* * *
Jack had been up, showered, and out of the house before dawn. He’d packed the trunk of his car with his mitt, a pitching rubber in case the high school removed theirs from the mound between games, and a bag of balls. He had his mitt and spikes in a leather bag, a supply of rosin, and a lump in his stomach the size of Cleveland.
He’d eaten breakfast in a local diner and regretted the meal almost immediately. Almost as much as he regretted the three cups of coffee he’d downed as he waited for the sun to rise so he could drive over to the ball field.
His mind was a mess. How could he think through his mechanics when all he saw when he closed his eyes was Keely, standing in the hallway—all loose blond curls and legs that went on forever—looking at him with pity in her eyes?
Pity. He sat in the front seat of his sports car, leaned his head back, and sighed. He’d seen a lot of different emotions in lots of beautiful female eyes, but he’d be damned if he’d ever seen pity.
Was he pitiful? Damn, no! Pitiful was the last thing he was. He was Jack Trehan, ace right-hander for the New York Yankees, that’s what he was.
Was.
He reached his left hand across his body, rubbed at his right shoulder. There was an ache in his shoulder, an ache that never quite went away since he’d started his workouts again, but he wasn’t the only hurler who had to pitch through pain. Pain was part of the game.
Leaving your curve ball hanging high and fat, looking like a big, juicy grapefruit coming in over the plate, wasn’t.
Oh, this was good. What a pep talk he was giving himself! He ought to hire himself out as a motivational speaker. Why didn’t he just go home, forget about the whole thing?
Jack swore under his breath, opened the car door, and stepped outside. The sun was up, the sky was blue, and a soft breeze blew across the empty parking lot. He could hear a lawn mower somewhere, in the direction of the football field, but he was pretty much alone. The baseball diamond was to the rear of the campus, so nobody would be able to recognize him from the road.
He opened the trunk of his car and pulled out his spikes, leaned against the rear bumper as he changed shoes, then gathered up his gear and headed across the grass to the field. He dropped his gear next to the bench on the first base line, then went through his warm-up stretches.
It had all started here, for him and Tim. They’d been playing for years, but this was their field of dreams, the place where all the college scouts, even a few major league scouts, had come to see the Trehan twins play. The perfect battery, brother pitching to brother.
Except for spring training and a couple of inter-league games for which they were on opposing teams, they hadn’t played together since college.
But it had all started here. If it ended here, maybe that would make that final good-bye just a little bit all right.
Jack checked the mound, seeing the rubber already in place, then kicked at the dirt a little, doing the pitcher’s version of housekeeping, setting up the mound the way he liked it best. He even got down on his hands and knees, smoothing the clay mound, tossing a few stones into the infield. Stalling for time. Finally, he was done. He stood up, looked in toward the backstop, and saw his brother standing there, in full gear, his mitt under his arm, his mask tipped back on his head.
Did he once look like that, so at ease in his own skin? He and Tim were very alike in their builds, although Tim’s legs were more developed after years of squatting in the catcher’s crouch. But, other than that, looking at Tim was rather like looking into a mirror.
“Yo, bro, great day for a little pitch and catch,” Tim Trehan said, walking toward the mound.
“You’re early,” Jack said, brushing the clay and sand off his hands, then shaking Tim’s. “Thanks for coming.”
Tim grinned, his face tanned, crinkles forming around his eyes. “Hey, it was the least I could do. What’s a game yesterday, a long flight, a drive up here and back to Philly, and a twi-nighter tonight between brothers?”
“Okay, rub it in. I’ll owe you one,” Jack said as the two of them stood there, with nothing to do but avoid the subject of Jack’s arm. “Hey,” he said after a moment, “do you remember that game with Northampton, our senior year? That big lefty—what was his name? I tried to pitch him tight, and he fouled it straight back into your throat, right below your mask. You went down like a rock.”
“Gee, good memories,” Tim said, his grin lopsided, not all that amused. “Now can we talk about how he hit your next pitch right past Doyle at third, bringing in the winning run?”
“I don’t remember that part,” Jack said, although he did. He’d been so scared when Tim hit the dirt, just lay there. His mind sure hadn’t been on the next pitch.
“We were good, though,” Tim said, sighing. He turned in a slow circle, looking at the field. “Man, this place brings back memories. We just about lived on this campus, from kindergarten until graduation. Hey, do you remember the time I climbed that tree at recess? Mrs. Liddy screamed at me and I fell out, broke my kneecap.”
Jack bent and picked up his glove. “I remember. About a month later, I rode my bike into a tree and broke my right kneecap. Yours was the left. Mom thought we’d planned it.”
“Yeah, like we planned all the other stuff. You threw your first touchdown on that field over there, and another one later that night, as I recall, with one Susie ‘Hot Lips’ Williams.”
Jack laughed at the memory. “I lied about that. I didn’t get past the twenty yard line with Susie.”
“Oh, yeah? Well then, I guess it’s time I confess I didn’t score quite as well with Mindy Frett a couple of weeks later as I told you I did.”
“You lied?” Jack said, goggling at his brother.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised. You know how it was with us. One of us did it first and the other followed right after, doing pretty much the same damn thing. You said you scored with Susie. What else was I to say? Although I should have known, shouldn’t I?”
“Yeah, well, just be glad you aren’t following in my footsteps this time around,” Jack said, cutting off any further reminiscences. “What say we warm up before the scout gets here?”
“Good idea,” Tim said, turning as he pulled down his mask. Then he stopped. “Uh-oh, blonde at nine o’clock. Never mind, she’s got a kid with her. Yeah, well, I have to be at the stadium at two anyway.”
