Baseball Dads: Sex, Drugs, Murder, Children's Baseball Part 30

Dwayne pulled up to the ballpark ready to play baseball. His a.s.sistant coaches were already there, which made him proud. To make things even better, Alex had never been so excited to play.

Russ, Tommy, and Steve were already at the batting cages. They sported tiny coaching shorts, tube socks pulled halfway up their calves, team-color athletic shirts, aviator sungla.s.ses, and whistles. Russ and Tommy were working the batting cages, and Steve was working on throwing technique. Dwayne smiled when he saw them. They had become a full-blown coaching unit overnight.

Every member of the team had a "game day" look on his face. Dwayne hadn't seen that before. Even the kids who sucked appeared ready to give it their all. The parents kept their distance. Just the way Dwayne liked it.

The team listened when they were told about loading up, making a level swing, coming down on the ball, timing the swing right, stepping out of the batter's box to throw the pitcher off his pace, and trusting their own abilities. A few even learned how to read the pitch by the way the pitcher held the ball in his glove and entered the windup. It was a thing of beauty. They were pounding the h.e.l.l out of the ball in the cage.

Before they were set to take the field, the coaches went through a quick refresher course on fielding the ball.

"Keep your body in front of it," Tommy said. "No side-arm catches. Don't let anything by you."

"And outfielders," Steve added, "make sure you hit your cutoff man on a deep ball."

"Don't forget to point your front shoulder where you're throwing the ball," Russ jumped in, with a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. "Take that extra split second to make a good throw. That's what keeps a single from being a triple."

Dwayne looked at his coaches and nodded approvingly before stepping in front of the kids. He felt like General Patton addressing his soldiers.

"Take a knee, kids," Dwayne commanded. He walked back and forth a couple of times, looking each player in the eye. He wanted their undivided attention.

"Today, we get the honor of playing America's sport. Many people take this honor for granted. Many people dishonor the baseball G.o.ds by doing it wrong. That is not what champions do. And make no mistake, team, we are champions. We've been doing it wrong for too long, though. But I s.h.i.t you not, guys, if you'll put your trust in me and play this game in a way that honors it, we will claim a victory here today.

"Are we outmatched? If you'd asked me a week ago, I would've said yes. But not today. No way. Not up in here. We can put the wood on the ball every bit as well as these guys. Probably better. We can make defensive plays every bit as well as these guys. Probably better. Know this, team. Believe this. Today, the G.o.ds of baseball will shine favorably on our team.

"If the pitcher throws a strike and you miss, spit on home plate and smile at him. If the first baseman talks smack to you when you're on his base, laugh at him and tell him you're going to beat his a.s.s today. If someone is blocking the base you're running to, lower your shoulder and mow their a.s.s down. Forget our record. Forget their record. Just get out there and own them. We came to kick a.s.s today, gang, and I will accept nothing less than that. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir!" the team responded.

"I can't hear you!" Dwayne yelled back. "I ASKED IF I MADE MYSELF CLEAR!"

"YES, SIR!" they screamed in unison.

"Good! Now go get some water and get ready to whip some a.s.s!"

Dwayne headed toward home plate. The umpire was waiting for the coaches to have the coin toss that decided who was Home Team and who was Visitor. The a.s.sistant coach for the opposing team, Ed Snyder, walked out to greet them, looking disheveled.

Ed Snyder owned a very shady home-warranty company and was known throughout the baseball community to be as much of a hothead and a.s.shole as his missing predecessor, the late T-Bone Sprinkle.

"h.e.l.lo, guys," Ed offered to Dave the umpire and Dwayne. "I've got an issue here. T-Bone hasn't made it yet. I have no clue where he is. His wife said he goes on a bender every couple of months, so I'm a.s.suming he's hammered in a bar somewhere. Problem is, he's got all of the team notes, lineup, and so on, and I was wondering if-"

"You wanna postpone the game?" Dave interrupted.

"Well, yeah, if I-"

"Go f.u.c.k yourself," Dave replied. "Suck it up, b.u.t.tercup. Dwayne's head coach, Ricky, got pancaked on the road and his head flew off. Ricky's a.s.sistant coach, Pete, got abducted at a Walmart. Do you see Dwayne b.i.t.c.hing? Nope. It's time to play ball. Heads or tails, Ed?"

"Whatever, d.i.c.k. My boys could beat this sorry-a.s.s team with no coaches. Heads."

Dave flipped the coin, and heads it was.

"We'll take home," Ed snarled as he walked away without shaking Dwayne's hand.

Dave the umpire and Dwayne shook hands, though. Not shaking hands was like spitting in the eye of the baseball G.o.ds. You just weren't supposed to do that.

Dave offered Dwayne a wink through his umpire mask.

"I'm not asking for any favors today, Dave," he said. "Just make good calls like you usually do."

