. You see ... this guy Pete who went missing-"

"Estelle," he interrupted again, this time turning her around and locking eyes with her. "We're not going there. No one will get in the way of us, ever again."

Estelle could see it in his eyes. He didn't need to say anything else.

"I'm a motherf.u.c.king Jedi, now, sugar pie," he offered with a c.o.c.ksure, steely gaze. "And this is how the motherf.u.c.king Jedi roll."

Dwayne pulled into the River Oaks Country Club's golf course parking lot at just before 8:30 a.m., with "Little Wing" by Stevie Ray Vaughn blasting from the stereo. He parked his lawn truck beside Steve's hybrid-electric nerdmobile, where Steve sat tying his golf shoes. Tommy was already practicing his swing on the driving range, glad-handing and backslapping Westside Church of Jesus's Pastor Jim Harper. Dwayne approached the driving range to hit a few b.a.l.l.s before their game. He could tell by the look he received from Pastor Jim that his wife, Janice, had informed him of their encounter.

"Well, h.e.l.lo there, Pastor Jim," Dwayne said with mock enthusiasm, extending his hand. "How are you this fine morning?"

"Doing well, Dwayne," Pastor Jim responded. "I was just talking to Dr. Tom about the plight of African-Americans in the inner-city areas, and how the Westside Church of Jesus is doing everything it can to utilize its resources to make a difference there."

"Aaaahh, yes, you're having a good old-fashioned white guilt conversation with the only black guy you know." Dwayne pulled a 3-wood from his golf bag. "I bet that's exactly the topic Tommy was looking to discuss while golfing. By the way, the new Porsche looks fantastic. How much did that set you back? Two hundred grand?"

Pastor Jim's face turned red.

"I'm sorry," Dwayne continued. "That was rude of me to change the subject. What were you saying about utilizing all of your resources to help the poor?"

Dwayne set a ball on the ground and stood behind it to a.n.a.lyze how he should approach his first practice shot. He stepped up, got in his stance, and took a solid swing.

Although he made very solid contact, the ball hooked hard left into the lunch-table area amidst the tennis courts, taking out the knee of a waiter carrying three b.l.o.o.d.y Marys and a basket of breakfast tacos. Dwayne immediately pointed at Pastor Jim as the waiter struggled back to his feet. Pastor Jim looked on in horror while Dwayne chuckled to himself.

Tommy and Steve couldn't believe the way Dwayne was talking to Pastor Jim. No one spoke to Pastor Jim that way. He was a local celebrity. A large portion of Tommy's plastic surgery business came from the Westside Church of Jesus. Pastor Jim and his wife, Janice, were a couple of his top clients. He tried to think of ways to distance himself from Dwayne.

Steve, an avowed atheist since college, stood in awe of Dwayne as a goofy grin swept across his face.

"Dwayne," the pastor said, attempting to regain composure. "I'm not sure what led you astray from my flock, son. Janice told me you've been using drugs. That's a dark path you're on."

Dwayne hit another ball. It went exactly where the previous ball had gone, but this time the waiter was prepared and held a serving tray up as a shield. The ball hit the tray at full speed, at which point the waiter dropped it and ran inside to seek shelter.

"Let me get this straight, Pastor," Dwayne said. "Your wife, who popped half a bottle of pain pills that were overprescribed from her recent face stretching, who was on antidepressants and antianxiety medication, who consumed two bottles of wine at lunch, told you that I smoked a joint-and you two are outraged by that?"

"Dwayne," the pastor's words turned vitriolic. "There's a pretty staunch difference between prescribed medication and illegal substances. Don't try and lump my wife in-"

"No, I'm not done yet," Dwayne cut in. "I'm tired of all of this bulls.h.i.t outrage, Pastor. You and your wife ... your flock ... everything you represent ... you know who probably feels justifiable outrage? G.o.d. That's who. You make several million dollars a year in tax-free income. You do this by pa.s.sing judgment on others and offering your uneducated condemnation based on whatever fits your agenda. As a man of G.o.d, your agenda should be doing what Jesus said, things which align with taking care of the least among us, helping those who can't help themselves, being thankful for what you're given, and not denying some level of credibility to people just because they don't choose to aim for the f.u.c.king Fortune 500 list every year. If you were a missionary who'd built homes in third-world countries, then maybe I'd stop and lend an ear. But you're not. You're a pulpit hack who skates taxes, skimming from a pot which is supposed to feed the poor, praying to a G.o.d you don't represent ... asking Him to give you more, more, more, so you can continue to fly high above everyone with your cape of hypocrisy. You make me sick, Pastor Jim. I know that at the end of the day, if you're outraged by me, then chances are I'm doing something right. Do you know why I know this, Pastor?"

