Out of His League Page 7

  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 and rented a motor home in Denver. I showed him the pictures when we came back—I guess he liked what he saw.”

  Jon nodded. “How long has my father been gone?”

  “He left for Vegas the day after...after the season ended.” Mr. Yanopoulis looked embarrassed for him. “It was a last-minute decision.”

  His dad was gone, too? Why not, Jon thought. His dad had probably left after it had been clear the Captains wouldn’t be in the playoffs. Dad would have been bitterly disappointed. Jon wasn’t feeling so great himself.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he said to his neighbor. This was stupid of him, but... “Did I ever help you when I was a kid?”

  “Help me? You helped everybody.” Mr. Yanopoulis pulled on the leash again. “Why? What’s this all about?”

  “I’m just wondering...what do you remember most about me from those days?”

  Mr. Yanopoulis smiled. “You know what I remember?” He pointed at the narrow strip of grass—barely the width of a dugout bench—that separated Jon’s family’s driveway from the Yanopoulis house. “You, at about ten years old, out there for hours, hurling a baseball against that screen thing.”

  “The pitch-back net,” Jon said.

  “Yeah, the pitch-back. You threw baseballs at it every night. Jean stayed up late, worrying. She wanted to complain to your father, but I told her, no, leave the boy alone, he is going to be a star someday.” He pointed at Jon. “And I was right.”

  Jon felt shaken. He remembered perfectly—the glow from the reflective tape of the strike zone he’d measured out, the squeak of the springs when the ball bounced back on the net at him, the satisfying feel in his muscles of hurling the ball with all his might, getting out his frustrations.

  At first, he’d shredded those pitch-back toys. There hadn’t been just one; there had been half a dozen he’d gone through, at least until he’d figured out how to reinforce the sides with PVC piping and duct tape. To make them, he’d saved up bottle-and-can collecting money, plus payments for neighborhood shoveling and grass cutting, and bought the equipment at a sports store downtown, hauling it home on his bike with Frankie’s help. Jon had needed that ritual. His mom was gone—dead from bone cancer—and his dad was in a serious state of depression. His father had been—still was, in a sense—a lost soul. Francis, even more rage-filled back then than he was now, was constantly in schoolyard fights, and Jon had felt compelled to defend him. Bobby, the baby, had needed Jon’s help with everything—getting dressed, getting fed, being told to brush his teeth and to turn off the TV. He had been very much like Brandon in that respect.

  Those hours with the pitch-back—that had been Jon’s outlet for blowing off steam. His way of calming himself down. Getting centered so he could sleep.

  It had only been an accident that he’d turned himself into a pretty good pitching talent. A talent that, luckily, some world-class coaches along the way had noticed. They had seen enough potential in Jon to take him on board and train him seriously. After that, life had gotten measurably better, for everyone in his family. He’d brought them hope.

  He didn’t want to lose that.

  He blew out a breath. Everything felt clearer. Maybe there was even a reason he’d met Lizzy. He’d needed that message—her message—to focus on himself.

  No highs, no lows.

  “Thanks,” Jon said to his neighbor. “You take care.” He turned and stared at the narrow strip of grass one last time.

  After Mr. Yanopoulis had left with his dog on the leash, Jon climbed back into this SUV and typed out a text message to his agent.

  I need to give the team reason to sign me again. I’m adding a fourth pitch this winter, a changeup. I also need to do some visible fund-raising with Vivian’s charity at the hospital. Call me back and tell me what you think.

  Then, and only then, did he reply to the text from the young guy he’d been mentoring. This would be the last time Jon would expend energy on a fellow pitcher for the foreseeable future. Jon had his own work to do.

  Talk to your agent. Listen to whatever advice they give you, and follow it.

  Then Jon took his own advice. He set his phone in the SUV’s cup holder and, while he waited for Max to call back, he headed home
to Boston. He was trying a new way of living. Not helping, he would call it. Focusing on himself and getting his own work done.

  “I am not a helpful guy,” he said aloud to himself.

  “Jon?” Max said when he finally called Jon back, as he was driving across the Zakim bridge. “That sounds like a good plan you came up with.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “We made some calls,” Max continued. “Management is marching to the drumbeat that they’re blaming the team’s collapse on the pitching falling apart.”

