A Life of Inches (3 page)

Chapter Four

August 25, 1992

Molly’s sneering lips widen. “You gonna shoot the ball or do you need an invitation?”

Woodie piles on. “Go easy. Ryan’s worried he might be an H-O-R after all.”

Molly’s sneer falls into a mock frown. “Awww, is wittle Wyan afwaid of losing to a wittle girl?”

I applaud her effort to mess with my focus, though Molly should know by now that her mere presence qualifies as enough distraction. I’d be less intimidated hanging out on the set of Baywatch in my boxers.

“Yeah, tough words coming from such an H-O like yourself,” I jaw back. “When I’m done beating you this game, I can give you some private lessons if you’d like. Then maybe you can at least compete at Woodie’s grade-school level.”

Molly’s eyes are two emeralds at the bottom of a coalmine, and I can’t keep a straight face as she giggles. Without taking my focus off her, I raise my hands and shoot the ball.

The three of us know every crack in the pavement, the bend in the rims, the best angles to avoid sun glare, and since we’re using my ball, I even know just how much it will bounce. Maybe that seems petty, but I’ll do whatever it takes to impress Molly—and beat Woodie.

Clank.

The ball bounces off the rim, right back at me, forcing me to break our stare. No matter how much I want to deny it, I am an H-O-R now.

“All right, hotshot.” I gun the ball toward Woodie. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Molly jogs out of the way as Woodie dribbles across the court, and says, “Ryan, I didn’t want to do this to you, but I think you’ve talked your way out of this game. If you guys want to concede victory after this, I won’t hold it against you one bit.”

His tone is full of good natured-humor, but his body language is all business.

“Big talk from a man in the midst of a, what, six-game losing streak? Maybe you should keep that steam engine of a mouth clamped until after you make a shot or two.” Normally I’m not much of a trash-talker, but being on a winning streak feels good, and with Woodie and Molly around it doesn’t happen often.

“Molly, come over here.” Woodie directs our female companion a few feet in front of the basket. “No, face me. Yeah, that’s good. Um, take one big step back. Not that big. Come forward, a few inches. Perfect.”

As he backs away, Woodie points to a crack in the cement just under the rusted basket. “Ryan, I need you to stand by the hoop and be ready.”

“For what?”

“Well, if all goes well, you won’t have to be ready for anything. I’m going to dribble the ball at break-neck speed, jump over Molly, and slam this baby left-handed.”

All of a sudden, my winning streak looks to be in jeopardy. “Real brave of you to risk Molly sustaining injuries, just to win a stupid game.”

The concern in my voice is as much about losing as it is for Molly’s safety.

Molly crosses her arms and stares at Woodie.

“Hey,” he says, “if you don’t feel comfortable, I can jump over Ryan. If he kneels down, that is.” On the surface, it’s a gentlemanly offer, but Woodie knows there’s no way in hell Molly would ever back down from a challenge. The three of us are pretty predictable this way; if you want us to do something, just tell us we can’t do it.

With Woodie standing out beyond the arc, I cup a hand next to my mouth to block the wind. “No chance, hotshot. This will be the best seat in the house to laugh as you fall on your ass.”

Woodie nods. “Okay then. Ryan, old buddy, if I miss, you’re there to save the day. I don’t want your nice clean ball taking a swim in that toxic waste they call a brook.”

Woodie dribbles between his legs to ready himself.

Without warning, Molly and I are staring into the face of a star, a winner. Woodie’s brown eyes are concentrated on the rim, already calculating his leap, as he begins to dash forward. Molly’s shoulders flinch, but she holds steady from the waist down.

In a few seconds he crosses the distance between himself and Molly. He plants his feet and launches.

The laws of physics give way, just a little, as Woodie clears his second leg over Molly, and raises his arms toward the rim. The whole park stops to watch this display of athleticism. There are no birds arrogant enough to sing about love or worms. No squirrels squawking over acorns. The brook that runs just beyond the basketball court has tempered its endless babbling and the mosquitoes of the park have called a cease-fire in the war for blood.

