Battery
"It figures," I mutter as the ball falls onto the shallow grass for a weak single. The words are rendered mute amidst the roaring chaos of fifty thousand screaming savages, all of them reveling in my failure. It is a turbulent sea of white and blue and flesh and eyes and hopes and fears, but I don't watch it. Here, at its center, I feel safe. The mood scarcely has time to linger, then passes as his name reverberates off the steel supports, over the hum of the crowd, and into my sanctuary. Its echoes follow close behind before being swallowed up by the white noise, which has picked up once again with the announcement. "Kane...kane...ane..." There is power in the name, and expectation. "This is what I wanted," I remind myself, still unconvinced. "This is what I've dreamed of." That much is true.
We don't look at each other; we've both been in this position before. He strides forward and busies himself at the plate, digging in like a dog on a couch. To my right, I notice a tiny dust devil spinning across the base path, haphazardly rearranging the orange dirt grain by grain. I imagine that I'm the only person in this whole place who sees it. The crowd has settled, but is restless. He's almost ready now, so I settle atop my hill, take a deep breath, and try not to think about him.
I squint to narrow my field of vision, focusing on Birdie's ragged mitt, waiting for his sign. Birdie's fingers wiggle a bit to loosen themselves; they flash the code and then disappear behind his back. I nod, then straighten. My head instinctively makes its rounds -- first base, second, and finally third. Three pairs of legs look back at me, bent and ready to run. The dull yellow lights of the scoreboard remind me of what I hadn't forgotten. It's the tenth inning, we're ahead by one, there's one out, and an entire year's worth of work, pain, love, everything, depends on my left arm.
Reluctantly, my gaze finally meets his. Here he is, the most dangerous hitter on the field, cutting me down with those familiar blue eyes. A fire starts to burn in my neck, rising higher, my eyes squint, and my lips curl uncontrollably into a sneer. This is no good, I know. If I can't control my emotions then I can't control the ball, but it's getting worse. Hurriedly, I lift my right leg straight up, trying to push him out of my mind. There's no turning back now. I'm vaguely aware of the aching in my fingers from gripping the ball too tightly, but all I think about is shattering his bat to splinters. It comes out hard, too hard I know, and his head drops just before the ball arrives, averting the once inevitable collision. Birdie's glove pops with an explosion of dust as the ball disappears in its deep pocket. The crowd is booing and he is brushing himself off. Ball 1.
Now I am back in the third grade, and facing a different kind of crowd. Their faces are hidden by the dark and by the contrast of the spotlight illuminating our chorus. From the back row of the aluminum bleachers, it smells like laundry detergent. I feel the growing restlessness of my peers once the light applause ceases to be. Our set is now finished, but there is one more performance left in the annual Christmas musical. I watch as my brother Jude, three years older than me and the best singer at our small school, emerges from backstage and glides to the front. He doesn't look at me.
Jude adjusts the height of the microphone as the spotlight swings from us to him. With the removal of that yellow light, the temperature at the rear of the stage seems to drop, as does the unease of my classmates from being in the spotlight with a big, coordinated slouch. Over the speakers, the music for Oh Come All Ye Faithful begins to play, and Jude starts to sing. Silently, I sing as well, mouthing the words that I had memorized from our rehearsals and listening to Jude practice at home. One time earlier that week, I had crept into his room, jumped onto his bed, and pretended I was performing his solo in front of a packed concert hall.
I can make out the audience now -- a room full of eyes fixated upon Jude's arresting presence. Somewhere in the middle comes a camera flash. Mom, probably. Nobody cares about our chorus anymore, if ever. My head begins to swim, and I feel dizzy. There is another flash, my legs start to tremble and I sway into the boy on my right.
"Watch it!" he hisses.
I sit down. "Stand up!" Another angry whisper, this one from off-stage. It doesn't matter, nobody is watching us back here. If I am going to stand up, then I am going to stand up for everyone to see. I slide off the back of the bleachers and run up to the spotlight, next to Jude. Some murmurs come from the audience, and Jude glances down for a split second, not missing a note. Straining up on my toes, I look at the microphone and sing as loud as I can along with Jude. He looks back down at me again, and I feel his hand close tightly over my mouth. His other arm wraps around me and holds me in place. I try to wrestle away, shaking my head and jumping up and down, but I can't break free. We both keep singing. Jude remains pitch perfect and turns my words into muted hums with his makeshift muzzle. The audience responds first with laughter, then applause as I am carried away by Mrs. Dempsey, our director.