  Little surprise there. Jon pinched the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his good hand as he fixed his gaze on the headlights and road before him. “Yeah, I heard the gist of it from the call-in program.”

  “Your pitching staff,” Max said. “So you’ll be painted with the broad brush. It won’t be smooth going.”

  “I know.” Jon turned the wheel with his left hand. “That’s why I’ll be working on my changeup pitch again.”

  “It can’t hurt.” That was Brooke speaking. “But we think you should focus most on appealing to Vivian. She’s hosting a charity fund-raising event early next month. I can get you an invitation near her table.”

  “Max,” Jon asked, “are you passing me on as your daughter’s client?”

  “How’s your finger doing?” Brooke asked, unperturbed by Jon’s question.

  “Fine.” The over-the-counter painkillers Elizabeth had given him had finally kicked in. “The surgeon called me and said everything is fine.” He paused. “Max, are you fine? What’s going on? Why is Brooke with you?”

  There was only a slight hesitation. “I’m headed into surgery myself,” Max said evenly. “It’s routine—nothing for you to worry about, but Brooke will be in charge for the next few weeks while I recuperate. Pay attention to her—I’ve taught her everything I know. Don’t discount my daughter. Do you hear me, Jon?”

  He was really being tested today. “Yeah, sure. As long as you’re the one negotiating my contract.”

  “Of course,” Max answered. “But in return, I want you to implement Brooke’s ideas with Vivian.”

  Jon grunted into the phone, paying closer attention to traffic in the intersection as he stopped the SUV at a red light. “I already do fund-raising for Vivian’s Sunshine Club project.” Such as, writing lots of checks behind the scenes. “I just don’t trumpet it.”

  “Well, now you’ll be trumpeting everything to the high heavens,” Max said. “Vivian may be the team’s majority owner, and as such, normally stays away from operational issues, but she’s taken it upon herself to give input on contract decisions. If she likes you personally, you stand a better chance of things going your way.”

  “And you shouldn’t have any worries in that department, Jon,” Brooke interjected, “but just in case, I’ll work on other ideas for your fund-raising participation.”

  Jon hated having cameras in his face. But for the sake of getting serious... “Yeah, sure, everything is on the table.”

  “Excellent,” Brooke said. “I’ll talk to the program directors at the Captains front office and at Wellness Hospital.”

  Lizzy’s hospital. But knowing Lizzy, she didn’t get involved with the public programs.

  “Fine,” Jon said. “Sounds good.”

  “All right,” Brooke said. “I’ll float some ideas when I have them.”

  “Great.” In the meantime, Jon would line up his changeup coach.

  Jon hung up the phone.

  He drove home and just slept, as long as he needed to, which, thankfully coincided with the crack of dawn. When he got up, he cooked himself a big breakfast: eggs, toast, bacon, orange juice, coffee. He made an early phone call, checked the internet and, in the process, tracked down the one man in Boston—the pitching wizard—he could trust to help him add a changeup pitch to his repertoire.

  That was all Jon had in his power to focus on at the moment. Yeah, his day of “not helping” other people, just himself, was starting off fine. Coach Duffy—his high school mentor—still lived nearby. Now, all these years later, he worked at a local college with a top baseball program. Not Jon’s alma mater, but that worked out for the best. His “changeup” project needed to be top-secret in order to get him anywhere.

  Feeling better than he had in weeks, Jon showered and dressed and called down for his SUV. Then he drove out to the suburbs and approached his old coach on the back nine of his weekly golf game.

  Since it was a tiny municipal course, the back nine was the same as the front nine, meaning there were only nine holes, played twice. Perfect for Coach Duffy, the biggest “duffer” Jon had ever known. Lousy at golf, he was a great pitching coach. But woe to anyone who told Coach Duffy he was terrible at golf.

  Coach Duffy was teeing up in front of the clubhouse when Jon found him. Focusing intently, his old coach was trying his hardest—as usual. A cap was tucked over his balding head, and his feet and hips were lined up at the perfect angle.

