I gripped the bat handle and squared off my stance, making sure the boys behind me could see. “Now get locked in before the pitcher lets go of the ball,” I barked at my MLB wannabes. “You don’t wanna be twirling your bat around, twitchin’ your elbow, or dancin’ around in the box when the ball is delivered. You wanna be locked and ready to load. When you see the release, load your weight onto your back leg,” I continued. My gaze was as serious as I could muster, staring the boys down from under the bill of my ball cap, grabbing the back of my leg for emphasis.
“If the pitch is good and you’re swingin’, you want all your weight on that back leg. Keep it level and push off from the leg. Step right towards the mound, straight towards the pitcher. And keep yer head still, don’t be jerkin’ it around, eye on the ball all time, ya can’t hit what you don’t see! Then when you’re sure the pitch is where you want it- explode through it, keep that bat level and swing with everything you got.”
I swung through at an imaginary pitch and looked over the audience behind me. A couple of them were eyeing something funny on a smart phone instead of watching me. That didn’t sit too well.
I dropped the bat, and took a step in their direction. My assistant coach, Deputy Roberts from the Sheriff’s Department, hopped off the bench and took a step in my direction. The kid with the phone quickly stuck it in his back pocket and took a step back, his jaw dropping as his eyes bugged out. I caught myself before I said anything, reminding myself they were just kids. Not all of them took baseball as serious as I did, given that I made my living at it for forty years. “That phone ain’t gonna teach you how to hit, son. Pay attention if you wanna learn something; baseball’s got a lot of good lessons for ya, whether you’re on or off the field, if you don’t wanna learn, you can play on your phone at home.”
“Sorry coach,” the youngster squeaked. I regretted that I dropped the bat, but congratulated myself for not totally going off. I was getting better at the anger management thing. Maybe those pills were workin’. Too bad they hadn’t been workin’ back in Illinois when I twisted that kid’s wrist a little too far. Not that he didn’t deserve it, having swung at me like he did. Little punk should have been glad I caught his punch before it got to my face. More than likely saved him a suspension. Maybe even a criminal record.
It cost me my job. The school board blamed me for “initiating the confrontation.’’ Truth is no defense to some things I guess. The way he ran did remind me of the way my grandma climbed stairs. Anyway, the humidity in Illinois was too much for somebody who’s hot under the collar to begin with. Gillette County is much more agreeable. Sure it’s hotter, but I feel like I can breathe down here.
This Park District gig doesn’t pay as well as the school did back in the Prairie State. I like the hours a lot better. It’s just 3 to 6:30 three days a week. The perks aren’t great but I have plenty of time to work a second job, which is something I couldn’t do when I was teachin’ and coachin’. Plus I’ve got plenty of time to finish up the anger management course. So I guess its all good, six of one, half dozen of the other. Besides, I don’t need as much comin’ in now that Marie is gone. With all her medical bills, I had to have the insurance the school offered, so I guess I’m glad I didn’t go off on that kid ‘til after she was gone
Sometimes I wish I would have learned how to cook. That was always Marie’s department and she did a real nice job. All you gotta do is look at my gut to know that’s the God’s truth. Most of what I could be sendin’ to that mortgage lender back in Illinois goes toward my lunch and dinner now. Breakfast I can handle, being pretty decent at opening a cereal box and pouring milk. But the other two meals I usually take down at Hard Luck Mabels in that strip mall by prison.
Those girls in Mabels sure know how to cook and they don’t charge an arm and a leg for it neither. Outside of Marie I don’t think I’ve ever had a meatloaf like they serve up. The Polish and Kraut is the best I’ve had since the team played up in the Windy City back in my hey day. Our bus driver knew this little joint that served up the best Polish outside of Warsaw. I can still taste that stuff. Made me wish I’d a stayed up in the Show longer than the year and half I was there.