Woodie slams the ball down right on top of the poor, defenseless orange rim, but not through it. He grasps the rim to slow his momentum as the ball springs straight up into the air. The move works, but his head still has enough momentum to smack right into the edge of the backboard. His neck snaps back from the impact. He releases his grip on the hoop and loses his battle with gravity.

I pivot forward, keeping my eye on the ball, ready to help if necessary. One flip, two flips, three flips. A mosquito buzzes, an acorn is dropped, and the brook overturns a pebble in its path as the ball falls back to Earth.

Swoosh.

Woodie’s left foot plants. His outstretched arms struggle for balance as his knee buckles, but somehow the lucky son of a biscuit doesn’t fall.

Molly yells for him and rushes forward.

Full of admiration and disbelief, I grab the ball as it bounces toward the water. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of fast and furious motion coupled with a scream so intense from Woodie I duck.

I turn in time to witness his arms lash out in an exaggerated sign of frustration. Fury and adrenaline fuel his fist backward, connecting with Molly’s jaw just as she reaches to wrap him in a caring embrace.

Molly’s falling before I can comprehend what happened. Whatever air her lungs still hold, escapes as a grunt when she hits the ground. Woodie pivots, eyes too full of anger to carry concern.

Overcoming my shock, I unfreeze my feet, and call out, “
Molly
.”

Woodie tilts his head skyward and screams louder than his last outburst. It echoes throughout the whole park, a challenge to anything within earshot.

I cradle Molly’s head up from the dirt, rocks, and anything else that might cause her further damage. I place my other hand on her stomach to hold her still.

All of a sudden I have to act as a shield between her and Woodie, and that’s something I never ever dreamt I’d be. Woodie has always had a temper, but this is different.

I call, “Get over here, Woodie.”

Adrenaline must be pumping through his veins by the bucket, but I know he’ll come to his senses. Hell, let him yell and scream all he wants. I’m fine right here with this angel in my arms.

I look down and realize I’m caressing Molly’s cheek. She reaches up and matches my action. Overwhelmed by the moment, I lean forward, making my advance and ambitions as obvious as possible. I follow her raised jaw and peck a darkened area, already bruising.

“My hero,” she sighs, smiling despite the ugliness of the situation. “If you’re going to sweep me off…well, back onto my feet, you had better kiss me with more passion than that.” Her mischievous grin widens as she grabs my shirt and pulls me toward her. Our hands seek placement and purchase. Following her lead, my lips part. I run my fingertips down her arm as the taste of orange pop touches my tongue.

I flash back to the thousands of times I’ve pictured this moment, our first kiss. I don’t recall ever daydreaming of it happening to the soundtrack of screams. Though, as I pull back to peck down her left cheek toward her neck, I can’t imagine a more perfect moment.

Noticing that the screaming has stopped, we pull apart. Woodie is facing away, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath he takes.

Molly rests on her elbows, looking about as flustered as I feel.

I stand. “W-Woodie, you all right, man?”

My attempt to gloss over the fact that I just kissed the girl Woodie drove to the park garners no response, so I add, “How’s your head? Looked like you clipped it.”

“I’m fine.” His tone sounds anything but. “Just a bruise, is all. I should’ve made that freaking shot, man. I should’ve…” Woodie’s sentence ends in an aggravated growl.

Before I can tell him the shot dropped through, Woodie walks toward his car. “Molly, let’s go. I need to get out of here. I cut my forehead open.”

I can’t clear my head fast enough. He must realize she’s coming home with me, right? Maybe Molly and I will get dinner or at least some coffee. I’m sure she wants to talk about what happened as much as I do. Heck, forget talking about what happened. I want an instant replay.

Molly brushes past me without looking, her head hanging low, and grabs Woodie’s hand.

“I’ll call you,” Woodie whispers, low and raspy.

They cross arms and head toward his car. Though I have spent just about every free moment I’ve had with these two, I begin to believe that I don’t know them at all.

