Chapter 7

We left my friends and headed back to the city a short time later. The crowd had picked up and it was impossible to stay hidden in plain sight for much longer.

"So?" Liz asked when we were back on the highway.

"So what?" I replied.

"Do you think they'll do it?" she asked.

I nodded as I thought about it.

"It's too good a job to pass up," I said.

"I want it to be more than a place they draw a paycheck," Liz said, shifting in the seat.

"It was just a figure of speech," I said. "Look, Liz, those three busted their asses for a place they hate! They like you ... I mean, as a person they like you. It has nothing to do with your celebrity. They like you because ... you're likeable. If you really give them the autonomy to set policy and the freedom to do their jobs, you're going to be amazed at the things they put together for you."

"I wasn't worried about that," Liz said. "I was just ... I want to develop the sort of reputation that the old country singers had. With Dolly and Kenny and Willie and Waylon, if you started to work for them then you never wanted to leave. It didn't matter if you were a roadie or their manager, you stayed with them for as long as you could. Everything is transient now. I lose my merchandising guy every single year. I've gone through three lawyers and the one I have now is only going to stick around until after the changeover gets settled. It's not just me. It's that way everywhere. Everyone that takes a job in Nashville is an aspiring singer. If they can make it, they leave the job for the stage. If they can't, they leave the job and go back to Podunk to marry Bobby Jo and work at the feed store. I still want the same team in place in 20 years when I'm doing oldies shows at Branson."

I shrugged.

"Well, outside of emptying garbage cans at the amusement park, this is the only job I've ever really had," I said. "I think a person's loyalty to an employer extends only as far as it extends in the other direction."

"You played pro baseball for, what, four years?" Liz asked.

"I played for three but I was under contract for a fourth year," I said.

"And you developed no sense of loyalty to your teams?" Liz asked.

"No," I answered. "I developed a sense of loyalty to my teammates but not to the organization. Baseball is a terrible example. It's just as bad as Nashville. They will trade you, release you, and ship you to winter ball 2,000 miles from home. They don't give a shit if you have a pregnant wife at home or if your mom is sick. Oh, sure, you might get five days off but if you ask for more than that, particularly if you're a minor leaguer, you're going to find yourself on the waiver wire pretty quickly. You might be playing in Arkansas one night and get traded to New Britain, Connecticut, the next. You don't even get the chance to pack up your apartment. You're on a fucking plane to where they sent you and you have to hire someone to send your shit to you. All the while, most of the guys were making less than a grand a month. They put you up in a hotel for a week or 10 days, meanwhile, you're on a bus to Altoona, Pennsylvania, or Bowie, Maryland, for half of that time. Then your new organization gets pissed off when you start out batting .130 and they ship your ass back to A ball."

"Did that happen to you?" Liz asked.

"Not to me but I saw it enough to know it happens," I replied.

"Nashville operates the same way," Liz said. "'What have you done for me lately?' Someone might have a Top 10 hit off their first disc then miss the chart with their second. There isn't likely to be a third try. There are thousands of people looking to make it so mistakes are dropped pretty quickly – even if it isn't the artist's fault. I'm the rule and not the exception. A kid starting out has no say in anything. Yeah, I fucked up when I signed my second deal. All I can say is that I was naïve. I didn't understand the business and I had no one to talk to about it. The labels do that on purpose. They keep you isolated so you don't have the resources to figure out how badly you're getting screwed. They surround you with people you think work for you but that really work to make sure you're making money for the big dogs.

"You tour with people on the same label. You write songs with people the label finds for you. If you want a duet on your album ... it's going to be with someone the label picks. It's usually someone who has had a few down numbers and needs a boost ... so they'll play along with the label so they don't wind up dropped. We were both just monkeys in different zoos."

"Yeah," I said, glumly. My release from the Angels' organization still rankled. I had given my right arm ... literally ... to them. I was released via e-mail. A guy that works for my agent had been the only person to call me. "Minor leaguers aren't protected by the players' union. In fact, almost everyone in Major League Baseball despises those below them on the ladder. After all, if a minor leaguer makes the Majors, someone already there loses his job. The union works to protect its current members; it doesn't give two shits about its future members.

"The only saving grace is that the team is still on the hook for my aftercare. I'll need another surgery in two or three years to clean out the garbage. It was classified as a workplace injury so they'll have to pay as long as they're in existence. But you can bet they'll fight it if anyone sees me playing softball or tossing a football around – and if I tried either of those things, you can bet I'd wind up in the emergency room."

We drove in silence for several minutes after my rant concluded. I would catch Liz turning her head periodically to look at me. I think the bitterness in my voice had left her a bit stunned. It was another facet of my personality that had emerged long after we parted company. I had no reason for bitterness when I was a teenager.

"You never did tell me what happened with you and Deb Sutton," Liz said after a couple of miles of quiet. "Everyone thought you two would be together forever."

"That's the problem with being a kid," I said. "You have trouble seeing past the next day or week. Deb and I were no different. It's like they say: Life is what happens while you're making plans."

"That still doesn't answer my question," Liz pointed out with a laugh. For good measure, she punched me lightly on the arm.

I offered a slight shrug.

"We had the same issues as every young couple," I said. "Jealousy, insecurity, envy. We were way too young to last very long. We didn't even make it through high school. We broke up the summer before my senior year."

"No way!" Liz said.