It’s a lot more fun showin’ these kids how to swing than it is watchin’ them try it themselves. Sometimes it’s downright painful, but it’s all part of the gig. After 45 minutes of watchin’ these future Hall of Famers whiff the air, I was done and so were they. We spent the last half hour lookin’ at funny videos on the big kid’s smart phone. I was hungry and ready to get to Mabels when the last momma pulled up in her Town and County to pick up junior. I launched the bat bag into the bed of my truck and jogged to the driver’s seat.
Mables was pretty crowded, but the booth by the men’s room was still open. Most folks seemed to shy away from that one, the ambience not being to their liking.
Truth is I like that booth cause Melinda works it. Now before you get any ideas I’m just gonna say it’s not what you’re thinkin’. Like any other red blooded American male I like a good looking woman in a tight fittin’ waitress getup. I’m not gonna lie ‘bout that. But Melinda is only bout half my age, and even if she was older, I’m not lookin’ for some high octane romance in my life right now. Marie’s only been gone six months and it’s gonna take a lot longer for me to get over her. She was the love of my life. Not the only woman by any means, but the only love. I think you know what I mean.
Anyway, Melinda is just fun to be around. First time I went in there she greeted me like I’d known her for years. Always called me “hun” and told me all the specials. She wouldn’t hesitate to tell you if something you were gonna order wasn’t all that great either. Something about the way she said it reminded me of Marie.
I’ve been told I have a hard time with a woman tellin’ me what to do. Guilty as charged! Marie always found a way of doin’ that before you knew it. Like when I was about to walk out the door wearin’ a pair of plaid shorts with my pinstriped Yankees jersey, she’d just put her open palm on my gut and smile up at me with them big blue eyes. “Honey,” she’d say, “I just washed that powder blue oxford of yours,” and she’d leave it at that. I suppose she was thinking “get your butt back in to that bedroom and take off that ridiculous jersey, any eight year old could tell you wearing it with those shorts should be a crime, pull your head out of your posterior and put on your blue dress shirt!” But not one time did she say anything close to that, sweet thing that she was.
That’s kinda the way Melinda is. She might not think too highly of the odor my body puts off after I just finished a three hour practice in the hot sun. But she’s never gonna come right out and say that. What she will do is give me kinda of a funny look and say something like “sorry that it don’t smell too good in your booth, them Kinsey twins came in here after softball and they don’t make them girls shower at that school after practice no more. I don’t know how they stand themselves.”
‘Course she knows that those Kinsey twins smell a whole lot better that I do after they been out practicin’, shower or no. We both know good and well what she’s talking about. But she gets it said without gettin’ me mad, and that’s just like Marie. Not many in this world can do that.
Unlike most waitresses she seems to know when I’ve been having a bad day. When you lose your wife and then your job in short order your bad days are gonna give the good ones a run for the money. When I’m in that frame of mind the last thing I need is somebody wanting to know if I need another Coke every three minutes. Melinda seems to know when its best to leave me alone.
I wish I could say the same for that husband of hers. Its not so much that he needs to leave me alone as it is he needs to stay away from her while she’s trying to work. The dude just can’t take a hint. Let me tell you what I mean.
First time I went into Mabel’s I stayed til closing time. Fifteen minutes before here comes this huge Ford F250 barreling off of 29 into the parking lot, headers growlin’ and kickin’ up gravel. Driver’s got some speed metal blaring, windas rolled down of course.
He gets out of the cab and it turns out it’s this bald headed dude with a pointy goatee. He’s wearing this Marilyn Manson tank top that exposes his bare biceps. He’s got more tats on them than most entire NBA teams. Guess he’d just got off work at the prison cause he’s still got his sidearm buckled on and his uniform work pants and boots on. He commences to stand by his truck with his arms crossed and stares into Mabels. Speed metal keeps blaring out of the truck the whole time.
Everybody in Mabels was starin’ right back out at him. Francine, one of the girls working that day just rolled her eyes and shook her head, like this wasn’t the first time she’d seen this dog and pony show. Melinda clammed up and started actin’ real nervous. Like I said she’s normally all bubbly and talking a mile a minute, so I knew something wasn’t kosher about the dude in the parking lot.
