Excerpt from "Going Yard" from American Cool
"I'm going for the cap tip, bro," I tell Ortiz.
"You ain't doin' shit," he says.
"I am. I'm doing it." I look out the side of the dugout and make sure she's in her seat. She is.
Ortiz takes a look, then Roberts. He whistles and licks his lips. Even Halloway glances over and nods in agreement. But he gets all Halloway on us and says, "She sure does look like an incredibly sweet lady."
"Shut the fuck up, Halloway," Roberts snaps. "Sweet my ass. She looks like an incredibly fuckable lady. I know it, you know it, why don't you just admit it and save us all the bullshit."
But Halloway's Halloway, you know, so he don't get jacked about it or nothing, he knows when to shut up and back off, so Roberts turns to me. "It's lame, she'll think you're an ass."
"Nah. It's classic, she'll eat it up."
"You'll never pull it off. It's gay."
"I'm smooth. It's suave. It'll work. You," I stick my finger in his chest, "you were gonna do it in the first inning and you missed your shot."
"Yeah, well, first you gotta hit the dinger, amigo." Roberts does this. Not-so-subtle cracks about my not-quite-whiteness.
"In the bag, Ese." I nod to left-center. "Right there. Consider it done."
"Whooo!" Ortiz jumps on that. "Listen to Superman here, callin' his shot!"
"Doesn't matter," Roberts shakes his head and takes another look. "Hit your dinger, tip your cap, she's still gonna be going extra innings with me before this home stand's over."
It's a perfect day. The sky is blue, the sun is bright, the air is warm, and there's a whiff of a breeze blowing out to left-centerfield. That's my sweet spot, my favorite place to go yard. Cause when I hit the ball there I get that awesome feeling all up through my arms. Not a tingle. Nah, you get that tingle when you jank a slider foul on a cold day. When I catch the ball out front, before it starts to break, and I pull it a little with good bat speed, I know it's gone before I even finish my swing. Just that split second connection as the momentum changes.
I take my time walking up to the plate. Not obnoxious, you know, I don't pull that shit. But slow enough. Cause I know this lefty on the mound, I've owned him for a couple months now. He's got nasty stuff, but he's too young and the more I hit him the more pissed off he gets cause his pride fucks with him. Huh, like I should talk about that. Anyhow, it does fuck with him, his pride. He could probably make me look like an ass if he'd stick with his junk; hard-breaking slider, looping curve, good off-speed pitch. But ever since I took him downtown back in April to bust up his shut-out, he's had something to prove. So he just keeps pumping the fastballs to me and I just keep watching my slugging average reap the rewards.
He's glaring at me but I fight off a smirk and look right past him to make sure she's still sitting there as I take my practice hacks. She is. Just beyond the home dugout, second row, clapping as the PA announces me. "Centerfielder Miguel Rodriguez." Does it get any better than this?
It does get better. It gets better once I step in and the southpaw pumps a fat, flat fastball right into my wheelhouse. Step, swing, shift, and SMACK.
I don't watch it, I know it's gone. I mean, that was fun, but I ain't a prick, you know? Though as I'm rounding first I do glance up at her. I've had it planned since we started this home stand. All's she's gotta do is turn back to me instead of watching the outfield. She turns as I'm hitting second. She's looking right at me, and I know it's my moment, so I go for it. A slight nod of my head, and I reach up and tip my cap to her. So smooth, so classic. I even wink. She smiles.
That's when I stumble. Fuckin' gopher holes in the goddamn baselines! I lose balance and the hand I was suavely gesturing with crashes down on my helmet and it teeters forward, blinding me, but I get my footing back and start to hit stride only to crash into something that sends me sprawling flat on my back. Fuckin' shortstop in the goddamn baseline!
Dust flies, my helmet rolls off, and I can hear it. Laughing. That fuckin' lefty on the mound is laughing, so's their second baseman. And so is, I'm sure, everyone in the stands. Even her.
I get untangled from the shortstop and pick up my helmet as he curses me out. Don't dare to dust myself off, definitely don't dare to look back up. I just watch the ground, finish the jog, and slink back to the dugout. And then take the ribbing that comes instead of high fives.
"Hey! Rodriguez! Now that's what I call a round TRIPPER!"
"Well Slick, if she didn't notice you before, I'm betting she'll remember that."
"What the hell, dude? She got you so tangled up you tried to tango with the shortstop!"