The rumble of Woodie’s truck echoes around the park. I can see Molly conversing with Woodie through the window. At first it looks like she’s arguing with him, but before they pull out, my friends hug. I fight back tears as they peel out without a goodbye.

Chapter Five

August 10, 1994

“Woodie and Ryan are neck and neck.” My roommate Biff’s voice booms throughout our off-campus house as he announces a play-by-play, or sip-by-sip, account of the first drinking competition of the party.

Tonight, I’ve crammed forty-five or so people into a house that hosts twenty comfortably, intending to party until the last man stands. Of course, we all know that man will be me.

Biff continues his commentary. “These two baseball studs are representing their rival colleges with the title of biggest party school on the line. Will the crown pass to State or can Ryan renew the bragging rights here at Baldwin Green University. Each man has downed four beers and is now chugging the last can in the challenge.”

Even after I blew the championship game, a team took a flyer on me in the 17th round of last year’s MLB draft. On the advice of my agent, I stayed in school, hoping to be picked higher in the future. To pass up the opportunity to join a minor league team when drafted low is a common occurrence, and while painful, my gut assures me it was the right move. In baseball years, I’m still just getting my feet wet on the mound.

Biff continues, “As if synchronized, each man gulps his last sip of liquid gold. The last step to victory for Woodie and Ryan involves biting a chunk from each can and tossing the empties into the garbage. Since it’s full to the top, our contestants must implore strategic tossing techniques to avoid their can ricocheting.”

My first can enters the basket dead center, sending droplets of cheap beer spraying onto posters of Sonic Youth and The Cure on the far wall. My second can sails about three inches wide left.

A sonic boom of excitement or anger erupts from one of the partygoers from clear across my house. Woodie and I forget our little game, darting toward the noise.

A guttural plea of desperation explodes from across the house. “Get out. Go. Go.
Goooo
.”

Our only fear tonight revolves around cops busting the door down and earning us suspensions from our teams before the season even starts. Hustling into the dining room, I approach the animated student. The only thing between him and me is a couch that smells like unwashed socks. The hysterical boy’s hands are raised and he’s looking down toward the ground. Crap, it appears I’m too late to stop the fight from starting. Instead, I focus on damage control.

Before I can leap over the ratty couch to knock the loud kid down, though, Woodie grabs my arm and points to the television across the room. Relief replaces anxiety. The chunky kid, wearing a Clay Mathews jersey, isn’t standing over someone he knocked down. No, he’s watching our small TV broadcasting the Indians game.

Unaware of just how close he came to getting jumped, the kid turns to announce a game update to the partygoers. “Home run. What a blast. Go Tribe.”

Though I’m relieved I didn’t just knock this harmless kid down, the copious amount of drink he manages to spill all over makes me want to reconsider. One look at our nasty carpet stops me. Between the beer cans, food wrappers, and my roommate Biff’s dirty Exotic Birds T-shirt laying on the ground, I’m not going to worry about the house getting messier.

“Thanks for stopping me,” I say, patting my best friend on the back. “I guess it would be a bit taboo to knock someone out at my own party. You know how I hate to flaunt these muscles around.”

Flexing one arm while high-fiving with the other, I feel my lucky pendant bouncing off my chest with each fist pump.

“Yeah, you’re one lucky guy to have ol’ Woodie to watch your back all the time,” Biff chimes in.

“Lucky? Lucky, did you say?” My voice drips with mock surprise. “Man, I’m cursed, having him around. Every time I think it’s my time, Woodie here comes out on top. If it weren’t for him, I’d be the one with the MVP trophy from the state championship our senior year.”

A few other guys and gals have turned their attention to us as the celebration of the game-winning home run dies down. The gals are listening in hopes of getting to flirt with Woodie and me, and the guys are pretending to care what we say just to be near the gals that get passed over by us. Little do they know, neither of us is available, it’s just that our date hasn’t arrived yet. Molly is supposed to be getting here any minute. Leave it to her to choose tonight to arrive fashionably late. Even so, the real question isn’t when will she arrive, but who she’ll be leaving with. Woodie or me?