Not bein’ a huge fan of music that doesn’t come outta Nashville I decided it was time for me to hit the road that night. But when I got to my pick up curiosity got the best of me and I rolled up the windows and decided to see how long the bald dude was gonna pollute the parking lot. Next thing I knew here comes Melinda, pacin’ head down straight towards the big dude’s monster truck. He unfolds his arms long enough to yell somethin’ at her and she jumps in the cab without slowin’ down or givin’ him a second look. He jumps in too, cussing up a blue streak and peelin’ out of the lot as quick as he pulled in.
That wasn’t the last time I shook my head over those two. How she could be hooked up with that dude is beyond me. It wasn’t long before I figured out this was their nightly ritual. Like clockwork every night at a quarter to nine he’d come barrelin’ into the parking lot like the place was on fire, crappy music blowin’ out of his cab and makin’ all of us wish we were deaf. She’d clam up and lose her sweet smile. “Trevor likes to give me a ride,” was all she’d say when I asked her why she didn’t drive herself to work.
That’s about the same time I noticed she’d check her phone about every ten minutes while she was workin’. Sometimes she’d he’d excuse herself and go back behind the counter with this serious look on her face, type somethin’ in and then stick it back in her apron. It wasn’t til she was done typin’ that her cute smile would come back on her face. I figured it was Mr. Speed Metal checking on her.
Then I noticed she had a big ugly bruise on her left elbow. I didn’t say anything, but I could tell it was botherin’ her. She didn’t have much to say that day and she kept rubbin’ it. When the dude pulled in to pick her up , I saw a tear roll down her cheek. I told her I’d give her a ride home if need be but she just shook her head and tried to laugh through saying “no thanks.” Then she grabbed her purse and walked out as fast as she could without running.
Francine watched her leave and shook her head. “How come she puts up with that?” I yelled at Francine. Francine rolled her eyes, waltzed over to my booth and slid in. “She ain’t got family, and she’s on probation for writing bad checks,” she whispered. “Trevor’s a total horse’s patoot but he’s got a good job at the prison, works the “swat” team or somethin’, she feels like she’s got no where to go. Somehow he’s figured out a way to get disability and keep his job too. He’s about 90% deaf, which is why he blares that stupid metal music so loud. Does it all day long at home too. I’d bet my next paycheck that he’s beatin’ her. This ain’t the first time she’s come in with bruises.”
“Somebody needs to do somethin’ about. Why don’t you guys call the cops?”
Francine leaned her head back, rolled her eyes again and slapped the table. “Oh, that’s a good one, … don’t think we haven’t! Last fall we did it twice, but what you gotta understand is Trevor’s brother in law is the Sheriff. They sent somebody out there but he was claiming she scratched him on the face, if they arrested him then she’d have to go to jail too- “mutual combat” they called it! Ain’t that rich, all hundred ‘n five pounds of her “battered” Goliath. Anyway, he moved out for the weekend but he was right back the next Monday and its been the same since. What a joke!”
“That ain’t right,” was all I could think to say. We sat and stared at each other for a silent minute. Finally she broke the silence. “Don’t you get any bright ideas about gettin’ involved. Trevor’s the jealous type. I’m sure he’s interrogated her over every man she’s ever poured a cup of joe for in this joint. That’s why he gets here fifteen minutes early every night, just to check out the competition. I’d watch my p’s and q’s if I was you mister,” she advised, leaning over and tapping me on the chest with her press-on nails.
Anyway, like I said, Mable’s was crowded, ‘cept for my favorite booth. I slid in and looked for Melinda to come so I could order up my Kraut and Polish. Most times she doesn’t even bother bringin’ me a menu cause she knows what I’m getting. But tonight she’s holding one up close to her face. She’s not saying much and she keeps that menu up face high, so I knew somethin’ was up. Finally she bends down to put my water glass on the table. I snuck a peek over the menu. She’s got a shiner on her right eye that’s bright purple and swollen.