"Rico Suav-AY! Cheer up hermano, look on the bright side," Ortiz says and pats my shoulder.
"Yeah, and what's that?" I ask as I stack my helmet and grab some pine.
"The bright side, Jackass, is that we're not in the show. Cause if we were we'd be watching that replay on the Jumbotron right now!" Ortiz laughs so hard his eyes water. Adding, "And shit, think of the SportsCenter clip you don't have to deal with!"
The Skip walks in front of me and stops. He takes a long look and spits out some sunflower shells. From behind him, Roberts that shit says it:
"Fourth inning phenom strikes again."
Skip shakes his head again, spits more shells. "Looks like even the fourth inning is taking an ugly turn for you there, Rodriguez." A pause. Straight-faced, "Or maybe it's just that turn around second that's ugly."
"Skip, listen, I..." But he cuts me off with a glare and walks away.
Five innings later, things are worse. We're down by one and I'm due up fourth. If there's such a thing as tiny mercies, we'll just go down one-two-three. I hope it.
But that's just my pride fucking with me.
Once Roberts doubles I know it's over. I don't have to wait for Ortiz to sacrifice him over and Jones to fly out too shallow to score Roberts to know it's going to be up to me. Roberts stranded on third, we're down by one, there's two out, and I'm up.
It's on me now.
The Fourth Inning Phenom.
That's what they've taken to calling me here in this town, this team. Why? Simple. Cause I never come through in the clutch. Early innings or blow out games, stand back and let me play. But late innings, close games, end of season, or any pressure situation you can think of, I choke.
I swallow thickly right now, feel it already building up.
The Choke. It feels inside just how it sounds. The pressure gets thicker and tighter and stuffier until it's suffocating and there's no other option.
I don't look over my shoulder as I move to the plate, I don't scan the crowd as I take my practice hacks before stepping in. I don't look at the meat on the mound, I don't look at the scoreboard, and I don't even wish for good luck. All's I do is think, "Please don't let me fuck this up."
The possibilities unravel in my mind. There's no Jumbotron, but it will make the evening's local news, me and my last swing, maybe even a crack about how I've done it, or NOT done it -- again. The names: Mr. May, Fourth-Inning-Phenom, the don't-go-to-guy, Heimlich, Anti-Clutch. Choker. The Skip'll shake his head and turn his back. Ortiz'll call me Michael just like the fuckers did in little-league. And high school. And A ball. Fuck. The main office will be informed. Again. I won't get called up. Again. Years'll pass and I'll keep wallowing in the dirt and crabgrass of the minors and I'll never get my call-up bonus and I'll eventually be released and no one will pick me up the next year, not even the bushleagues, and I'll be stuck with no fucking job, no fucking money, no fucking respect, and I'm no longer even a "prospect", I'll just be washed-up before I even got started and I'll get some shit fuckin job at Auto Zone or some shit and be stuck selling windshield wipers and "clutches" and it'll probably be in the last town I played in and for a couple years people will make ironic jokes and women'll wonder if I choke in the sack as bad as I do on the field and I'll be getting fat and old and not getting laid, certainly not by the hot chick in the second row because she's seen me pull this shit before and she'll know I'm a bona-fide loser and...
"STRIKE!" the ump behind me shouts.
I missed the fucking pitch. I grind the bat between my fists and stay frozen in the box. Shit. Concentrate. Concentrate, Miguel. Focus. Just focus, baby. You ain't gotta go yard, that's too much pressure. Just don't fuck up. Do. Not. Fuck. Up. (Again.) Take it easy. Eee-zee. Just put wood on the bat. That's fuckin stupid, the bat IS wood, put wood on the ball, that's all. Don't swing for the fences, just make contact. Contact.
"STRIKE!"
"FUCK!" I wheel and hiss it at Blue. He's not amused. "Just! Shit, man!"
Teeth grinding, praying to not look like an ass, just once, just this once to not be the asshole, I go for my last cut. But the ball's way low and I hold up, pull it back.
But I don't pull back quick enough.
"STRIIIIKE!" Blue shouts. I don't even bother to turn around and argue, cause once again, it's over. I'm out, game's over, Roberts is stranded, and we lose.
Skip glares, heads shake in disgust, and Ortiz walks by me and whispers it. "Nice job, Mikey."
"Name's Miguel."
