Flashback! Boyhood Baseball Dreams Crushed
A flashback to Andrew's childhood which is a moment of adolescent joy followed by pain, and sadness which leads to a poor decision in the present.
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Read by P.J. Ochlan
Chapter 3
1991
North Street Elementary School Playground. Andrew was playing baseball with his two best friends, John-John and Charlie. That morning, Andrew had finished his golf practice and afterward headed over to the baseball diamond for casual batting and fielding drills.
It felt amazing to Andrew to swing a bat instead of a golf club. He loved the crack sound the bat made when it hit a ball in just the right spot. That sound made him smile ear to ear. It even felt better than when he hit a golf ball perfectly. There was something to it, maybe it was the fact that someone else was throwing the ball at you, rather than hitting a stationary ball, but whatever it was, when he hit a baseball, he felt all warm inside.
Andrew stood at home plate, batting righty, back elbow up, firm grip on the bat, and not hogging the plate. His baby blue New York Tides hat, with a big capital T in gray on the front, shielded his eyes from the midday Connecticut summer sun. Charlie was on the pitching mound and John-John was in shallow left field. It was just the three of them, and they would each rotate after ten hits each.
Andrew was ready for his pitch. Charlie wound up and threw a straight fastball right over the plate. Andrew swung hard and connected with a loud crack! The ball hit an open spot in left field and John-John tried to chase it down, but it landed in the green grass and took off towards the trees separating the school from its nearest neighbor.
Charlie yelled out, “Nice hit! Extra bases on that one!” The boys were happy to acknowledge each other—it was only practice after all.
An all-smiles Andrew called out, “Pitch another! Faster this time!”
Charlie nodded, pulled at his Tides hat, and squinted his eyes. “Okay, here comes a Nolan Ryan fastball!”
Andrew called out, “Yeah! Give me the heater!”
Charlie’s grin turned to determination as he wound up again and threw the baseball as hard as he could. The ball came in hissing, but Andrew swung hard and connected again, this time deep into left field over John-John’s head, who was retrieving the previous ball. Now John-John raced back out to stop the ball from getting lost in the trees and underbrush.
“Wow, that one almost made the trees on a fly!” yelled Charlie.
A young Andrew fist pumped and shouted, “Yes!” This feeling of happiness and joy was something only a young boy knew. This moment was one of the most memorable of Andrew’s childhood.
The moment was short-lived as a piercing yell called out to young Andrew and the sound shook him to his core.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
Andrew turned over his shoulder to see his father marching onto the baseball diamond, and his face reddened. Andrew tried to explain himself, “I practiced this morning. Mom said I could play with John-John and Charlie.”
Ted’s long strides had him on top of Andrew in seconds as he yelled, “Mom doesn’t count! I do! I tell you when you can play and when you can’t. I know what it takes to be great. Do you think that these boys are going to be great at anything?” Ted jutted his thumb towards Andrew’s friends.
Charlie responded, “My dad says I’m pretty good at—”
Ted cut the boy off, barking, “Your dad’s an idiot!” Then he turned his attention back to Andrew. “To be a champion, Andrew, you need complete focus! You live, you breathe, you eat, you sleep, you dream…golf. Understand?!”
Andrew’s embarrassment overtook him, and he yelled out something deep inside him that he had been dying to say: “Dad, it’s just a game!”
Ted grabbed Andrew by the neck and squeezed. The pain ran through Andrew’s body; he thought his head was going to pop off. The pain in his neck was nothing compared to the humiliation he felt. But what hurt the most was when Andrew turned and saw Charlie’s face, as he waved goodbye. The boys knew right there and then, their body language told the entire story, that they would never play together again. A sadness took over Andrew as if the entire world went from color to black and white.
The elevator stopped moving, but on the ding before the door opened, Andrew heard in his head Ted’s disembodied voice yell, “Loser!”
Andrew tried to shake his boyhood memory and Ted’s voice out of his head. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself before he entered the lion’s den to offer an explanation to Rothstein.
The owner’s box was bustling with the sights and sounds of the guests mingling with the Tides' top management. The game on the field had become background noise as they sat on the leather sofas and cushy seats eating and drinking, talking about summer plans in the Hamptons and Martha’s Vineyard. A few young kids chased each other around the outside of the couches, occasionally bumping into an adult as they tried not to spill their food. Andrew noticed that there were still two hot pretzels in the tray. His body was magnetically pulled to the table, but Rothstein intercepted him, cutting him off from his golden-brown prize.
