Out of Control (3 page)

You don't always need a coach at practice. We all know the routine, and each group on the team has its own leader: Nellie for the infield, Nick for the pitchers and the other catcher, and Danny for the outfielders. Each group goes through its drills and then takes a turn in the batting cage. Still, it was unusual for Coach not to be there without telling us ahead of time.

We were just finishing up when he showed. He said hi to everyone as they passed but then waved me over. “Hey, Trip, got a second?”

“Sure, Coach. What's up?”

“Well, it seems that your father has been in touch with the team backers: Alexander Jamison, Pop Mancini, Gus Toomey's dad, and a few others.”

“Oh yeah?” I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“He's threatened to withhold any funding to the team unless he gets what he wants.”

“And he wants . . .”

Coach nodded. “You on the field. Or a new coach. Or else he says he'll take you and his money to another team.”

I swore. “I'm not his property! I'm sorry, Coach. This is my fault. I'll . . .”

“Well, there's a kind of principle involved here. Can one person call the shots for everyone else, even if he does pay forty percent of the team's expenses?”

“Maybe I can talk to him?”

“It's okay for now, Trip. The other backers want to talk about it, and Julio has given them until the weekend. Meanwhile, we'll proceed as planned. We have a game here on Wednesday, okay? I won't start you, but I'll use you if we need you.”

“Okay, Coach.” I was mad and sick. If Dad had been there I might have attacked him. I drove home prepared for a fight.

CHAPTER
7

I
found Dad sunning by the pool with wife number five. They were stretched out motionless in swimsuits and sunglasses on adjoining chaise longues, frosty drinks on small tables at either side. I wondered if they were napping, but I walked up anyway and said, “Dad! We need to talk.”

He didn't say anything at first, just waved me away with the back of his hand like you'd bat away a fly.

“I mean it, Dad.”

“Later, Trip. As you can see, Ysabel and I are relaxing.”

“Oh, it's all right, Julio,” Ysabel said, sitting up. “I was going to have a swim anyway. Hello, Trip.”

She got up, and Dad and I both watched her dive into the pool before speaking. Dad heaved a deep sigh. “Okay, son. What's on your mind?”

I told him what I'd heard. “Is that true, Dad? Because if it is, you're a jerk!”

“Well, the way you told it makes me sound unreasonable. And I'm not unreasonable. I only want what's best for the team, and for you.”

“Can't you see that Coach is resting me because I'm burned out? I'm sick of baseball! I don't
want
to play!”

Dad's voice got harder. “Your playing or not playing is not up for discussion,” he said. “You owe it to your team and your talent to play. Your coach is preventing that.”

“Are you listening? Have you noticed that I've been playing like crap lately?”

“Oh, I've noticed,” Dad said, and now he sat up and pointed his finger at me. “You are getting lazy, Trip. Lazy! And I'm not going to let some so-called coach who wants his players to like him . . . I'm not going to let him help you to be lazy. When you play poorly, the answer is to play harder! Not to drop out. A coach should know that.”

“Look, Dad, everyone can see that my playing baseball isn't about me, it's about you! You wanted to be a baseball star yourself, and now you're trying to live through your sons! But it's
my life
you're talking about. It's not yours!”

Dad was on his feet. “I gave you your life! Don't ever forget that.”

“You're acting like a bully! Using your money for fists!”

Dad took a step towards me. “If I had ever spoken to my father the way you are speaking to me, he would have whipped me.”

The next words just slipped out. “You didn't even know who your father was!” I was sorry almost as soon as I said it. It was true. In the slums of Caracas, Dad's mother had earned a living the only way she knew how. She was with many men, and young Julio had a succession of “stepfathers.” But by saying it I had crossed a line.

Dad lunged at me. I stepped to one side and then wrapped my arms around him from behind. He struggled, but I was stronger, and he finally said, “All right! Let me go.” He was breathing hard now. Then he turned to me and said, “You are a minor. I'm your parent. I will decide what is best for you, not what you think you would like. Now go.”