Pastor Jim looked at Dwayne in disgust. He crossed his arms across his chest, refusing to give Dwayne the dignity of a response.

"I'll tell you why, Pastor," Dwayne said as he stuffed his 3-wood back into his golf bag and slung his bag across his shoulder. "Because I'm a motherf.u.c.king Jedi, and that's how I roll."

Dwayne walked off the driving range. Steve followed, offering up both hands for a double high five, which Dwayne gladly slapped. Pastor Jim ripped his golf glove off his hand, threw it on the ground, and stomped toward his Porsche.

"Pastor Jim, I-" Tommy called out to him, trying to calm him down. Pastor Jim slammed his door and sped away before he had a chance to finish his sentence. He almost had a head-on collision with Russ as he hauled a.s.s out of the parking lot. Russ didn't recognize the pastor's new Porsche, so he flipped him off as he pa.s.sed, further enraging the pastor.

As usual, Russ pulled his Ferrari across two empty parking s.p.a.ces beside Dwayne's truck. He appeared to be totally nude behind the wheel, except for his large Gucci sungla.s.ses. His head dipped down toward the pa.s.senger seat, out of public view, as he blew through a few quick lines of c.o.ke.

Russ opened the door and pulled himself up, buck naked, for all the world to see. He shook his head wildly as the blow kicked in, and then managed to balance himself against the car door. His sweaty body hair glistened in the morning sun.

"Jesus," he said, standing in full glory beside his prized Ferrari. "What a night."

"Put some clothes on, man!" Steve shouted, looking away.

"G.o.d, I'm so sweaty," Russ mumbled almost incoherently, halfway to himself. "I was sliding all over the G.o.dd.a.m.ned seat in the turns."

Russ turned and bent over into his car to grab his clothes, offering a hind view of his jiggling furry a.s.s and marble bag.

"I really don't know what to say right now, Dwayne," Tommy offered in disgust. "You think Ernesto and some of your other lawn guys could get after that b.u.t.t m.u.f.f with a Weedwacker some day?"

"h.e.l.l, no," Dwayne replied. "They are a prideful bunch. It would totally throw them off their path to citizenship."

Dwayne pulled a toothpick from his pocket and placed it in his mouth, glancing sideways at Tommy a couple of times in amazement. They couldn't not watch.

"Didn't he get fingered in the a.s.s last night, D?" Tommy asked Dwayne quietly. "Who the h.e.l.l would put a finger in there, man?"

"I wouldn't go near that hairy a.s.s without full HAZMAT gear, bro," Dwayne responded.

Russ finally slid on a pair of bright red bikini briefs, followed by tight white shorts and a golf shirt. He slipped his socks and shoes on and made his way over to the golf cart that had been brought around for him with his clubs attached to the back of it.

A twelve-pack of iced-down beer sat in the pa.s.senger seat of Russ's cart. He pulled out two beers, slammed them both, and then opened a third, which he took a sip from before placing it in the cup holder. He then took out a pack of smokes and lit one up.

"How are you still alive, Russ?" Steve asked, somewhere between sickened and impressed.

"Suck it, f.u.c.kface," he shot back. "Let's play some golf."

The baseball dads arrived at the first tee. They each grabbed a driver, put a sleeve of b.a.l.l.s and a few tees in their pockets, and strategized their potential first shots.

"Got a little right-to-left wind here, kinda behind us though, so the ball should travel," Russ offered knowingly.

To designate who would hit first, Russ tossed a tee in the air in the middle of the foursome. The tee landed pointing at Steve, meaning Steve would hit first, followed clockwise around the circle by Tommy, Dwayne, and then Russ.

"Get us started, you f.u.c.king Obama-loving pansy," Russ said to Steve with fondness.

Steve placed his ball on a tee and squared up for his shot. He swung smoothly, made perfect contact, and hit a beautiful drive 275 yards down the middle of the fairway.

"Take that, b.u.t.tfinger!" Steve said to Russ as he strutted off to the side.

Russ brushed him off and grimaced as Tommy stepped up to hit.

"Please f.u.c.k this one up, Tommy," Russ said. "We don't need another good black golfer. Please tell your people to leave us something besides hockey."

Tommy drove the ball low and hard up the right side of the fairway. It hooked back just enough to come to rest in the dead center, probably twenty yards past Steve's ball.

"G.o.ddammit," Russ muttered.

Dwayne stepped up to hit as Tommy offered a fist b.u.mp to Steve while exiting the tee box. They were each quite impressed with their rare appearances in the fairway. Russ was agitated.

"Hey, Dwayne," Russ said just as Dwayne pulled into his backswing. "I'll stop getting daily b.l.o.w.j.o.bs from Estelle if you can outdrive Tommy."