Jack looked over toward third and saw Keely standing there, Candy in the stroller she was pushing in front of her. “Damn,” he bit out, looking away before she decided to wave at him. “What’s she doing here?”
Tim lifted his mask yet again. “You know her?”
Jack slapped his mitt against his thigh, trying to figure out how much he could say to Tim and how much his brother would then figure out on his own. “She’s my interior decorator, Keely McBride. If I’m going to live here, I’ve got to have some furniture in that barn of mine.”
“Interesting. And that’s her kid?”
“No, Candy’s not hers. She’s Cecily’s, and I’m baby-sitting. Look, it’s a long story and the scout will be here any minute. I need to warm up.”
“Baby-sitting. Uh-huh,” Tim said, looking over at Keely, looking back at Jack. “Oh, I’ve got to hear this one, bro. Promise me.”
Jack nodded as Tim walked back to the plate, then crouched behind it. “Nice and easy, Jack,” he called out, slamming his fist into the oversize mitt. “Just loosen up with a few tosses before you try anything else.”
Jack rolled his shoulders, pretended he didn’t feel Keely’s eyes on him, and stepped onto the rubber. And then he forgot her. He forgot everything except the ball in his hand and the glove in his brother’s.
Tim always loved to chatter. The guy had a mouth on him that never quit, and he was in rare form this morning. As Jack threw, Tim kept up a running stream of inane, one-way dialogue:
“Okay, ace, that’s enough lolli-popping. Burn one in here.”
“Yo! A cutter! That one brushed him
back. Hey, batter-batter-batter. Watch out for the chin music.”
“High and tight, Jack, high and tight. Damn—that one would have landed in the alley. Try it again.
“Paint the black, Jack, paint the black. Yes! Outside corner... and strike two!”
Jack was working up a sweat, but it felt good. He was back on the mound, his brother behind the plate. He had the rosin bag in his hand, the next pitch in his mind. That last curve had behaved just the way it should, breaking right over the plate. God, how he loved the curve ball!
It was good. It really felt good, great, to be on the mound again.
After about forty pitches, what didn’t feel good was his arm. It was dead, just hanging there, and his pitches were beginning to just hang there, too, fat and ready for the imaginary batter to hit.
He caught the ball Tim threw back to him, then took off his ball cap, blotted sweat from his forehead as his brother came out to the hill to talk to him.
“How’s the arm?”
“It hurts like a bitch,” Jack admitted, although he said so quietly, because the scout had arrived about ten minutes earlier and was standing behind the backstop, radar gun in his hand. “Did he say the speed on that last pitch?”
“Eighty-seven,” Tim told him, nodding. “Not bad, Jack, but if that’s the best you’ve got, I think you’re in trouble. And try to bring ‘em down a hair. You’re too high.”
Knowing he’d routinely pitched ninety-three miles per hour last season, Jack screwed the cap back down on his head, fighting off the urge to rub at his right shoulder. “Let’s mix it up a little.”
“Are you sure? He’s seen enough. You’re looking a little pale, bro.”
“I’m sure,” Jack replied, tight-lipped. “Let’s go.”
A half hour later, Jack and the scout stood on the first base line. The scout talked; Jack listened.
Then Jack talked, shook the scout’s hand, and walked away.
“So? What happened?” Tim asked, carrying his shin guards and chest protector, his mask still tipped back on his head.
“He wants me,” Jack said as Keely, pushing Candy in front of her, headed toward them. She stopped some distance away, close enough to hear, not close enough to be introduced.
“He wants—? Well, damn, Jack, that’s great? Great,” Tim said, almost succeeding in hiding the disbelief in his voice. “So, what did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d think about it,” Jack said, looking at Keely, who was looking at the clay at her feet. “Then he told me that while I think about it, and I’d better not think too long, I should remember that they were buying a name, and that’s all they were buying.” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “So I told him to go to hell, we shook hands, I gave him directions back to the airport, and that was it.”
Keely’s head jerked up, and Jack could see tears in her eyes, tears she blinked away, quickly leaning down to pick up Candy, fish a pacifier out of her skirt pocket, and busy herself fussing with the child.
Jack walked over to the bench and picked up his bag, Tim following.
“You have an ice bag in there?” Tim asked. “You really should ice that arm down before it gets any worse.”
Jack reached into the bag, pulled out a one-time-use bag, activated it by squeezing it, and held it to his shoulder. “Was I that bad, Tim?”
“Hell, no,” his brother told him, picking up Jack’s bag, handing it to him. “Your slider was okay, and you can still clip those corners when you’re on, but your fast ball’s gone, Jack. It’s just gone, and your curve hangs way too high.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jack said, looking over at Keely once more. “God, how I love the curve ball. I remember the first time Dad said I was old enough, let me throw one. It was like magic, Tim. Magic...”
“Are you going to be all right?”
Jack snapped himself back to the reality that this was it; it was over, all over. “Sure, Tim, I’ll be fine. I knew it, you know. I just didn’t want to admit it, couldn’t admit it.” He looked around the ball field, sighed. “I started here, I ended here.” He forced a smile. “Damn shame there isn’t a poet around, to immortalize this tender moment in verse, right?”
“As long as he doesn’t start it off with ‘Here lies Jack... ’ ” Tim backed up three paces, motioned for Jack to follow him. “Come on. I want to meet your interior decorator, and then you can tell me why you’ve got Cecily’s kid. Hell, you can tell me why Cecily’s got a kid.”