"Not after that pathetic showing it's not. That shit was whiter than white. Was damn near clear it was so white."
I can't even slink out from the locker room. It's Wednesday. Day game. Post-game autograph day. Fans got free fuckin programs or some shit. It's not like it's a big crowd. Never is. We're not exactly Barry Bonds here, you know. Some of us never will be. But one of us is right on course to being another Bill Buckner or Mitch Williams. No, not even that. Just a minor league parody of choke-artists or goats.
The sun's beating down like a spotlight as the gaggle of kids draws around. I swear I pick out at least one father steering his kid away from me. I don't need to imagine the kind of shit he says about me. Imagination isn't needed when I heard it filtering down from the stands as I walked off. Guys grabbing their throats and coughing. "You suck Rodriguez!" littered throughout the curses. All-American entertainment. You know.
I scribble my name a few times and pat the kids on the head and tell them how bad chewing and smoking is as I fight off a nic fit myself. The worst is when they give me the sad-eyes. Pity. If they're young enough, they ain't mad at me like the other fans. They just feel sorry for me. They've seen me hit homers and think I just had a bad at-bat. They'll learn.
Another program gets thrust in my face and there's already thick red writing over my picture. Probably Roberts, the shit. But no. It's a name. And phone number. Looking up, I see her. The hot chica from the second row is smiling at me.
"Hi," she says, looking hot.
"Uh, yeah," I answer as I scrawl my name and pass it back to her, praying I don't choke.
"Oh," she says, smile fading.
I'm choking.
"OH!" It hits me late and I have to yank the booklet back away from her, fumbling my pen as I do.
"Stay," she tells me and motions so we don't clunk skulls as she bends down to pick it up for me. I get a nice peek down her shirt as she does. Very nice. Roberts and Ortiz would kill for it, they've been on about her since April, same as me. She looks up as she rises, catches me leering. She smiles and hands me the pen. Nodding, "Rough day, huh?"
I clear my throat and answer, "Getting better."
Ortiz passes behind me, whispering, "Do NOT fuck this up until at LEAST rounding second, Michael."
My face goes hot and I know she heard him cause she asks, "Michael? I thought your name was Miguel."
"Yeah, sorry. It is. He's uh, he's just being a ...it's his way of making fun."
"That's how you guys have fun, huh? I was thinking maybe you'd want to have a beer or something, we could have some - fun."
I think I nod.
"Yes?" she asks.
"Yes."
"Now?"
"Yes. Now," I take hold of her elbow and lead her off the field.
Her saying, "I figured you'd need a couple drinks to be able to watch the highlights on the news tonight."
I look to see if she's mocking me, but I don't think she is.
"I liked the cap tip," she says.
"You did huh?"
"I mean, that was for me, right? Or am I making an ass out of myself here?"
"Yeah," I nod, face hot again.
"Yeah?" she stops walking.
"NO! I mean, yeah, it was for you. And no. No, you're definitely not making an ass of yourself."
"Phew. Good," she nods and elbows me in the side. "I'd hate for the both of us to look like asses on the same day."
It's later that evening as we're tucked in a nearby tavern and she's looking up at the screen as SportsCenter shows the wrap-up of yesterday's Yankee's game and I'm getting anxious to get her alone that it happens. I realize that she's watching intently, and even that does nothing to stop the pulse in my dick. Yankees fan or not, I'm gonna really enjoy fucking this chick. And she says, "Clemens got denied on 300 again."
"That's a downer, huh?" I lean in closer to her.
"Pfft. Not even."
"You, uh, you're not a Yankees fan?"
"NO!" she says. I mean, she shouts it. And a surge of wolfish lust rolls through me. Leaning closer, close enough to smell the sun on her skin, I just nod. She says, "I mean, I'll admit, I respect Torre. But no matter what I just can't abide the DH."
I wanna devour her on the spot. But now I also want to hit this not just once, but several times.
Testing, I go for it. I run my finger along her forearm. She straightens her back and turns to look at me and I can feel the spark from her. So I go, "So, uh, you liked the cap tip, huh?"
A slow, sexy smile. "Very much."
"You know, Roberts was gonna go for it first."
One eyebrow goes up. "Really? The first baseman? If he went yard first?"
"Yeah. You could be sitting here with him right now."
And she says, "I wouldn't be sitting here with him right now even if he had."
That's when I realize I'm not just gonna fuck this girl. I'm gonna date her.
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