Slide - Kyle Beachy [36]
“Oh, poor you,” Ian said. “You could have killed me, but your arm hurts so I guess that's more important.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I got a little carried away on the last one.”
“I think you literally could have killed me.” Ian looked at his palms, then looked up the street. “My dad'll be home soon. Give me your glove.”
“That was a mistake,” I said. “I'm sorry. Let's throw a little more. A few short ones to keep a good thing going.”
“I'm going inside. Give it. Give it here.”
I handed him the glove. He stuck it in his armpit and began walking back to the house. I was sure something more was expected of me.
“I wasn't trying to hurt you.”
He kept walking and said, “It's fine.”
“Hey, you're not following through enough,” I yelled, and saw him stop and turn around. “You're short-arming it a little. Your motion, it's good and natural but a little bit off. Nothing that can't be fixed, but if you let it go on you might run into trouble later.”
“You threw that ball really hard,” he said.
“I know. And I'm sorry. Look, maybe I could come back sometime. Check on your motion.”
“I guess, as long as you promise to never do that again.”
“I promise,” I said. “I do.”
“I'm saying ever. You coulda took off my head, you know. Pop. Me on the ground bleeding from my neck because my head is gone. Blood all over the place. I saw a show once about this guy who accidentally killed a kid with his car. You'd go to jail for like ever. Nobody cares if it's an accident or anything.”
I drove away wishing I had a baseball of my own to hold and spin. Pinch between thumb and middle fingers, send it spinning upward with a snap, catch without looking. Repeating as needed.
eight
i walked through the pool-house door to find an even larger version of Edsel Denk fingering a deck of cards at the table. His neck looked like a very hardworking straw. When our eyes met I thought of that children's song where the other day (the other day) I saw a bear (I saw a bear) and the bear sees me and then something happens I forget what. Except here was a thuggish beast lacking a bear's anthropomorphic cuteness, more ogre than bear. While Edsel continued to shuffle the deck, I stood very very still and located my primary exits. He wore a ribbed tank top, a visor from the Bellagio casino, and God only knew what under the table. His beard was thick and uniform and a frankly awesome accessory to an already imposing face. Sweat moved from my right armpit downward.
“Potty boom botty”
I turned to see one of Stuart's hands shoot upward from the couch. I moved quickly past the table to join him. My friend was horizontal with one arm hanging lazy to the floor, watching baseball.
“Game's on,” he said.
I rubbed my still-sore shoulder and, even though I knew the answer, asked when was the last time Stuart had thrown a baseball.
“Years,” he said. “I watch and cheer and wear lots of red. I am a supporter. I avoid any form of play that might detract from this role.”
We watched the Cardinals struggle against the Rockies, whose leadoff hitter was walked, opening the door to a series of base hits, then a homer, then a walk, a pitching change, a walk, a wild pitch, and a base-clearing double. The runs piled up against us. Stuart reached for the remote and turned off the volume. I found myself drifting into and out of brief but madly satisfying naps before awaking to Edsel's voice rolling as if downhill from the table.
“Believe me when I say you ain't seen baseball until you've seen it played in other countries. They've taken our game and made it into something else. The Thai people have a version of baseball to make your head spin. It's fast over there. Fast and wicked.” I hadn't recalled his voice being so rough.
Stuart had caught me up on the basics of Edsel's life after high school, how he attended the University of Missouri and sold lots and lots of drugs. How after graduation he took his drug money and embarked on a two-year journey: first to New York, where he shuffled among various friends slash clients from college, filthed about the Lower East Side and failed