Green Expectations by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 6
They started slowly, warming up arms that hadn’t been used; in one case for months and in the other for years. It was reminiscent of when they had first played, excepting Dad’s grunting and arm rubbing. Dave spurred him on by saying; “You sure you’re up to this?”
Dad said; “Don’t worry about it,” and returned the next throw with some zip on it; his lips making a dismissive grimace, which might have been the convenient thing to do.
Dave said; “I’m not making any fun. First time out is rough on me after sitting out the winter. You’ve sat out years and are you ever going to be sore.”
“That’s okay. I don’t have to pitch against New York tomorrow.”
After feeling reasonably warm in the sunny, forty degree Jersey afternoon, they took positions near the vertically slatted, red barn; Dad against it. He squatted like a catcher and said; “Okay. Try that splitter.”
Dave rocked and threw his father a two-hopper three feet off the plate. Dad let it be stopped by the barn and faintly said; “Jeez.”
Dave heard and briefly laughed, shrugging his shoulders as if to say; “’Scuse me.”
Dad picked up the ball and threw it back, saying; “That’s all right. Just keep doing it.”
Dave well remembered those sentiments. He heard that refrain throughout his youth whenever he told his father that he couldn’t do something. Dad seemed to believe that anything could be done; it was just a matter of constant repetition.
Dave repeated and repeated his ability to throw two-hoppers to his father, who let them hit the barn rather than attempting to catch the spinning ball, hopping on an uneven surface. One cracked through the thin siding. Dave said; “I’ve got an idea.
Since you’re not going to catch anything, I’ve got an old mattress in the barn. We can prop it up against the wall.”
“I’d give it a shot if you could get it to me on one hop, but I’m not gonna get in front of that stuff.”
They propped up the mattress, which took the beating of its life, until Dave graduated to one-hoppers mixed with ten foot high pitches.
Dave said; “This really feels strange. The ball doesn’t belong between two fingers. It’s un-natural.”
Dad said; “Don’t worry about it. You’re doin’ fine now. All you got to do is get it in the middle of where you’ve been throwing it.”
Dave slowly shook his head and smiled as he took the throwback. He thought; “That man has supreme confidence ......
in me. I wonder if he has it in himself.” As he continued to throw his mind stayed with his last thought. He tried to think of an indirect, polite way of asking his father if he believed in himself as much he did his son. It was delicate, but he was curious. However, caution ruled the moment. He tried to think of old events which suggested one thing or the other. Initial recollections suggested that his father seemed to profess self-confidence in his endeavors, but didn’t attempt much.
They kept at it another half hour and Dave might have thrown three or four strikes, but it was encouragingly apparent that his accuracy was improving as his pitches now came somewhere between arriving on just one hop and being up seven feet.
Dad ended the festivities by saying; “Come on in and get me some more coffee. I’ve got a long drive and I’ve got to keep your mother out of trouble.”
“What kind of trouble is she getting into these days?”
“Ah, you know she’s been cranky, and if she doesn’t have me to yell at she might start up with someone else. Then who knows what will happen?”
Dave said; “Okay, but we’ve got an old tradition to fulfill.”
When he was a kid they’d always end their training session with Dad batting once. Dave would say; “Come on. Come on. You
know I’m going to strike you out this time.” Dad would
“reluctantly” grab a bat and Dave would throw all fastballs. He often got to two strikes, but then his father would shorten his swing and always hit it hard.
Dad said; “There’s no bat here,” as he stepped toward the house.
Dave said; “I’ve got a couple in the barn.”
“I’m too old for this.”
“Ah, you just know I can strike you out this time.”
“Sure, I haven’t swung a bat in twenty years.”
Dave threw his arms out to the side and his facial expression showed disappointment.
“All right. Where are the damn bats?”
Dave became gleeful and trotted to the door of the barn. He showed his father four bats, none of which met his expectations.
He held each, took a few short swings and looked them over with a disapproving, almost pained expression.
Dave said; “Okay, you’ve got your excuse.”
Dad took one and said; “This is good enough.” He stood in front of the mattress and took a few short practice swings as Dave walked to the imaginary mound.
Dave nodded and received one in return. He took a short windup and threw the fastball. Dad looked bad swinging and
missing, like an unoiled and creaking garden door attempting to close before the rabbit ran in. Dave was pleased.
He wound up and let it go again. This time Dad’s swing didn’t look as pitiful, but he was way behind it and missed. He looked worried. This time Dave wasn’t so proud of himself. He felt as if he should not have goaded his father into doing this at age 58 and that he really didn’t want to strike out the man who taught him everything and now looked as if he was wounded.
Dave had a thought; “We can’t cut this now. But, maybe if I take a little off he can smack it somewhere. It’s a little tricky because I don’t want the slow-down to be obvious and insulting.
Just a little bit off the fastball. Dave threw and Dad smacked a shot off the property. It might have cleared left center at the Meadowlands. Dave was relieved, but didn’t show it. He put his hands on his knees and bowed his head as if he was disappointed.
Dad wore a wide grin, stood the bat against the barn and said;
“That’s it for me. I will never swing a bat again.”
Dave laughed, walked over and patted him once on the back.
He couldn’t ask if his father had noticed the little bit he took off and his father never said anything about it. Dave hoped he couldn’t tell. They silently walked back into the house and drank coffee. As Dad was leaving he said; “You definitely need to master that splitter. See ‘ya tomorrow.”
Dave smiled and nodded and then watched his father walk down to his car. He opened the gate with his clicker and watched the car slowly bump down the long driveway. When it was out of sight he shut it and almost made a tear, settling on wet eyes.