  Jon crossed his arms, his splinted finger tucked up under his biceps, and waited for Coach Duffy’s swing. Studied, technically perfect...but awkward. At the moment the club head connected with an off-kilter thwap against the golf ball, Jon timed his entrance. The other three members of Coach’s foursome recognized Jon immediately and crowded around him. That’s what Jon had been counting on.

  The drive hooked left into the trees. “Almighty Chr—” Coach Duffy saw Jon and did a double take.

  “Hey, Coach,” Jon said, grinning.

  Coach Duffy tossed his club into the bag and stalked to his golf cart.

  “Do you mind if I ride along with him?” Jon asked the rest of the foursome. When the other men nodded, Jon jogged across the grass and climbed into the cart beside his old mentor.

  “Blast from the past,” Coach said drily.

  Jon settled into the seat, his splinted finger still tucked under his arm. “I know. I should have sent you some Captains tickets at some point.”

  “What, you mean they didn’t get lost in the mail?” The low-putting engine kicked in, and Coach swung the cart down a bumpy gravel pathway.

  “I promise I’ll send you some for the spring training games.” Assuming Jon got a contract for next year. “A plane ticket, too.”

  “What do you want, Farell?” Coach growled over the whine of the engine.

  “What? Can’t I visit with the guy who made it all possible for me?”

  Coach snorted. “I made squat possible. You were the most talented young man I ever taught, and when you weren’t distracted, you worked your ass off.”

  The implication was that Jon had been distracted far too often. He gazed out over the sparse fairway, a few of the leaves on the maple trees in the distance just turning red with the autumn season. “I paid the price for it.”

  “No, Jon, you didn’t. Not yet. You’re squandering your talent.” Coach Duffy glared at him. “Do you know what people would give for what you had?” He thumped the steering wheel. “Natural talent plus the combination of hard work—that’s the only formula for success. I tell it to my students, and they never believe me.” He threw up his hands. “Imagine that.”

  Thinking back to his teenage years, Jon couldn’t remember Coach Duffy being so bitter and frustrated. Or maybe, back then, he hadn’t been.

  “You know, maybe you’re selling yourself short,” Jon said. “You could be a big-league coach if you wanted. I know—I’ve worked with some of the best out there.”

  “What do you want, Farell?” his old coach asked again.

  It was time to take a chance. Jon needed this, because he couldn’t go to the Captains showing the weakness of his wounded finger. Not now, when he had so many other strikes against him.

  “I need to work on my changeup pitch, and I want you to be the one to help me do it.”

  There was a moment of silence as Coach Duffy swung the golf cart into a small parking area and cut the engine. He stared into the distance. The other golf cart in his foursome was chug
ging up behind them.

  “Please,” Jon said quietly. “You’re the only one in the business who gets what I’m trying to do. You know where I came from. What...I was dealing with as a kid.”

  “Are you past that?” Coach Duffy asked.

  Bringing his brothers safely through childhood and getting them started in life after his mom’s death? If that’s what his old coach was talking about... “Yeah. Yeah, I’m over that.”

  Coach nodded slowly. “You were working on the changeup in high school as I recall.”

  “I was.” But he’d abandoned it. It had been too much to handle at the time. His fastball, his curveball and his sinker were his reliable pitches—the arsenal that worked for him. “The changeup...I just never had a handle on it.” It was an off-speed pitch, meaning that when thrown, it looked like a fastball, but it arrived at the plate at a slower velocity.

  The lower speed and the deceptive delivery confused a batter’s timing. When thrown well, it was lethal. When executed improperly, a batter could hit the hell out of it.

  Coach glanced at Jon’s finger. “What’s that splint on your hand?”

  “Nothing.” Jon hid it under his biceps again. “Elective surgery.”

  “You can’t work out with that,” Coach said bluntly. “How are you going to hold a glove?”

  “I can condition myself. Work on grips. Some light throwing.”

  Coach Duffy stared at Jon. “You’re serious about this?”

  Jon’s heart beat harder. Those words...that’s what his dream had been about when he’d been under anesthesia. Maybe Coach Duffy was the man in the dream that he couldn’t remember? Maybe this was all about getting closer to who he really was. Finding his purpose and getting centered.