“Look, Dad, I didn't mean . . .” But he gave me that backhanded dismissal wave again and headed to the pool to join Ysabel.

Do fights like this happen in every family? Maybe you only get that angry at the ones you love. At that moment, though, I felt like I'd broken something important, something I could never put back together.

CHAPTER
8

W
hen I woke up the next morning it took me a moment to remember why I was feeling so sad. I thought maybe I'd try to find Dad, but I didn't see him around anywhere. By noon I was dressed in my uniform and driving to the field.

We were playing a team we knew well, the Carson City Capitals. If they televised games at our level, the Caps would probably get lots of airtime because of one player, their right fielder Bo “Beast” Bronsky. That dude is fun to watch if you want to see power.

The Beast is totally developed into his adult size, which is almost six and a half feet tall and around 240 pounds. One time I asked Carson Jamison, our pitcher, what it was like to pitch against Beast. He laughed.

“Embarrassing,” he said. “If he catches one it's going to go a long way.”

In fact, he'd had one measured last year at 456 feet.

“But you know,” Carson went on, “he's a football player too. Hitting moving objects is what he's all about. It's like a reflex, so he's not disciplined. He strikes out a lot.”

We didn't take the rest of the Capitals lightly, either. Tim Pesci was a fine hitter who batted right after Beast and drove in a lot of runs. And they had a lefty pitcher, Brian Groh, who was already getting scouted. He had three pitches—a wicked fastball, a slider, and a change. And he could locate all of them. Groh would be pitching against us today.

 

. . .

When I got to the dugout, Coach Harris looked totally focused on the game. You wouldn't have thought he had anything else on his mind. I did my best to follow his example, even though I wasn't in the lineup.

Coach had put Dave Teller, our utility man, in my spot at short. Dave is quiet, careful, and unspectacular in every way, but he is solid and consistent. He'd start with most of the other teams at our level.

A couple of guys came up when they saw the lineup. “Trip, you hurt?”

“Nah,” I said. “Just getting a rest.”

As the game got underway, it felt strange to be watching from the dugout. I thought I'd feel relief at not having to play; instead I just felt kind of antsy, like didn't have anything to do. Wash must have noticed, because he came over with his notebook and asked me to keep score.

On the very first pitch—Carson was on the mound—the Cap batter hit a high hopper to short. Dave let it play him. He caught it awkwardly close to his chest, and by the time he got a handle on the ball the runner was safe at first. It would have been a hard play for anyone to make, let alone someone who wasn't used to playing there.

The second batter struck out, and then the hoots and yells from the crowd started as Beast Bronsky came to the plate. He swung and missed at the first pitch, but the swing was like everything else about Beast: huge. You could almost imagine a breeze coming from the direction of home plate. But Carson handled him. Beast got under the 2–2 pitch and hit a mile-high fly to center. Danny could have made a phone call while he waited for it to come down.

Tim Pesci then hit a sharp grounder to short, and this time Dave handled it smoothly and tossed to second for the third out.

We came to bat, and it was clear right away that Brian Groh had his stuff. Darius got called out on a third strike. Gus popped to second. And Nellie—no Beast, but plenty powerful—fanned on three straight pitches. He came back to the dugout shaking his head and talking to himself: “Whoa, Nellie, slow down next time, okay?”

Carson held them in the second. Dave doubled in our half, but we left him stranded. When he came back in the guys said, “Nice hit, what did you do?”

Dave just laughed. “I have no idea.”

It was shaping up to be a pitchers' duel when Beast led off the fourth. Carson tried to sneak a first-pitch fastball past him, but the big man was all over it. Everyone heard the metal clank of the bat, and the crowd began yelling. Carson didn't even look back to see how far it went. And Sammy in right didn't leave the spot where he was standing; he just turned around and watched it sail away. It was 1–0.

That was still the score in the top of the fifth, with two outs and the Caps' number-two hitter at the plate. A scary power hitter often makes life at the plate better for the guys who hit immediately before and after them. Since power hitters get walked more often, the batters who follow them see men on base more often and have a better chance to do some damage.

