The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [149]
The desk’s glass-topped surface held only a phone and a small framed photograph of Coach Cox’s two children. They were sitting in a kiddie pool full of raked-up leaves, the girl with her arm around the boy in that protective way of older siblings, mugging for the camera. Henry picked it up for a closer look. Both kids wore earth-toned autumn jackets and had messy midlength hair. The boy looked about four and the girl seven, but the picture had been there as long as Henry could remember, its inks had faded, and they were no doubt much older now—maybe older than he was. Strange how little Coach Cox talked about his family; strange how little you wound up knowing about the people around you. Henry thought maybe the daughter’s name was Kelly, but maybe her face just reminded him of some Kelly he’d gone to school with. Kelly and Peter, he thought aimlessly, replacing the photo on the desk in its original position, so that it faced Coach Cox’s chair and not his own. Peter and Kelly.
Coach Cox came into the room, took a Diet Coke from the fridge, and plunked down in his pleather desk chair. The hinges screeched; they were so loose his whole body tipped back like he was about to get some dentistry done.
“Coach Cox,” Henry said, “before you say anything, I want to apologize for what I did yesterday. I abandoned the team. It was a terrible thing to do. I’m really sorry.”
The Harpooners had won both of Sunday’s games against Coshwale, the first by the score of 2 to 1, the second, 15 to 0. The second game was halted after four innings in accordance with the UMSCAC’s mercy rule, which was how Owen and Schwartz made it back to campus so early. The Harpooners were conference champs for the first time in their 104-year history of playing baseball. The regional tournament was days away.
Coach Cox leaned back in his chair even more, so that he was almost lying down, and stroked his mustache. “You realize I’m going to have to suspend you, Skrim. I don’t especially want to, but there’s no way around it. Team rules. You missed two games, so two more should be a reasonable punishment. With luck we’ll win one of them. Consider it a chance to get your bearings.”
“Actually,” Henry said, “I was planning on something longer.”
Coach Cox frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… I’d like to resign from the team.”
Coach Cox’s frown deepened into something else. He rocked forward to a seated position, planted his feet on the ground, glared into Henry’s eyes. “I’d like to be twenty years old and have your kind of talent,” he said. “But we can’t always get what we want. Permission denied.”
“But Coach, you don’t understand. I’m quitting the team.”
“You’re not quitting anything. In fact, you’re unsuspended, effective immediately. Practice starts in fifteen minutes. Go get dressed.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Bullshit you can’t. And wear old clothes. I don’t care how fit you are. I’m going to run you until you puke.”
“Coach,” Henry said quietly, “I’m through.”
Something in his voice convinced Coach Cox he was serious. The older man resumed stroking his mustache and eventually said:
“Have you talked to Mike about this?”
For a split second Henry thought that Coach Cox had heard what had happened with Pella. His throat seized tight, even as he realized the question meant something else. What Coach Cox was driving at was that Schwartzy would never let him quit. “No,” he admitted. “I haven’t.”
“Well, let’s get his input on this.” Coach Cox tipped his head back and drained his Diet Coke decisively. “Come on.”
They walked out to the elevator together. Henry could have refused to go down to the locker room—could have pressed the first-floor button and walked through the VAC’s front doors and never come back. But something wouldn’t let him. Maybe he was too used to obeying Coach Cox’s commands, or maybe there was a part of him that wanted to go down there. Last night, Mike had just turned his