Speaking of Molly, she’s just now sauntering in. I step in her direction and then freeze. Molly just entered the party holding some meathead’s hand. My heart leaps into my throat and my stomach twists into double knots. I nudge Woodie, his glare betraying his feelings on the situation.

Molly’s escort plays starting linebacker at my school and cherishes his reputation as a hardass.

I say, “His name’s Jimmy or John, shit, it might even be Jimmy-John. He has some nickname everyone knows him by.”

Whatever he’s called, it’s as forgettable as his personality. An unfortunate Cavaliers jersey stretches across his massive midsection, testing its one size fits all label. Woodie jabs me with an elbow. “What the hell is Molly doing with him?”

Though neither of us wants her to fall for the other, by no means can we stand back and allow Molly to end up in some stranger’s arms.

I certainly didn’t invite him. “He’s a dick, and his friends are worse. Of all the guys to walk in with…” I keep my voice even and cross my fingers that Woodie can hold his temper in check.

From across the entire house, Molly’s emerald eyes sparkle with an intensity that would make anyone living in Oz jealous. Back in high school, Molly was self-conscious of her curly hair, but now she appears to be embracing it.

Mesmerized, I speak with a pause between each word. “She. Looks. Gorgeous.”

Ever the trendsetter, Molly wears a silky purple blouse that betrays her athletic figure. Not that she looks like a bodybuilder or some East German swimmer. It isn’t as much about big muscles as the way she carries herself.

I can’t comment on her legs, as a long skirt rudely covers them down to her ankles. The skirt itself shimmers with bright purple, green, and silver waves mixing together in a stunning, sparkling soup.

My chest tightens. Goodbye confidence, hello jealousy. “Where does he get off, walking in here, holding her hand?”

In his free hand, the dumb jock clutches a shot glass full of my whiskey.

I admit, “I’d rather fill that with a rabies shot.”

“All right, Romeo,” Woodie whispers. “It looks like our lady has just upped the stakes. If this slab of beef thinks he can waltz in and swipe her away, he has another thing coming.”

“Ok champ, what’s the plan?”

Instead of a reply, Woodie advances toward Molly and her “guest.”

I titter, warning bells ringing as I follow. “Wanna drench him in beer? We have plenty.”

In the end, it’s nothing personal against the guy, but Molly’s out of his league, hell, she’s out of his universe.

Woodie enters the kitchen a few paces ahead of me. Shock stuns me for a moment as Woodie reaches out his hand to Molly’s date. “Hey pal, what’s up? It appears you’ve made a mistake. You see, this is my girlfriend you just waltzed in here with, and I don’t appreciate it.” His voice remains calm, yet his pace ramps up as he crosses the room toward the mass of human clay standing with Molly.

Jimmy-John reaches out his hand toward Woodie to shake it, and I know this will ruin the party. Woodie grabs the extended hand, pulling as hard as he can. Lowering his left shoulder, Woodie lunges forward.

Before Jimmy-John realizes what’s happening, momentum carries both men off their feet. Airborne, they crash backward into a door that doesn’t stand a chance. The splintering of old wood startles everyone. With little room to maneuver, I know this fight will get real ugly, real fast.

Woodie grabs onto the man’s shirt and shoves. “How’s that feel, asshole?”

Molly leaps out of the way. Her frantic pleas carry around my whole house. “
Woodie, don’t.”

I dash around the kitchen counter, pushing aside an overturned chair as I rush toward the skirmish. I grab Woodie’s waist to pull him away from the fight. As much as I’d like to take Jimmy-John out, I don’t want it to be right now at my own house.

My arrival surprises Woodie and the motion throws us both off-balance, giving Jimmy-John a reprieve from Woodie’s fists. My last hope of avoiding a full-on brawl hinges on this asshole using the time I provided to turn and burn out of the house, but of course, he doesn’t.

Jimmy-John shakes his head to dispel some of the stars he must see dancing around. “You’ve got guts, but no brains.”