Mom is the first one to break the silence during the ride home. "Apologize to your brother, Joseph."
I gnash my teeth and sputter, "Why?"
"Because it was his special moment and you selfishly ruined it." She looks up at me in the rear view mirror, and I turn my eyes away. Jude sits on the other side of the back seat, looking out the window, seeming not to care at all about what is happening inside the car.
"Why did he get to sing alone and nobody else? It wasn't fair."
"Life isn't fair." If Mom ever wrote a book on parenting, that would have been the first chapter. Or maybe the title. I never had a response for it.
Jude hasn't moved. I don't even know if he is listening. I hope he isn't. "I'm sorry," I say softly, begrudgingly. Mom's eyes disappear from the mirror.
After an extended pause, Jude finally looks back at me. "You could've at least sung better." Most kids would have accompanied this with a grin, but Jude's serious expression doesn't change. More likely than not, he isn't kidding.
I don't have to try hard to remember that face, because it's staring back at me now, haunting me, and I pull my eyes away. Birdie is giving me that calm down motion with his hands that catchers love to do, and tosses the ball back. For the first time all day, I feel nervous. Swallowing does not cure the lump in my throat. Jude is taking signals from his coach, as unfazed as ever. It's not fair.
"Life isn't fair," her voice resounds inside my head. Expectantly, I check her seat behind the plate. There she sits, looking off towards left field, detached from the game like always. Next to her is Elaine, Jude's girlfriend. We've never met. Elaine is watching Jude as if he were the only person on the field, her whole body turning as Jude steps towards her left. None of the other faces around them are familiar, nor are any paying attention to me -- the man with the ball. A bearded man with a round belly laughs. Is he laughing at me? I shake my head and pull myself back into the game. This is no time for worrying.
Birdie wants a curveball, but I shake him off. I know what Birdie is thinking, but he's wrong. Jude is not intimidated by a ball thrown at his head, especially not by me. Or maybe he's sticking to the scouting report, but that report is wrong too. Sure, Jude hits fastballs, but he also hits everything else. Anyone can hit a fastball, though, anyone can swing their bat and get lucky with the timing. That's why Jude hates them. Birdie gives me the inside fastball and I come set, ignoring the runners. I tell myself to think about arm motion and release point, but my brain doesn't listen. All I see is Jude in the back seat of that car unapologetically failing to act like a brother, and again the expression on my face betrays me. The ball comes out well, but Jude is ready. The hollow thump of the wooden bat, the soundtrack of every pitcher's nightmares, booms above all else. My torso twists to follow the ball as it rises higher into the bright sky, soaring towards the outfield stands. It begins to steer left, slowly at first then gradually sharper, like an airplane. "Foul Ball!" calls the umpire. Strike 1.
Jude and I are walking to the neighborhood park on a summer afternoon. We have done this every day for the last few weeks leading up to school and, more pressingly, baseball tryouts. In my left hand, I hold a brand new baseball, the perfect red stitching criss-crossing over the white cowhide. Jude had insisted that we use a new ball every day, because that's what I'd be using in games and I needed to get a feel for it. He had even paid for them all with some of the money he earned stocking shelves at the Kroger five nights a week. As we walk, I turn the ball over in my left hand, finding the different grips like I am solving a Rubik's cube. This was also Jude's suggestion. With my right hand, I flip my glove up higher and higher, catching it in stride as we walk. That one is my own idea.
"You're not going to be able to make it in high school ball with just a fastball and change-up," Jude says. "You need a new pitch."
I stop throwing my glove into the air and look at the ball I am holding. We had been throwing the same pitches each time, and I have grown bored. "What do you suggest?"
"It's about time you learned a curveball," comes the response.
"You can teach me how to throw one?" My eyes widen with the words.
"Of course I can, it's not too hard. If you can learn to throw one for strikes, with your fastball, you'll make the team easy."
Goose bumps creep along the lengths of my arms at the thought of making the team. I imagine a physics-defying drop that mystifies even the best hitters.
"Sweet! Thanks, bro!"
Jude claps his arm to my back. "Yep. We're a battery, right?"
The muscles stretch with my smile. "You know it."
I consider throwing that curve to him now, but think better of it. That's what Jude wants me to throw, I know. It's what he wants from every pitcher he faces -- their best stuff. The press has figured that out too, they all say he has "the killer instinct." Around the league, everyone calls him "Killer Kane", or simply "Killer". I have a nickname too. "The Other Kane." Nobody calls me Killer. "They will tomorrow, though." I tell myself.