I couldn’t help but let out a little sigh. My hand reached out by reflex and grabbed her free wrist. “He hit you again,” I blurted without thinking about it. She pulled back and gave me a cold stare. “What ‘r you talkin’ bout?” she whispered. “I forgot I my kitchen cabinet was open and turned right into the door! You need to mind yer own business, old man!” And then she turned and jogged away, not stopping til she was back in the kitchen.
She didn’t come back out that night. Francine brought out my Polish plate and just shook her head when I gave her a knowing look. I spent the rest of the night convincin’ myself there was nothing I could do. I had six months left on my probation. Mr. Speed Metal was twenty years younger and a hundred pounds heavier. Still, it didn’t seem right. Somethin’ needed to happen.
Next morning I had Anger Management Group. My weekly dose of psychobabble and Old Time Religion down at the Baptist Church. There’s six of us plus Pastor Jean. I’m not one that’s been to church much so I didn’t know there was such a thing as a woman pastor among the Baptists but there’s a first time for everything I guess. Pastor Jean told me she doesn’t really preach, she’s more like a counselor and teacher, so I guess that makes it kosher.
Anyways in this group I’m the Old Fart by a considerable margin. Rest of them are a bunch of twenty somethings that laid hands on their wives or girlfriends. There is one guy who sucker punched his boss when he got fired. He and I are the odd men out. We talk about what happened since last time we saw each other. So naturally I told them about what was happening with Melinda.
Couple of them congratulated me for not going after Trevor. Pastor Jean told me how proud she that I was working my program. The new guy offered that somebody needs to teach him a lesson. Somebody else said that may be true but it can’t be any of us. Pastor Jean got out her Bible and looked up a verse. “If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn and offer them your left as well,”she read.
I asked how that was gonna help Melinda. She said that’s why God gave us the cops. The new guy said the cops can’t be everywhere all the time. I told them about the Sheriff. We all just shook our heads. Pastor Jean reminded us to call each other if we’r tempted to strike out at somebody. Then we adjourned and I went home and I got ready to go to practice.
I started practice with Melinda on my mind. I almost said something to Deputy Roberts but I didn’t really know how he could help, working for the Sheriff and all. I did ask him if it was legal for somebody on the prison staff to wear their firearm off duty. He said something like they can only have it on going directly to and from work. “What if somebody commits a crime while there wearing that sidearm, seems like I read that makes it a whole lot more serious?”
“You got that right,” he said. “Most of your violent crimes that are just misdemeanors without a gun become felonies if your packin’ and most of the time you can’t get probation for it, so your gonna do hard time.”
“Is that so?” said I. He just nodded. I smiled and hit a few more fungos to the boys.
When I got to Mabels I saw Melinda was workin’ but she didn’t come anywhere near my booth. Francine whispered to me Melinda had spilled the beans. Trevor got mad cause he couldn’t find his hearing aids and backhanded Melinda. She asked him to leave and with the Sheriff’s encouragement he did. Neither of us thought that was gonna last long.
Sure enough, like clockwork at quarter to nine his ear splittin’ garbage started fillin’ up the parking lot. He jumped out and took his usual spot to the left of his cab, arms folded, tats exposed.
I should have taken Francine’s advice and stayed out of this mess, but I ain’t one to sit back and watch some moron beat up on a woman. In my own humble opinion that’s got nothing to do with any kind of anger management problem. Pastor Jean, I knew, was not gonna be pleased with me, but actually she was the one that gave me the bright idea that I’m about to tell you about.
I asked Francine if I could go out the kitchen door and she let me. I angled around the side of the building and walked down to the end of it, figurin’ I’d stay outta the bald one’s line of vision that way. I kept walkin’ and got behind him. Francine had said he was deaf but I thought I ought to make sure before I did what I was gonna do.
I whipped a big piece of gravel t at his truck. It banged loudnot five feet behind him but he didn’t flinch. That proved it, he was deaf as a post. I strolled over to my pickup and retrieved one of the team’s 28 inch metal Eastons.