Woodie isn’t fazed at all by our fall. He struggles out of my grip and advances on Jimmy-John. Both men ignore my calls to calm down. With the element of surprise gone, Jimmy-John can rely on his size and strength to press his advantages.

Just as he gets within range, Woodie absorbs a huge left from Jimmy-John and stumbles backward into me. Woodie manages to keep his balance, but I end up falling into the kitchen and only miss breaking my shoulder against the table because my head was too slow to get out of the way. With a grunt, I count my blessings that I’m still conscious, and vow to end this fight as soon as I can.

Gathering himself, Woodie cocks his right arm with an exaggerated motion as if to punch at Jimmy-John’s head, but having sparred against Woodie for years, I know it’s just a feint.

Jimmy-John takes the bait. His massive arm swerves to deflect the powerful right hand he’s expecting. With his arms rising and body off balance, he exposes his wide gut.

Anticipating this tactic, Woodie shoots his left fist with an upward motion below the jock’s ribs. By the time Jimmy-John understands what’s happened, he’s lying on his back gasping for air. With no hesitation, Woodie swings his leg around to chop the head off of the beast.

I stand, shaking off the cobwebs clogging my brain. Still dazed, it looks to me like there are three of Woodie and at least two Jimmy-Johns. “Both of you…all of you, stop.”

My voice cannot match Molly’s screams as she closes in on the brawl. “Woodie, leave him
alone
.”

Jimmy-John has the presence of mind to raise his hands and cover his head, softening the force from an oncoming blow. He tries to say something, but it’s impossible to understand him with all the blood in his mouth.

Woodie’s knee connects with Jimmy-John’s jaw, causing a resounding crack. I hear screams, beer bottles crashing, and furniture being overturned as everyone scatters out of the way or attempts to witness the violence from the front row.

My crash against the kitchen table earlier seems to have done more damage than I thought, because my eyes won’t focus and my thoughts are foggy, at best. As Woodie follows up his kick with a few more punches, I make my move to stop the fight. I run toward Woodie, planning to knock him forward and prevent him from getting up again.

Sure, once we’re down, Woodie might overpower me and continue bashing this guy. Or more likely, he won’t even register it’s me jumping on him. Instead, Woodie might mistake me for one of Jimmy-John’s friends coming to the large man’s aid.

Right on cue, crashing and yelling erupt behind me as two or three of Jimmy-John’s football buddies enter the room through the broken kitchen door. “We’re comin’, Jimmy.”

They’re the type of guys that anticipate this stuff at parties, and I’ll bet it takes a lot less than their friend getting sucker punched to motivate them to fight.

I need to talk some sense into my friend. “Woodie, this has to stop, man.”

He sticks my ribs with an elbow. I stumble back, sucking wind, as Woodie advances again on the dazed jock.

I’d always hoped I would be involved when Woodie’s luck ran out, but him getting beaten up by the entire offensive line is not what I imagined.

I leap into the air just as Woodie’s knee hits home against the other man’s jaw.

Woodie’s momentum spins him 180-degrees, so that now my friend’s back is to me. That, at least, should make it easier to knock him off balance. Just before I crash into him, a horrible searing pain explodes in my left shoulder. Ignoring it, I reach out and push him forward.

A surprised, “What the—” is all Woodie musters before his head cracks into the counter, knocking him out cold.

I grab the knife buried in my pitching arm about the same time that I comprehend three or four large shadows surrounding me. One of the shadows promises, “Biggest mistake of your life, bro.”

The first kick splinters my lower back into a thousand sharp points of pain enveloped inside one large throbbing ache. My kidney erupts, a dry barn doused in gasoline. The next blow impacts the back of my head hard enough to send my jaw crashing into my chest. It’s open season now as each hit begins blurring with the next.

I let go of the knife, unable to pull it free, and attempt to block the headshots raining down from the four dark clouds above me with little success. Through the sweat and blood, I spot Molly watching in horror. I’m sure she wants to help, but what the hell can she do at this point?