Dammit, Birdie. He makes the wrong call again, asks for the change-up. Jude's looking for something slow, I know it. We meet halfway on a slider. Pulling up into position, I rotate the ball in my hand and find the right grip, pretending to care about the runner on first base. Over my right shoulder, Jude is perfectly still. In a sport where every batter undulates to their own internal rhythm as they await the pitch, Jude's lack of motion is unsettling. Just before entering my motion, I contract my face in a sharp grimace, as if I had squeezed a mouthful of lemon juice onto my tongue. I'm not giving anything away this time. Jude's expression hints at surprise for the slightest moment before reverting itself, and I deliver the pitch. Jude's bat whirls around so fast that it looks like he's holding ten of them, but he's too late. The whoosh of the miss carries a message within -- I was right. Strike 2.
Three weeks after throwing my first curveball, I am standing on the Jacobs High School baseball field. Tryouts are over for the position players, and all that is left are the pitchers. Coach McClintock, a stout, hairy man with a bulging chest and tobacco stains on his lower teeth, calls out, "Joe, you're up."
Several other pitchers have already gone, and I know that I am better than all of them. This has calmed my nerves. Coach McClintock has each pitcher face a live batter, one of the returning members from the team. Jude, the team's catcher, is behind the plate, which leaves me even more confident. That is, until Coach barks, "Kane! You hit against your brother. Meyers, you catch."
To my horror, Jude begins removing his catcher's gear. Not only am I losing my best catcher, I am also pitching to the best hitter on the team and the only person who knows all of my pitches better than I do. I am in a daze as I shuffle to the top of the mound, and trip over the pitching rubber. My left wrist hurts as I break the fall with my ungloved hand, the rocky dirt pushing back against my skin. Some of the other pitchers waiting their turn giggle, and Coach grunts. I jump back up and take my position.
Meyers, my new catcher, runs to the mound and I tell him what pitches I can throw. He scurries back behind the plate and sets up all wrong, too far back and too far outside. First impressions, I tell myself. I need to show off my best pitch, which had already become the curveball. I groan as Meyers places his glove too high, start my wind-up, and throw a beautiful curve right over the middle of the plate. Jude's timeless swing has no trouble hitting it over the fence.
I wait for Jude at his car; throw my glove at him when he approaches. "Why'd you do that, asshole?"
Jude picks up the glove and tosses it back. "Cause I knew it was coming."
"It's not fair. We practiced it every day, nobody else has seen it. Nobody else could've hit that."
"You've gotta be unpredictable at this level."
"Couldn't you teach me that after I made the team?" I plead, but the conversation is over now.
I search Jude's eyes for clues, but they are blank. People always say that Jude looks like our father, but all I know about that is what I've seen in Mom's picture frames. The last thing I remember about him is seeing those dark blue, lifeless eyes staring at the nothing between his hospital bed and the ceiling. Jude doesn't look like those pictures, but he has those eyes. If Jude weren't a ballplayer, he could have done well on the poker circuit. Or as an extra in a zombie movie.
What is unpredictable in this situation? One ball, two strikes, and my out pitch is a curveball. Jude knows this. However, he was late on the slider and he hates fastballs. Jude knows this too. Either way, I'm screwed. I haven't made up my mind yet when Birdie flashes the signs. Curveball. Sure, what the hell? He'll never see his favorite pitch coming.
Spinning off my hand, it feels perfect in a way that only a curveball can. It starts well outside, floats past Jude's swiveling gaze, and drops right into Birdie's well-placed glove on the outside corner. There's a hush as thousands of people realize their best hitter just struck out. "Ball!" The umpire's voice is weak behind his menacing black mask.
For a second, I'm stunned, waiting for the joke to reveal itself. My ears start to burn, and my whole face feels tense. I do not think about the words that come out of me, nor do I hear them, but I taste their venom as they spew forth. The ground is spinning beneath me, and I don't see anything clearly, just an imposing black figure without a face. In the back of my mind, I know that if I don't stop screaming, I will be thrown out of the game, but at this point that feels more like a reprieve.
"Joe." A familiar voice comes from somewhere. Curious, I stop shouting and look at its origin. Jude is standing ten feet away now; he appears different from before. His face is the same, relaxed and calm, but there is concern. We don't say anything more, just lock eyes, and then he turns and walks back to towards the plate. The umpire refits the black mask over his pink, bald head. Ball 2.