I dug into my back pocket and pulled out my cell phone. Earlier I’d looked up the number for the state police. Not the Sheriff mind you, but the state troopers. I called their emergency number. “State Police, what’s your emergency?” they answered.
“Ma’am, I’m in this strip mall out on Route 29 by the prison and this big bald dude is beating the crap out this old dude in a baseball jersey right here in the parking lot! Can you send somebody?; the old guy is getting beat pretty bad!”
“What’s your name, sir?” she managed to reply before I cut her off, “Ohh, he’s really taking a beating, hurry…” I yelled and then clicked it off.
I put it into high gear and headed straight for the big dude’s back side. I reached out with my free hand as soon as I was close enough and popped the clasp on his gun holster. Reaching in, I yanked out his .38 even as I was stepping back, hoping his reflexes were as bad as his ears.
I had it about three quarters out when he jerked around and let out a big yell. I yanked as hard as I could and that gun went flying- which was fine with me, I wasn’t gonna use it. I just wanted to make sure he couldn’t get to it right away.
He took a wild swing and grazed the side of my face. I went down and did a half somersault- half roll. I came up holding out that bat, swinging it in his direction while I made my way slowly toward his gun. His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree when he saw that, his face about as red as a poinsettia. He barreled past me and dove into a slide toward the gun. I just let him, moving slow cause I wanted him to get that gun now.
See what he didn’t know was Melinda told Francine she’d emptied out the clip when he left for the weekend. She was tired of living with the fear of him cappin’ her in a fit of rage. So when he bolted past me and dove for that gun, I tossed the bat aside and stood straight and tall, crossing my arms like a NBA player getting ready to take a charge.
He grabbed the pistol and whirled around toward me. The barrel was pointed right at my chest when I heard the distinctive “click” that an empty chamber makes when the trigger gets pulled. At the second click I heard the faint blare of a police siren in the distance. Half the crowd at Mabels had their noses pressed to the window witnessing. He slammed the gun down and hauled his big gut up off the ground and straight toward me.
The hardest part of the whole scene was just standing there watching him barrel toward me. But if this scheme was gonna have its full effect, that’s what I had to do. See at this point I was helpless and clearly no longer the aggressor in the situation. Big boy, on the other hand, couldn’t hardly play the victim at this point. He cold cocked me hard in the jaw, broke it clean and true. I picked myself up and turned my other cheek toward him, just like Pastor Jean advised. He started to swing but by then the State Trooper’s squad was pulling up, siren’s still roaring. Job security got the better of his red hot temper, but it was too late, the damage was done.
***
Two more weeks and I get this final bandage off my jaw. Doc says its healin’ up pretty nice. That first Polish after it comes off is gonna taste awful good. Its been a long time since I used a fork or spoon at Mabels but that hasn’t kept me away. Those girls make a nice thick Milk Shake and that’s been my staple the last couple of months.
I have to say the ambience at Mabel’s is much improved. No more speed metal in the background, no more menacin’ hulk ruining the view of the parking lot. All I can hear now is that sweet happy voice of my favorite waitress and the twang of some real music coming out of the jukebox, straight out of Nashville.
I suppose I’ll go back to the Park District when I can talk again but my lawyer says when he gets done with the Department of Corrections work will be optional. Meanwhile ole Trevor is cooling his heels down at the local county motel waitin’ on his trial date. Melinda won’t have to worry about him knockin’ her around for a long time.
Pastor Jean said she’s not so sure I was livin’ out the Scripture when I did what I did, but she’s proud of me for not makin’ use of that Easton on Trevor’s bald noggin.
I told the group that it had occurred to me that in baseball its always good to lock, load and explode. Baseball’s got a lot of good lessons, and you can learn a lot by applyin’ its lessons to the rest of your life. But sometimes life is just different, and this particular lesson from baseball just doesn’t work in real life. Lock and load? Sure, its always good to focus on what you’re doing and concentrate fully when the moment arrives. But Explode? Not so much. Wished I’da picked up on that before now, but better late than never.