“So? What the hell happened?”
“Mr. Rothstein, there is something you need to understand—”
“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”
“Well, if you would stop interrupting me, I’ll tell you.”
Rothstein gave Andrew a stern look, crossed his arms, but kept quiet.
“John got rattled after the collision. And then he threw that first wild pitch and lost confidence in his cutter. He wanted to stick to fastballs and curves. Which is why he was shaking off Wilson’s signals so much.”
“And the balk?” Rothstein asked in a professional tone.
“Yes, that was on him. He got anxious, started sweating a lot, and he lost his grip on the ball. He should have stopped and picked up the rosin bag to dry his hands. But the ump wasn’t cutting him any slack.”
A teenager wandered by the food table and picked up one pretzel, leaving a single vulnerable pretzel in the tray. Andrew had to get it.
“Oh, so we are blaming the umpire now, is that it? Very professional.”
Andrew’s head bobbed back to Rothstein, as if he had been slapped. “I am not blaming. It’s an explanation of his state of mind. This isn’t a sore elbow that you just put some ice on it, take a few Percocets, and you’re good as new. You know, with all due respect, sir, your expectations around his recovery are unrealistic.”
Rothstein’s face reddened, and he pointed at Andrew. “What we paid you was unrealistic! We paid you $20,000 a week for five months. So our expectations are only meeting what you demanded in payments. Your patient is obviously still undergoing major issues. He’s not ready like you said he would be. You lied to me!”
Andrew felt the ball of anger he forced deep in his gut, rising higher and higher.
“You want the big bucks; then you better produce big! Welcome to the big leagues, Dr. Beck!” Rothstein said with a smirk.
“I took a young man addicted to drugs and in four months counseled him through that. Then his father dies of a heart attack and is left in his La-Z-Boy for a month to rot! And I get him through that too!”
The talks of the beaches in South Hampton stopped as all heads turned to watch the best entertainment in the stadium.
Andrew continued, “I got him through spring training, he pitches three perfect innings against the division champions on opening day, and he has one tough inning and suddenly my therapy failed?”
“You said it, not me.”
A woman passed by the food table and hovered over the remaining hot pretzel, looking long and hard at it. Andrew was tempted to push Rothstein aside and grab it before she did, but she shook her head at it as if to say “I shouldn’t” and made her way to a huge Tides labeled blue salad bowl. For a moment, Andrew felt relief at the survival of the pretzel until he processed Rothstein’s sarcastic comment and noticed his shit-eating grin.
“Well, sir, I can’t work under delusional conditions like this. If the Tides don’t believe in my cognitive-behavioral therapy treatment, then maybe John and I should work together privately.”
Andrew felt a deep sense of relief as he uttered those words and the itch of his anger suddenly scratched. A portly man whose oxford shirt hem escaped his pants, made his way to the food table, piling his plate with something from every station. He zeroed in on the pretzel tray.
Rothstein’s arms remained crossed as he looked down at his shoes and paused. When he picked up his head to speak, Andrew felt Rothstein’s steely blue eyes become laser focused on his. He squinted, and his voice rasped. “Well, Dr. Beck, that works just fine for me. Let Palmer foot your outrageous bill.”
Andrew knew his aggressive gamble faltered. Rothstein called his bluff. He didn’t have the chips or the cards to stay in the game. The itch was now a burn, and his eyes widened as he thought, What the fuck did I just do?
Rothstein uncrossed his arms, walked calmly and confidently towards the door and opened it.
“The owner’s box is for Tides employees and our guests. You can leave now.”
Andrew, now unobstructed, strode to the food table. As the portly man was about to reach for the last remaining pretzel, Andrew swatted away his hand. The man recoiled, almost spilling his tower of goodies all over himself. Andrew grabbed the last pretzel and started chomping on it. He ignored the smirking Rothstein as he walked out the door, shoving the now cold pretzel in his mouth.
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Chris K. Jones
Very intriguing chapter, Chris! Ted is such an a hole. I’m hoping he gets his in the end. And thanks so much for linking to the previous chapters!