Dwayne had the boys circle around and put their arms in before they kicked off the game.

"Tigers kill, on three," Dwayne said. "Alex, start it off."

"One, two, three," Alex yelled.

"TIGERS KILL!" they screamed.

The Yankees were startled. They looked out from their dugout at the opposing team. Just seconds before, they a.s.sumed they'd have no trouble winning in a huge way. But something seemed different with the Tigers now.

"Grab your bats, boys," Dwayne called out to his team. "And make your mommas proud!"

"PLAY BALL!" Dave the umpire called out after the catcher practiced his throwdown to second base.

On the throwdown, the ball hit the ground a few feet before making it to second base. Dwayne took a mental note that the catcher might not have the arm strength to pick off runners and then gave instructions to his a.s.sistant coaches.

"Tommy, you run the lineup. Steve, you get the players in the positions I've a.s.signed. Russ, you're my first-base coach. I'll be at third. Let's be aggressive with the baserunning, Russ. Steal on pa.s.sed b.a.l.l.s. If we have a runner at first and third, and second is empty, send your first-base runner on the first pitch. If they take the bait and try for the pick-off, we'll score with the runner at third. Let's get 'em rattled early, men. Oh, also, Russ ... I see that they've got Jake Schimmy playing first base. Torture him. His dad is a tool. We had a few words earlier today."

Russ nodded.

Dwayne stepped out of the visitor dugout to third base, and Russ ran over to first.

"Jackson, you're up," Tommy yelled over to the boys. "After that, it's TJ, then Jonathan, then Alex at cleanup. Bats and helmets, boys. Let's make some noise!"

Jackson Paisley made his way out of the dugout and approached the batter's box. He looked over to his dad, Russ, at first base and gave a sinister grin.

Russ leaned over and whispered in Jake Schimmy's ear.

"My boy is about to knock the p.i.s.s out of that ball. If you get in his way while he's rounding first, I'll hit you so hard in the kidney you'll be s.h.i.tting blood for a month."

He patted the terrified boy on the back and slid back into coaching position.

Jackson made perfect contact with the first pitch. He hit a line drive just over the shortstop's head, deep into left field. Jake Schimmy stepped out of Jackson's way as he ran to second, where he was held to a double.

Russ leaned over to the first baseman again as TJ approached the plate.

"Good move, getting out of the way. You may not be as dumb as you look. And you look pretty f.u.c.king dumb. I hope to G.o.d you grow out of that. Anyhow, you see this next kid? He's black, so automatically there's something inside you that's scared, right? Well, just so you know, his dad just got out of prison. He's in the dugout now. He used to be a in a gang. Probably still is. He's a f.u.c.king psychopath. I just thought you should know."

Jake wiped a couple of tears from his eyes and then a.s.sumed the baseball ready position.

The pitcher threw a changeup as his first pitch. The ball dropped right at the plate. It was a good pitch, but it wasn't good enough to get TJ swinging. Dave gave the signal for 10.

The next pitch was an outside curve. TJ loved the curve. He connected with the ball and sent it to right field for a solid single. Jackson advanced to third. Steve's son, Jonathan, stepped up to the plate.

Jake Schimmy had a tough time concentrating on the batter. He was scared of being close to TJ. He thought that at any moment, TJ's crazed father would come out of the dugout and run a knife across his throat.

Jonathan hit a slow-rolling single off a first-pitch fastball. It happened to roll to just the right spot, between shortstop and third. By the time the kid got to the ball, he couldn't make a play at first without allowing the runner at third to score. He had no option but to hold onto the ball and watch the batter run safely to first.

The bases were now loaded. Alex came out of the dugout. He stared down the pitcher all the way to the box. All of the sudden, the crowd in the bleachers came alive. The parents of the Tigers were going wild. They'd never started a game like this. Dwayne could hear Estelle over all of the others, cheering wildly for Alex to get a good hit.

"Bounce that f.u.c.king ball off the pitcher's forehead, Alex!" Russ called out from first base.

Russ winked at Jake Schimmy. "Your dad is a douche," Russ said.

The pitcher sent a blistering fastball by him first. Alex didn't even flinch.

"STRIKE!"

The crowd got louder. Dwayne was loving it. He knew exactly what Alex was doing. He was going to shatter the pitcher's confidence for the rest of the season.

The pitcher whipped his second pitch out, a screaming curveball that pulled right back over the corner of the plate at the last second. Alex never took his eyes off the pitcher. His bat still rested on his shoulder.

"STRIKE TWO!"

The pitcher stepped off the mound and walked around it, glaring at Alex. Alex spit on the plate and smiled at him. The pitcher walked back onto the mound, trying to figure out what pitch to throw.

Alex raised his bat off his shoulder, and the bleachers went silent. The pitcher went into a huge windup, bringing the ball from way back to throw the fastest fastball he'd ever thrown across the inside corner.