Dwayne abandoned his backswing and lowered his driver. He turned to Russ and glared at him over his sungla.s.ses. "Let's not go there today, Russ," he said. He turned back to his ball and reared back his driver once again.

"Oh, come on, Dwayne," Russ shot back. "Are you telling me you'll let Walmart Pete and half the town ball your wife, but I can't even make a b.l.o.w.j.o.b joke?"

Dwayne dropped his club and whipped around in a lightning-fast MMA-style motion, grabbing Russ by the throat with his left hand and sweeping his legs out from under him. Russ landed with a thud, flat on his back, as Dwayne drove his head into the ground and dropped his knee into Russ's b.a.l.l.s.

Russ's eyes became huge with terror. Dwayne leaned in nose to nose. A single drop of sweat rolled across his face and down his nose, then dripped from an icy face of anger onto a bright red face of fear.

"We don't talk about my wife like that anymore, Russ. Understood?"

Given the fact that Dwayne was clutching his windpipe with full force, Russ nodded his head as best he could.

"Okay, then," Dwayne said with a half-psychotic smile, extending a hand to Russ. "Let's play some motherf.u.c.kin' golf!"

Dwayne picked up his club, lined up his shot, and drove the ball well past Tommy's. The ball came to a stop less than 5 yards from the green. He threw both arms into the air in celebration. He turned to face the guys to rub in the fact that he'd just hit the best drive that any of them had ever hit.

When Dwayne turned around, he noticed that the other three were still in complete shock, trying to digest his actions before the drive. This was no longer the Dwayne they knew. It was official. He had completely snapped.

Steve moved in closer, staring into Dwayne's eyes, trying to figure him out. He'd been witness to this growing disconnect more than they had. Something had changed that night at the bar.

Dwayne lowered his arms and c.o.c.ked his head.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Yeah, Dwayne, it's just-" Steve tried to come up with the words. "You feelin' alright, brother?"

Dwayne looked at the three men. He could smell their fear, like a lion in the wilds of Africa. He offered a warm, predatory smile. It was eerie. "I'm feeling f.u.c.king fabulous!" he replied with gusto, in the manner of a motivational speaker pumping up a crowd. "Things have changed, and I'm changing them. I'm not waiting on the world to be fair anymore. I'm tipping the scales myself. I'm in love with my wife again. My son is playing shortstop again. I'm turning my business around. I have the b.a.l.l.s of the future cupped firmly in my hands. I'm a motherf.u.c.king superhuman antibulls.h.i.t golf-ball-smashing maestro of life, my friends. f.u.c.k yeah, I'm alright."

The other three remained paralyzed. The fear they felt began to turn to awe and admiration. It wasn't unlike a young Clark Kent letting his friends in on a secret about himself. They couldn't help but believe him.

Russ pulled out a pack of smokes and produced a cigarette and a joint. He placed them both between his lips and lit them simultaneously.

Steve inched ever closer, inspecting Dwayne as if he were some sort of wax figure. Then their eyes met.

"Holy f.u.c.k," Steve spoke softly. "You killed Pete."

Steve and Dwayne remained in some sort of mesmerizing staring contest that was taking place between two beings from opposite worlds. Tommy's mouth hung open as he recalled the events of the last few days. Russ, for once, was quiet. He took a long pull from his cigarette, exhaled, and then took a long pull from his joint.

All three friends knew that Estelle slept around. They'd heard rumors about countless men. They'd even heard rumors about Pete. They knew not to believe everything they heard though. But still ...

Dwayne held Steve's stare, his eyes narrowing before he spoke. A sinister grin grew across his face.

"Yes, Steve. I killed Pete."

Dwayne walked over to Russ and grabbed the joint, taking a big hit. He pa.s.sed the joint to Tommy, who also took a big hit. Tommy pa.s.sed it to Steve. Steve took two big hits, then pa.s.sed it back to Russ. The four of them pa.s.sed the joint around in silence until it was gone. The idea of a vigilante murderer in their weekly golf game lingered heavily. It almost made it seem exciting, except that it was still technically golf.

"You can't just have s.e.x with someone's wife, toss their kid in the outfield, and expect there to be zero consequences, guys," Dwayne said, breaking the silence. "We've all been allowing bulls.h.i.t to happen in our lives that we shouldn't put up with. I'm tired of turning the other cheek. Would Han Solo allow that s.h.i.t? Would Luke Skywalker? Would Obi Wan? Well, f.u.c.k no, they wouldn't. We need to take a cue from people who kick a.s.s, not people who take it in the a.s.s."

They were all super high now, attempting to wrap their minds around things.

"Guys," Dwayne said in a faux-consoling tone. "Don't look at me like I've lost my mind. I haven't. I've found it. Shift your paradigm."