"The problem started when I turned down Ohio State," I explained. "She wasn't interested in going to Texas ... and that's part of why I chose to go there, I think. You have to understand: Everyone had us married with three kids before we hit 25. I think she would have been OK with that idea if we could settle down two or three blocks from her parents. She thought I'd go to Columbus, get drafted by the Browns and we'd never be more than 100 miles from home. My verbal commitment to play baseball at Texas caught most of the town by surprise. I didn't talk to Deb about it. She was already trying to talk our parents into getting us off-campus housing at OSU. She got really pissed off when I picked Texas. I told her that she could go to OSU but I was going to Austin. Her future was her decision; my future was my decision.

"So she spent the rest of the summer trying to change my mind. I finally got fed up with it and told her off. I was a dick, I guess. We broke up and that was it. I dated different girls my last year. I went to Homecoming with Sharon Graham; I went out with Emily Rogers for awhile. I left for baseball camp the morning after graduation and I've been home four ... no, five times ... since then."

"Damn," Liz said, shaking her head. "I guess that's five times more than I've been back but ... I didn't see that from you. I guess we both stay away for the same reasons."

I glanced away and gave her a look to express my disbelief.

"I never saw your life as ... bad," Liz clarified.

"Liz, we don't go back for exactly opposite reasons," I told her. "You don't go back because you don't have to. Everyone knows you made it. You don't want to hear them lie about how they always knew you'd make it. You don't need to put up with the shit. I don't go back because everyone there views me as a failure. I was the kid that was going to make it. I was the one that was going to put Margaretta Township on the map and instead I'm slogging away at a job that means nothing to anyone. I failed and I don't want to see the looks of disappointment."

"That's stupid!" Liz said. "You didn't fail!"

"Look at me," I said. "I was supposed to be entering the prime of my career. I hit 33 homers my last year in the minors. I was going to make a pit stop in Triple-A to keep my service clock from starting and then I was going to be in Anaheim by the middle of May. They signed another third baseman to a huge free agent deal ... and moved him to first base to make sure I had a clear path. Instead, the manager in Arkansas decided to pinch hit for the shortstop in a game we were winning by six runs. Well, the other team came back and he had to pinch hit for the replacement. That left me to play short ... which I hadn't done since my freshman year of college. I got barrel-rolled on a double play. A guy came in high, caught me in the legs and I fell hard on my shoulder. It was late summer in south Texas and the ground was hard as concrete. Just like that, I was a former professional athlete."

"That's terrible!" Liz said. "But that doesn't mean you failed. Look at you now. You picked yourself up, went back to college and made a new life. You're still a success and anyone that isn't proud of you can go to hell. I'm proud of you."

I scoffed at the notion.

"I couldn't have done it!" Liz said. "Do you know what my backup plan was?"

"No," I admitted.

"Me, either," Liz declared. "If I failed at this I would have probably wound up living with my parents and joining them in the weed business. I have no idea what I would have done if I had washed out of the music business ... absolutely no fucking clue."

"I didn't either," I countered.

"Maybe not but you had saved your money and given yourself options," Liz replied. "I didn't. I spent my earnings on stupid shit. I bought a New York apartment that I saw four times before I turned 21. I bought a $100,000 car that can't be driven in the United States. I couldn't have turned down the second contract if I wanted to because I would have been broke. I couldn't have gone to college. First off, I barely have a high school diploma. If a junior college had admitted me I couldn't have paid for it. I guess my parents could have dipped into the weed fund but I'm not sure they would have. I can add a lack of viable options to the reasons I found myself in a contract with a company I despise. Maybe it was only in the back of your mind but you at least were smart enough to know it might end before you wanted it to."

"Mom and Dad," I said. "The Angels don't have the best reputation for developing their prospects so Mom wanted me to put some of the money away. Dad was in insurance, you know. He talked me into an injury policy. I didn't want it. I thought it was a waste of money ... and I wanted to spend that money on cool things. But he was persistent and I finally agreed. I wish I had listened to him better. He recommended one policy but I settled for a lesser one. It was a thousand a year a cheaper and I thought I'd never need it. So instead of getting $4 million after the injury, I got $450,000. I'm not different than you. Almost all of that money is gone. I paid off Mom's house. I bought this car. I bought my house. I pissed a lot of it away. I might have $75,000 left of the million I made playing baseball. The funny thing is that I dropped football because I worried I would get hurt and limit my earning potential. I never considered that it might happen playing baseball."

"I was surprised," Liz admitted. "I ... I thought you'd gone to Ohio State. When I left, everyone had you pegged as the starting quarterback there."

"I was never going to be a college quarterback," I said.

"Yeah, I found that out," Liz said, turning in her seat again and offering a smile. "I finagled my way into the National Anthem for the Buckeyes and Michigan game your freshman year. I wanted to show off to you, I guess. I got to go into the VIP box and I asked someone if you were playing. You would have thought I asked them if they liked to sodomize little boys. He said you'd turned traitor. I thought he meant you were playing at Michigan. I couldn't see that. I remembered you hating them. He told me you'd gone to Texas. I didn't know that Texas beat the Buckeyes in the national championship game the year before. They were really upset. He said you would have been starting at safety and Michigan wouldn't have been throwing the ball all over the field. They beat us pretty good."

I nodded. That had been one of the last Ohio State football games I'd watched.

"Then I started to follow Texas baseball," Liz said. "I tried my best to find a way to do the anthem at the College World Series but my label blocked it. They said it was too small time. When I pushed, they set me up to be in Europe during the duration. So I stayed up until three in the morning to watch you play and then sleepwalked through the next day. That was when I found out you'd been drafted by the Angels."