The hitters right before the power guys, well, pitchers have extra incentive to throw them strikes. First, they don't want a guy on base in case the big man dings one. Second, with two outs—and this was the situation here—they can get out of the inning and avoid facing a Beast until the next inning, when he's guaranteed to come up with the bases empty.

So what I'm saying is Carson wanted the Caps' pre-Beast hitter out in a special way. He wasn't going to try fooling him with pitches off the plate and risk a walk. Unfortunately he missed his spot on one and the batter knew what to do with it, lining it just over the fence near the foul line in left. Beast struck out, but the damage was done, and we trailed 2–0.

There was no change until we came to bat in the bottom of the eighth. Then, like rainclouds on the horizon after a drought, we noticed signs that Brian Groh was tiring. He walked the first two batters. Carson was due at the plate, but Coach had already decided his day was done.

“Costas,” he called down the bench. “You hit for Jamison.”

I jumped up and grabbed a helmet and a bat, took a few practice swings and took my place in the batter's box. Since Groh had started tiring he was missing mostly high. I thought I had a good chance to walk like the others, but I was also looking for one that might stray to where I could hit it. On the third pitch, with a 2–0 count, I got it. A fastball up and over the plate.

It felt good when I hit it, but I didn't look up till I was near first, and I saw the ball rolling into the gap in left center. I made it into second standing up; both runners scored, and we were tied.

The Caps brought in a reliever, but our offense seemed to be rolling now. By the time we were out of the inning, we led 5–2. I played short for the ninth inning, while Shotaro came in to relieve the pitcher and retired the side in order.

Sweet, right? I should have felt great, but I didn't.

CHAPTER
9

I
t just didn't matter to me. A lot of people, from what I hear, feel this way about their jobs. They do them, they perform in a responsible way, but part of them is just going through the motions, feeling trapped.

Trapped is what I felt like these days when it came to baseball. In every direction I looked, I was causing pain to people I cared about: my dad, my coach, my team. And all because I was tired of playing this game. It was so time for me to move on, but I didn't know how.

As I drove home, I searched my mind for something less gloomy to think about. Four! We had a gig Friday night, and we'd be practicing tomorrow. Whatever disaster the weekend brought, for the next couple of days I'd be doing something I loved. Dad was in avoidance mode, I guessed, and for now that was okay.

The band's job was at a sweet-sixteen party for Zoey Bouchay, a sophomore at our high school. Lisa knows Zoey. In fact, I think she helped us get the gig. What everyone knows—at least in Vegas, where “Show me the money” should be the city motto—is that Zoey is a Russian princess. My dad is rich, I admit. But Zoey's mom, well, she owned Bouchay Cosmetics.

“Expect celebrities,” Lisa told me. “You'll be just one of about six bands. But everyone will be surprised at how good you are.

“It's weird, because Zoey should be completely spoiled. But she's a sweetheart. A little embarrassed about the party, but her mom insisted.”

Zoey's parents came from Russia in 1992 with cash. They started the cosmetics company, which went nuts. When Zoey's dad split in '99, there was plenty of money to go around. Anyway, the party was going to be an MTV-style bash. And Four was playing at it. This could really put us on the map.

Let me tell you about Four. I'm keyboard and vocals. We've got Manny Ruiz on drums, Ethan Davis on guitar, and Phil Terrier on bass. I don't mean to brag, but for our age and repertoire, we're good. No big-time recording ambitions. We just want to do the music right. That's what makes us a team.

I wish my dad could hear us, because we're like him that way. Pure. Dad's music may not be everyone's thing, but in listening to him, everyone does hear truth. His voice is great. It's pleasant, but there are a lot of those voices. Dad's singing is true. He believes in the lyrics. His signature song, in fact, he wrote himself. It went triple platinum or whatever, but he has to sing it now every time he performs.

It's called “The Dream I Left Behind.” The song has gone cultural.

 

I've loved the world, its women and its gold.

I've had the life, but when I'm growing old