He wondered what his father was thinking.
Dave got another coffee and sat on the living room couch.
The silence was consuming as he looked through a window seeing leafless willows, blue sky and sunlight. His mind raced, flip-flopping between thoughts of his wrecked baseball career, his need for an income, the effects this would have on his relationship with Lucretia and whether or not his father could tell that he took a little off the fast one. He never previously realized how easy he had it up until now. All he had to do was show up. Now, at this advanced age, it seemed as if there were no longer going to be any easy answers. It was particularly nasty that all the crap happened when he was least able to deal with it. If he was younger and still held out promise he could have gotten a new contract from some other team and all that would change was his uniform and the amount of time spent in his Weehawken condo. He rubbed his sore right arm, simultaneously forgetting about everything else and drifted off to sleep, his eyes fixed on the perfect sky.
Having slept much of the day away, Dave fidgeted all night, unable to sleep. He found the dark, soundless bedroom un-nerving. It was as if he was again four years old and afraid of the dark, dependent on his parents to get him a night light.
But, those days were long gone and he had no night light in his house.
Tewksbury, NJ 12-21-12
At 2AM he was completely disgusted with himself, got out of bed and went downstairs to the living room. He sat on the couch and put on the TV, his night light substitute. He checked the listings and nothing caught his interest. He wanted the dull light the TV provided more than caring about the images and sounds that accompanies it. He reclined on the couch and quickly determined that he was cold and hungry. He retrieved his blanket from the bedroom and fixed himself coffee, ham and eggs.
His full stomach and warming blanket made him finally feel sleepy and the last thing he remembered was Jed Clampett heading somewhere with rifle in tow.
He was jarred awake by the gate bell and scooted to the window to see his father’s light blue Honda waiting there. He squinted at the Grandfathers clock and saw that it would soon be 9AM. He pushed the controller button and the rusted gate swung
open, groaning so loudly in the stillness of the early winter morning that it made Dad wonder if it would make it.
Dave watched him navigate the driveway and waited at the front door. As his father neared he opened it and said; “Man, you’re early.”
Dad looked at his wristwatch and said; “9AM?” as he walked through the open door.
“Yeah, right. I didn’t sleep so well last night.”
“I figured that.” Dad headed for the kitchen, but Dave said; “Let’s go in the living room. I’m kind of set up in there already.”
Dad went in the room with the blanket and the droning TV, taking a seat in a dark green Queen Anne wing chair with full view of the electronic festivities. He eyed the TV which was playing a morning women’s talk show. The five present seemed to be discussing something about the sexual personae of a Top Ten author, which they inferred based on his new release as opposed, and in similarity to, that which they thought was implied in prior spoutings. He derisively said; “What are you watching?”
“I’m not watching anything. I was asleep until the gate bell went off. Put on whatever you want. I’ll get both of us coffee.”
Dad found ESPC and when Dave returned he saw two tiny Oriental men crouched with paddles in hand, positioned ten feet
from the green, wooden picnic table, decorated with a tiny net at its center, hitting a plastic ball to each other. One of them was grunting and yelling out what sounded like an attack preparation drill in Japanese whenever he struck the tiny ball, which click-clacked back and forth to their great fascination.
Dave handed Dad his coffee and said; “Glad you found something good.” He sat on the deep blue Chippendale couch and put the blanket over his legs.
They casually downed their beverages as they intently watched the Tokyo World Table Tennis Championship’s quarter finals.
Dad said; “How’s your arm?”
“Sore. ....... Just like it always is the first time I throw every year. Nothing unusual.”
“Hope you’re right. Sometimes when someone tries a new delivery it permanently messes up something in his arm.”
Dave thought that this information would have been more appropriately given yesterday. He started to get annoyed, but then thought that there must be a joke someplace that he had missed. He said; “I never heard that one.”
“Oh, yeah. Look up Dizzy Dean.”
Dave stared at his father who was intently watching the picnic diversion. He saw a poker face which gave no tip of jest.
But, Dave had known him to be good at that and as soon as he
would show some sign of being upset Dad would smirk and reveal the relevant fact that he did not know. He decided that he wouldn’t show anything except a lack of concern. The match seemed to have ended with the roar of the winner and Dave wondered if someone was going to attempt to hop the net.
Dave said; “It was a shame that it happened to Dean. He was supposed to have been pretty good, so why did he change his delivery?”
“He broke his toe. His team was in a pennant race and couldn’t win without him, so he pitched on it before it healed.”
Dave was a bit incredulous saying; “No one would do that today.”
“Right.”
Dave thought he detected a derogatory inflection about today’s players and responded; “And with good reason. Look what happened to him.”
“His team didn’t come out too bad. During the off season they traded him to another team, who gave the Cardinals a bunch of good players, only to find out that Dean couldn’t pitch anymore.”
“That wouldn’t happen today either. He’d have to go through a physical exam before the trade was finalized.”
“Might not catch a dead arm.”
They watched the “sporting events” which excited the announcers only. Dave was still famished and heated up TV
dinners for the duo’s lunch. They finished at 11AM and it was warm enough to continue yesterday’s work.
Dad took his place by the mattress and Dave threw easily from close in, gradually working his way back, complaining that his arm was sore.
After he reached his whining tolerance level Dad said;
“Would you rather have a sore arm or a sore bank book?”
Dave kept throwing, with the knowledge that his arm would be fine in a few days. He improved on the prior day’s performance, getting strikes on about one-third of his pitches.
More importantly, when he got it right, the ball dropped a good two feet, making it difficult for his father to catch.