Dwayne heard the unmistakable crack that a bat makes when it devastates a ball. Alex, along with everyone on the field and in the dugouts and bleachers, watched in silence as the ball sailed deep into center field and disappeared over the wall.

Alex lowered his bat as the crowd erupted, and then he ran, offering high fives to Russ and his dad as he cleared the bases. The entire team dogpiled him when he crossed home plate.

No one had ever scored more than three runs in an entire game on T-Bone's team. The Tigers went on to score seven in the first inning. The final score of the game ended up at 212. It was a historic, oldschool a.s.s whipping that ended with Alex and TJ dumping a cooler full of water over Dwayne's head.

Eric Schimmy came walking by a few minutes later, consoling his crying son, attempting to avoid being noticed by Dwayne when they pa.s.sed by the Tigers.

"Later, a.s.shats!" Russ called out to father and son Schimmy.

As was the custom, parents and kids gathered together in the outfield. And even though the sucky kids hadn't played good positions, none were upset.

"Take a knee, team," Dwayne shouted.

The four men in tiny coach's shorts and whistles stood side by side with their arms crossed. The crowd waited for Dwayne to speak.

"Kids," Dwayne began, "I promised you that if you did the things we trained you to do, you would whip some a.s.s today."

"Coach Dwayne," one of the parents interrupted. "I'm not sure it's appropriate to use the word a.s.s in front of the kids."

Dwayne was visibly irritated at the interruption.

Russ stepped in. "Did Coach Dale ever use the word a.s.s?"

"No, I don't believe he did," the parent replied.

"And how did that work out for you?" Russ asked.

"Well, we didn't win, but-"

"So shut the f.u.c.k up."

The parents all gasped. The kids tried to stay focused on Dwayne, positive that they hadn't just heard what they thought they'd heard.

"Yeah, umm, Russ," Steve stepped in. "I'm okay with some light cursing, like a.s.s, but I'm not sure I'm okay with f.u.c.k."

"Really?" Russ asked, genuinely confused. "Why the f.u.c.k not? Because I'm a f.u.c.king deacon? Or because there are kids three feet away?"

"f.u.c.k is a more offensive word than a.s.s, Russ," Tommy interjected. "I personally think you shouldn't say f.u.c.k as a deacon, and I know you shouldn't say f.u.c.k three feet away from kids."

"Yeah, but you just said f.u.c.k three times in a row," Russ replied. "Why is it okay for you to say it, but not me? Is it a black thing? Can only black people say it? Is it like the N word?"

"Oh, Jesus," Steve said. "Can we just get back to talking about the game we just won? Please?"

"As I was saying," Dwayne continued, "if you put your heart into this, if you'll play hard, and play smart, we will win the championship. You kids did awesome today. I'd like to congratulate you all on earning that win. You came together as a team. And coaches, great job out there. It was so fluid. So perfect. And how about those fans, huh? Parents, you did great. I love it that not a single one of you offered me your opinions before the game. It warms my heart that you know how much I don't care what you think. Thanks for keeping the energy level high throughout the whole game. Let's give ourselves a round of applause."

Dwayne raised his hands in the air and clapped loudly. The kids and a.s.sistant coaches followed. The parents joined in after looking back and forth at each other awkwardly.

Dwayne threw his arm out so the team would stack their hands. "Okay! Bring it in, boys! Lead us off, Alex! Tigers Kill, on three!"

"One, two, three ..."

"TIGERS KILL!"

Dwayne jolted upright in his bed in a cold sweat. It was the middle of the night. His side of the bed was soaked. A thousand things rushed through his mind.

He hadn't been thinking right. He hadn't been paying attention. What the h.e.l.l was going on? Whatever happened to that cop who was looking for Ricky Dale's attackers? Could they trace it back to him? Would Dave roll over on him under pressure?

And what about Pete Rearden? Jesus Christ, he never checked for cameras in the parking lot. And there was no way Steve could hold his own in an interrogation. More importantly, half the f.u.c.king town knew about Estelle slumming it with Walmart Pete. Motive. G.o.ddammit. He had motive. s.h.i.t.

And what the f.u.c.k was he thinking using his own office building as a kill site for Pete? His DNA had to be all over the place. In his trunk. On his equipment. s.h.i.t.

Not to mention, had anyone else seen T-Bone at the ballpark? s.h.i.t, only a dozen kids. s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t. Did anyone see them enter the scorekeeper's office? Could anyone see into the office when they bashed in T-Bone's skull? Did anyone see them cut his leg off and bury him under the pitcher's mound? s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t.

He was smarter than this. What the f.u.c.k happened? What the f.u.c.k had he been thinking? He'd watched enough detective shows on TV to know that they wouldn't need to dig too deep. Jesus. What was going on?