“I’ve been thinking a lot about us…. You know what the yips are?”
She shook her head, so he explained about the gremlins that could invade and infest you and turn you into a completely different person.
“Hypocrisy is a very old Greek word. Am I being hypocritical by expecting the team to forgive my yips and give me another chance if I can’t forgive Lauren her yip?”
“She chose to leave you,” Mel pointed out. “You don’t choose to make bad throws.”
Bryan winced. “I know. But we have history. If she were to come in the front door right now and apologize, I would have a hard time turning her away.”
Mel stood up, covering herself modestly with a towel rescued from the floor. It was an odd modesty, Bryan thought, considering that they had fucked twice in the last hour. He wondered if she was mad at him. His wizard skills were shit today. Maybe pussy was Kryptonite to them.
“As your attorney, I recommend that course of action. Forgive her.”
She reached out one finger and touched the center of his chest. Very lightly. She did not finish the traditional pairing. Forgive. And forget. She was dead certain that he would forgive the woman he loved. Had loved. She had sensed it in him the very first time she laid eyes on his kind face, and her impression had only been firmed up over time by talking to her sisters about him and observing his actions both from afar and up close. He had a good and generous heart. Of course he would forgive her. She had not heard their wedding vows, but he would without a doubt have sincerely pledged his faith to his wife. Sickness, health, richer, poorer.
Brie had told her. Poorer had been Lauren’s undoing.
But forget? Not bloody likely. This man had Homer on the tip of his tongue. Part of him communed daily with minds which had been dust for centuries.
No, he would not forget, so the forgiveness would change nothing. He and his wife were done.
Some part of Melody wanted to find Lauren and wring her cheating neck for hurting him. Some other part wanted to thank her for letting him free.
She removed the finger.
He lay very still. “I have never given up on anything in my life, Melody. Am I giving her up without fighting for her? Do I owe her that?”
She pulled the towel tight around her. “Can you live in a marriage with less than full trust in your partner?”
He looked up at her, not even needing to shake his head.
She paused, considering. “Are you even sure they have….”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” she agreed.
**********
“Don’t even think about it, Damon.” Bryan said to his manager.
He had found Castillo where he knew he would be — sitting by himself at the far end of the dugout, gazing on the hypnotically-perfect green lawn of Fenway Park. The manager liked to come here when the place was quiet and review data in his binders and watch video on his tablet and think about strategy for the coming game. He went over the visiting team’s hitters, defense, trends, tendencies, statistics and graphs of many kinds in all colors of the graphic arts.
Bryan knew this was when his manager took out a blank lineup card and wrote in the names of his chosen nine.
“I need to be in this game.”
Damon took off his cap and scratched his head. “I….”
“I know. The yips. Look, they come and go. It’s a risk. I get it. But I have been wearing Kaplan out.”
It was true. Kaplan, the Yankee’s number two, was scheduled to start, and Bryan was hitting.356 against him.
“I got his number, cap. Look at the rest of the team. Anybody else even at.300 against the guy?”
Castillo considered, then shook his head. He had been hired with the reputation of a modern baseball manager who used analytics and statistics to their full potential. Now one of his players was asking him to trust his gut. The numbers told him to sit his second baseman out so the yips had a chance to flee, or heal, or compost. Whatever it was that yips did when they left. His gut, however, told him to pencil Bryan in, and had been doing so even before Bryan came to argue his case. Gut or math? If he guessed right he would be a genius. If Monnic tossed more balls into the stands….
“Okay,” he said. “You’re in.”
Bryan grinned and started to belt one of his favorite songs, making the grounds crew smoothing the infield dirt with rakes look up and laugh.
You’ve gotta have heart
All you really need is heart
When the odds are sayin’ you’ll never win
That’s when the grin should start….
“C’mon, cap! Damn Yankees! You know the words!”
Castillo picked up his bag of sunflower seeds, poured a handful into his mouth, and jabbed a thumb in the direction of the clubhouse.
**********
Mitch Rollins watched as the bench coach lofted the ball gently and swatted it with his skinny fungo bat towards the second base gap. He held his breath as Bryan scooped the ball and threw it. Right into Mitch’s glove. Mitch did not have to move it a bit.
Rollins felt like running over and slapping his friend and teammate on the back, shouting encouragement and praise, but one did not acknowledge the existence of the yips. And acknowledging the lack of yips was to acknowledge that they existed. Which they did not. If you wanted them to stay away from you.
The team finished their infield and outfield drills, then most went to the grass in front of the dugout to swing a weighted bat or stretch, waiting for their turn in the batting cage. Bryan drilled two dozen pitches square, frozen ropes, and went into the clubhouse to have a pregame snack and put on his uniform. He was vibrating with anticipation.
Ten minutes before first pitch, the Red Sox ran onto the field while the starting lineup was shown on the big outfield screen, one huge face after another as each player either ignored the ovation or waved to the fans.
Mitch looked over with a wide smile as Bryan appeared on the screen. His smile faded as he saw that his friend was staring into the stands behind first base with dismay. Mitch had a very bad feeling. He walked over to Bryan as casually as one could with thousands of eyes open.
“What’s wrong?” Mitch said, still smiling, not moving his lips. He was a ventriloquist all of a sudden.
Bryan did not reply. Mitch turned and tried to follow his gaze. He saw a familiar face sitting in the first row right behind the Red Sox dugout.
“Hey, is that your wife?” he asked. There was another fan, a large man, picking his way across the row to get to the empty seat next to the woman. “Who’s the slab of beef with her?”
Bryan did not answer. Mitch looked about for help that was not coming, then had to take off his cap for the National Anthem.
In the two minutes it took for a young Army officer to sing the National Anthem, Bryan concluded he could never take her back. If she knocked on his door and begged for forgiveness and reconciliation, he would slam it shut. The cruel disrespect – appearing with her lover to distract him tonight? On national television? No, that was just too much.
The umpire cried “Play ball!” and the most important game of the season was underway – while the Boston second baseman’s emotions formed a maelstrom in his head and gut so intense he wondered that the whole park was not looking around to find where the roaring noise was coming from.