Second Chance (7 page)

I tell
Coach
it sounds great
and
hang up the
phone
.
I look up and
try to focus on some of the branches in the tree above me
,
but
I can’t tell which is swaying—
the branch or my head
.
I want to laugh because my depth perception is shot
.

God, you really must hate me
.

***

Isotopes Park is
packed
with fans
,
and
we’re playing our biggest rival, New Mexico State
.
I glance
over my shoulder at
the scoreboard, l
it up in neon advertisements
.
W
e’re down by
five
runs and
t
he bases are loaded
in the bottom of the fourth inning
.
I can hear the frustration humming around the stadium
.
Fans are
starting to boo me off the field and e
ven our mascot
,
Lobo Louie,
is
hanging his
wolf
head
.
I’m ready for the
DJ
to start playing funeral music
in
between innings
.
Outside of right field, where people usually stretch out on blankets and relax on the grass, I notice fans are standing, arms crossed, bodies rigid, staring at the culprit who’s ruining their Saturday afternoon
.
Me
.

I take a
deep
breath
and make a concerted effort to focus
.
I walked the last two players
,
and I’ve
just succeeded in throwing the
most
consecutive
wild pitches in my
baseball
career
.
I’m trying to
concentrate
,
but no matter how hard I throw,
my body feels like it’s
moving in slow motion
.

I can just imagine what
the radio announc
ers are saying in the press box
:
“Well, folks
,
if you just tuned into to
day’s
game
,
we’re watching Gray Thomas
confirm a baseball theory
:
pitchers
perform poorly
on pot.”

In the dugout,
half the
team is sitting
down, cowering
in the shade
, and the rest are leaning
over the fence, fuming
.
The
guys
hate
me
.
I know they suspect what’s wrong
.
They
saw
how bloodshot my eyes were
in the locker room
.
Miles won’t even look in my direction
.
I
stare out
at the Sandia Mountains
and
try to relax
, but t
he mountains
loom
and cower and the peaks look jagged like teeth, like a mouth getting ready to scream
.
 

I turn back to home plate
.
Focus
,
Gray
.
J
ust get this guy out
.
Finish off the worst game of your life, p
ut it behind you, learn from your
incredibly stupid mistake and move on
.
Oh, yeah, and move Lenny to number one on your
shit
list.

I stare down t
he batter
,
but he just
grins
back
at me
.
He isn’t scared
.
He has t
hree balls and one strike
.
He’s waiting for me to throw another wild pitch so he can
trot
safely to first base and bring another
run
ner
home
.
It’s almost impossible to throw a fast ball when my arm feels like it’s
a
feather that wants to float away in
the
wind
and
la
nd in a field full of
nachos and cheese sticks surrounded by waterfalls pooling into
a river
of ranch dressing
.

Just when I’m about to throw, C
oach calls a timeout and
stalks
on
to
the field
.
He looks
like he’s ready to throw me
to a pack of
mountain lions
.
He runs his hands over his thick, spiky gray hair and takes off his sunglasses
.
His dark brown eyes
are
furious.

“What the
hell are you doing
,
Gray
?
You know how this guy works
.
You throw him sliders and he swings
low every time
.
It’s an easy out
.
Why are you trying t
o throw
wide
?
He’s not going to
swing
at that
.”

I
shrug
because
that’s the problem
.
I’m not thinking
.
“
S
orry
,
C
oach.
”
 

“
What
’s
the
matter with you?
”
H
e suspects something so I tell him
.
I play
my trump
card.

“
It’s my birthday,
”
I say
.
The look on my face says the rest
.
I don’t have to remind him who shares my birthday
, that this is one of the hardes
t days of the year for me, and that it
was a struggle just to get out of bed.

His
eyes narrow as h
e watches me
,
and I see some of the anger
drain
from his face
.
But there’s still suspicion
on the surface
.
“You should hav
e told me
you
couldn’t play
when
I called you
,” he says
.

“
I
thought I could pull
it
out
,” I say
,
and I leave out the fact that being stoned
doesn’t exactly
help.

Coach thinks about this for a second
.
“You want me to take you out
?
” he asks
.
This is a gamble
.
I’d
rather pitch an awful game than
give up
.
I
shake my head
and
tell him I’ll finish off the inning
.
He
slams the ball back in my glove
.

“
Get this guy out
and then we’ll talk,” he says.

M
y heart
’s
drumming
nervously
in my chest
,
and
a
cold sweat creeps over my
arms and neck
.
Too many people are moving in the stands
.
There’s too much noise
.
I get
nauseous
for a second and think I’m going to throw up
.
I take a shaky breath and
glare at the
batter
.
I can see the shadow of his eyes
underneath his helmet
.
He swings the bat in circles behind his shoulder and waits for the pitch
.