We are on a road trip for the state championship. Big Ted, the 280 pound first baseman, had used his bulk and fully-grown mustache to buy a considerable amount of beer. We had snuck out of the hotel and found a nearby soccer park. A few of the guys are wrestling, but most of us are sitting around ribbing on each other. Nobody ribs on me though, even though I am a freshman. These are our last few games of the year, but I still haven't developed any close friendships with the other players. Jude, of course, is absent. Nobody had even bothered checking if he wanted to come.
I sit on an overturned garbage can, unenthusiastically cheering the wrestling while trying not to make a face as I have my first experience with alcohol. Two discarded cans lie next to me, and I hold a third half-full in my left hand. As I raise the can to my lips, an arm comes across the right side of my body and grabs it out of my hands. Another hand grabs my right arm painfully and pulls me up off of my makeshift seat. I yank my arm out of the grip and spin around.
"We're going back to the hotel." Jude's voice is stern, but his face is plain. He grabs my arm again, so I push him away with my left hand.
"I'm not coming." He is five inches taller than me, and broader. If ever I am going to catch up to him in size, it would be a while yet.
"You're pitching tomorrow. You shouldn't be drinking anyway. Come on."
Turning around, I look at the other guys for support. At this, most of them drop their eyes to the ground. The others just shake their head at me. I look back at Jude, he is waiting for me confidently. "You're not Dad," I blurt out. Since he had died, Jude and I never talked about our father. It was just something we had each decided was taboo on our own, and I am not sure why I had said this now.
Jude looks puzzled, maybe even hurt by those words. "You're coming with me." He reaches for my arm again, but I pull it away, stumble backwards, and then throw a wild haymaker with my left arm. Jude dodges it easily, grabs my right arm, and twists. The pain spreads from my wrist to my shoulder, and I think that he might actually break it.
"Ok! Ok! Stop!" I scream. He lets go, and I follow him back to the hotel.
I walk to the back side of the mound and crouch. Faces are watching me as I scan the field. Most belong to men wearing the gray jersey that I wear, some are wearing white, and some are in umpire's blues, but the faces are the same. They watch me as if they were watching a raving madman on the streets -- with a careful interest that will soon pass. I don't think of them, though. Like always, I think of Jude.
We haven't spoken much since that night at the soccer park. The next day Jude acted like nothing had happened, but I didn't. Whereas I had been the talkative one, the one that fueled our relationship, I didn't feel like that anymore. I told him to apologize, but he didn't understand why. After he went to college, we pretty much stopped talking altogether.
Jude is still watching me, intensely now, when I step back up to the rubber. There are goose bumps on my arms and I feel my legs beginning to wobble. On top of the mound and holding the ball, I'm the most obvious person on a field surrounded by people who are now standing at attention, and I just want to hide. Jude steps towards the plate as Birdie settles into his stance. Birdie calls for another curveball, but I shake him off. I nod at the fastball. There is no anger this time as I try read Jude's determined expression, just exhaustion as the adrenaline begins to wear off. "Keep the ball down," I tell myself. "The outfield is playing in." My face strains, from effort alone this time, and the ball comes out low and hard. It is another perfect spot, but Jude's bat catches it and lifts it gently into the air. It's too high and too deep to be caught, and I watch as it sails into the empty center field and drops softly onto the grass.
The noise feels like an earthquake. The crowd looks like they are all simultaneously being attacked by a swarm of bees. I watch as men in white uniforms mob Jude at first base and jump on top of him in a celebratory pile. Once again, he's the center of the universe. I sit down and close my eyes; notice that the lump in my throat is gone. This isn't my first time to lose, but this one feels different. There's no regret, no queasiness, no searching for blame, not even anger as I watch Jude and the revelry. All I feel is tired. My hat is tight, so I take it off and lie down on the grass. It smells like our yard used to when Jude and I split mowing duties.
I'm not sure how long I laid there with my eyes closed. The crowd had dissipated and the field had grown quiet with the growing shade of late afternoon. "Shoulda thrown the curve." It's Jude, but I look over anyway. He has mimicked my position, and is laying down next to me with his eyes closed. I close my eyes again, too.
"Shoulda been out already," I say. Jude's silence in response is the same as a nod. We lie there without saying anything for what could have been a minute or an hour. Finally, I say, "One strikeout, one hit. So we're even?" "We're a battery."
I don't nod. I don't need to.