“I’m not–”
He cut her off. “Do this for me. I will pay for it. Please, Lauren.”
He paused. The knives probed deeper seeking any remaining nerves.
“You were my best friend,” he said at last. “I want you to be happy. You’re a beautiful and intelligent woman…. You are a good person. You deserve to be happy. I still care for you.”
“Bryan,” she moaned. “It’s all gone….” She sounded like someone who had used up all the tears in her head. “I love you.”
He stared into the darkness. What could he say to that?
“I know. I love you, too. Sign the papers.”
He listened to the silence. In that acoustically dead space they both felt it. They knew each other intimately. Their bodies, intellects, souls had been intertwined for so long that they could each feel the pain of that break. The snapping of what had once been a conduit between their existences. Its irrevocable severing. A torn end that could never be put back right.
He wanted to listen to the sound of her breathing for hours.
He wanted to forget that sound had ever existed.
He disconnected.
A dog, he decided.
**********
The yips.
You learn to walk. You wobble on short pudgy legs. You waver and tilt and something makes you want to shift one foot. Maybe mommy is there holding out her arms and you need to go to her. You trust her, so you risk your weight. You have taken a step. She cries out in delight. You are walking. Your brain gets feedback and forms new pathways. New control patterns connect with each other down the spinal column. You continue to walk. Sometimes you fall and the brain takes note. Makes corrections.
Repeat and repeat and repeat and you are running. You sprint and jump and don’t have to think about any of it. Your brain has been programmed and it drives your muscles with no input from you except to tell the system which direction and how far.
You learn to throw. A rock, a clod of dirt. You are three years old and your rocks miss their target most of the time. Your brain compensates. Your arm learns which angle will give the desired result as it whips forward. Your hand learns when to let the projectile free so the impulse propels it to the target. Repeat several thousand times with rocks and tens of thousands of times with baseballs, and your brain and eyes and feet and legs and hips and shoulders and arms and hands and fingers work together seamlessly.
You feel the smoothness against your fingers and fiveish ounces of mud-rubbed leather and wrapped yarn and rubber core is hurled 20 or 30 or 40 feet or more so rapidly the orb is almost invisible on its trajectory and snaps into the first baseman’s glove within an inch of where you intended.
Automatic.
Money.
The top of the third inning. The second game of the last series of the season. Toronto is at bat. One out, no runners. Bryan bends down, peering in at the catcher’s fingers. He wants to know where the pitch is intended so he can anticipate which direction it is more probable he will have to move.
He remembers.
For some god-awful reason the intense concentration and focus that has carried him to the highest pinnacle of his profession is compromised. Just for an instant. Maybe it was the phone call.
In a flash of memory he sees Lauren, naked and glistening with sweat, the black curls on her head and kinky ebony hair on her pussy both disheveled from his busy hands, her eyes looking up into his, wide, passionate. Filled with unconditional, eternal, rock solid love.
The batter, a lefty, connects with a slider but not so hard that the ball does enough to be a danger. It scoots directly toward Bryan, an easy pickup. No crazy bounces, no wild spin.
Routine.
He puts down his glove and the ball comes into it with a satisfying smack as though seeking its home. He wheels without hurry, plucks the ball out of his glove, positions his feet, draws back his arm, and throws.
Into the dugout.
Into the fucking dugout.
The crowd draws in a collective breath, an audible visceral OHHHH!
Disappointment.
The runner sprints around first and then eases up and jogs to second. The ball is dead. The runner advances without peril. He passes Bryan, who stands frozen, disbelieving.
The ball is retrieved and replaced. The infield huddles on the mound to take a mental break and review their defensive strategy for dealing with a runner on second.
Bryan is still in shock. This is worse than being injured. This is his body betraying him without external provocation. His teammates slap his back. It happens. The pitcher even apologizes for putting too much rosin on the ball.
Two innings later a bunt eludes the pitcher. Bryan takes it on the dead run. He has so much time that he pauses, steps toward first, and underhands it to Mitch. Into the mitt. Runner is out. The kernel of doubt is crushed.
But in the bottom of the eighth, Bryan pivots to his left to spear a vicious one-hopper. He has plenty of time. He sets and fires.
Over Mitch’s head.
Mitch leaps. This is one reason why first basemen are selected for their height and reach, after all. But not this time. Can’t get to it. Another dead ball. Another error. This time, there was a runner on third who scores.
Doesn’t matter, really. The Sox are up by four runs.
It does matter.
Bryan now officially has the yips.
**********
Oh, they wanted to know. The writers tried to ask him after the game about the yips. But not a one comes out and actually says the word yips. They circled around the concept of it. They wanted to have that headline, sure, but they are still writing for the home audience. The Boston fanbase is a raving sea of judgmental hard ass critical bastards, but they still want the Sox to win.
Bryan answered their questions as truthfully as he was able. He hadn’t had time to figure out any other way to spin the story anyway. They seemed to be satisfied when he claimed that he didn’t dwell on his mistakes and was just happy the team had won.
On his way to the parking lot, he saw that someone had posted the current standings in a window on the second floor of one of the new high-rise buildings:
Boston W 102 L 59
New York W 101 L 60
Bryan stared at the stark math. If the Sox won tomorrow, they took the division and avoided the wild card round. If they lost and the Yankees lost, same result. But if the Sox lost and the Yankees won, then they would be tied. The two teams would meet in a one game play-in. Winner would take the division flag and home field advantage and momentum. Loser would be tossed into the wild card tournament with their engines flooded, stalled out.
**********
The Yankees were one game back.
**********
Last game of the regular season, and the Blue Jays had nothing to play for. They were out. Win or lose, they were flying home to pack up their gear and wait for next year. The Red Sox had everything to motivate them. Fenway was sold out. Catillo had managed to manipulate the pitching rotation so the staff number one was starting. No regulars were out of the lineup. It was the best way to go into a game you really wanted to win.
They lost.
Goddamn absolutely lost. Now, to be fair, winning 102 games is quite an achievement. It means that you have won 63% of the time. But that ain’t 100%. Some days you are just going to suck or the other team is going to play like the anointed ones or both. Unfortunately for the Red Sox, it was that last one.